William_the Dictator Page 9

  “There’s a travellin’ circus about,” he went on. “Gypsies an’ such like. Shouldn’t be surprised if it’s them. The last lot of gypsies we had through took everyone’s washin’ off their lines in the night. You say they left you worthless furs in their place?”

  “Absolutely worthless,” said Aunt Maggie.

  “Bit o’ rat-skin,” said Arabella’s mother.

  “Probably thought it’d deceive you just long enough for them to get clear,” said the policeman. “I ’spect that’s what it was.”

  “Yes, but what are we going to do?” said Aunt Maggie.

  "We’d better all go down there now,” said the policeman. “Tell you what. You’d better go and fetch those old furs they left. That’s evidence against them. I’ll go down there now and you meet me there with the old furs and we’ll confront them together. That’ll be best. It’s the old barn across the fields, you know, just outside the village. Can you be there in ten minutes?”

  Aunt Maggie and Arabella’s mother assured him that they could.

  “That’s all right then,” he said. “I’ll meet you there.”

  Aunt Maggie scurried back to the Hall. Despite the loss of her precious mink necklet she was feeling pleased and excited. She seemed to be moving in the pages of one of those blood-curdling “thrillers” that so often beguiled her leisure hours: Gangs. Ramifications of crime. Wheels within wheels. International complications . . .

  Mrs. Bott came out into the hall as she entered.

  “Well, dear what do they say?” she asked.

  “Oh, it is a gang,” said Aunt Maggie mysteriously. “The police know just who’s done it. We’re going to confront them now. You haven’t a revolver you can lend me, have you, dear? They may be desperate, you know and stick at nothing.”

  No, Mrs. Bott hadn’t a revolver. She suggested a poker, an Indian club, and a table-knife, but Aunt Maggie thought that they were all too undignified.

  “No, dear,” she said. “I’m afraid it must be a revolver or nothing. If you haven’t a revolver it must be nothing, and I must just hope for the best. If the worst should come to the worst, my will’s in the second drawer of my bureau, on the left-hand side, underneath the tea-cosy I’m making for Aunt Fanny’s birthday. And now, dear, I must fly.”

  Aunt Maggie ran upstairs, snatched the feather boa from the bed, and ran downstairs again.

  “Good-bye, dear,” she called, as she vanished from sight down the drive. “If I don’t return within an hour, I think you’d better get in touch with Scotland Yard.”

  She hurried down the road, the feather boa fluttering in the breeze. The old barn was plainly visible from the road, and she soon found her way to it and stood, panting and breathless, in the doorway. At the farther end, in the middle of a crowd of children, was a large, fat man. His sleeves were rolled up and he was showing his audience his open hand, turning it round about to prove that there was nothing in it.

  “Nothing there, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Watch my every movement. No possibility of deception. Now, I’m going to cover my hand with this handkerchief. Nothing in the handkerchief, notice.”

  Aunt Maggie turned her head and saw that the policeman stood near her. His eyes were fixed on Uncle Charlie’s handkerchief. His mouth hung open. He was watching every movement intently.

  “Now watch me very carefully,” went on Uncle Charlie. “I cover my hand with the handkerchief—”

  Aunt Maggie turned in the other direction and saw Arabella’s mother—the precious mink fur held carelessly in one hand. Her eyes, too, were fixed eagerly on Uncle Charlie’s handkerchief.

  “Well, I never!” said Aunt Maggie indignantly, snatching the fur.

  Arabella’s mother glared at her, then snatched suddenly at the feather boa.

  “Well, of all the sauce!” she said.

  “Watch—very—carefully,” said Uncle Charlie.

  Both Aunt Maggie and Arabella’s mother hastily turned to him again. The policeman was standing, his mouth still wide open, his eyes, fixed on the handkerchief, nearly starting out of his head.

  There was a tense silence in the barn.

  Uncle Charlie slowly removed the handkerchief.

  A white mouse sat upon his palm and trimmed its whiskers.

  “Coo!” said the policeman. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  He suddenly saw Aunt Maggie and Arabella’s mother.

  “Well, about them furs,” he began.

  They turned on him indignantly.

  “Be quiet,” they said. “He’s just going to do another.”

  He stared at them in astonishment for a moment, then abandoned the problem, and all three settled down happily to enjoy Uncle Charlie’s next trick.

  Chapter 5 – Aunt Florence and the Green Woodpecker

  “I feel jolly sorry for them,” said William thoughtfully. “They have such a rotten time.”

  “Who do?” said Ginger indistinctly, through a mouthful of roast chestnut.

  “Grown-ups,” said William. “Jus’ think of the dull things they eat an’ the dull things they do. Rice puddin’ an’ bread an’ butter, an’ goin’ into towns an’ lookin’ at shops.”

  “Well, it’s their own faults,” said Douglas, manoeuvring a chestnut out of the fire with a stick, taking it up in his fingers, and dropping it with a yell. “Gosh, it’s hot!”

  “’Course it is,” said Henry. “What d’you expect? Roasted chestnuts nachrally are hot.”

  “Roasted moose,” William corrected him.

  “Yes, roasted moose,” agreed Henry, remembering their role of Red Indians.

  The four were sitting round a fire in the wood, roasting chestnuts and pretending to be a tribe of Red Indian braves under the leadership of “Hawk Eye”, who was, of course, William. At first they had kept religiously to their roles, discussing raids on neighbouring Palefaces and keeping a sharp look-out for their enemies, but they were now gradually returning to their normal character.

  “It’s their own faults,” repeated Douglas. “They needn’t go on an’ on bein’ so dull an’ doin’ such dull things.”

  “Yes, but they can’t help it,” said William, “an’ that’s why I feel so sorry for them. Whether it’s their own faults or not, they have a jolly dull time. You can’t say they don’t.”

  “Yes, I know they do,” said Douglas, “but I don’t see that we can help ’em, anyway. ’Cept, of course," he added, “by bein’ jolly diff’rent ourselves when we grow up.”

  “Yes, we’ll be that all right,” said William emphatically. “We’ll jolly well be that all right. But I feel sorry for ’em now. I’d like to do somethin’ for ’em now.”

  “P’raps they like bein’ dull,” suggested Henry tentatively.

  “They can’t,” said William. “No one can like bein’ dull.”

  “Well, we can’t do anythin’,” said Douglas again, emphatically.

  “I don’t see why we can’t,” said William. “I’d like to try an’ give ’em a good time. Some of ’em, anyway. Some of ’em don’t deserve a good time. What about havin’ a Society for Givin’ Decent Grown-ups a Good Time?”

  The others considered this doubtfully.

  “I dunno,” said Ginger at last. “They’re always so jolly ungrateful when you do anythin’ for them.”

  “Yes, they are, too,” agreed Douglas in a heartfelt tone. “That time I tried to clean the chimney ’cause the sweep didn’t turn up, they were all mad at me ’stead of bein’ grateful. They’re all like that. An’ I don’t see we can change ’em.”

  But, as usual, William, having got hold of an idea, did not like to let it go.

  “I don’t mean givin’ ’em all a good time,” he persisted. “I mean jus’ the decent ones.”

  “There aren’t any,” said Ginger gloomily. "They’re all awful. They go on an’ on an’ on an’ on at you for nothin’ at all. Why, jus’ ’cause I happened to go through some glass in the cucumber frames when I was practisin’ walkin’ on the
edge . . .” He left the sentence unfinished.

  “Yes, they’re all like that,” sighed Douglas.

  “Well, what’ll we do now?” said Henry. “We’ve finished the chestnuts—I mean the moose. Shall we go’n’ have a hunt for ole Fat Face?”

  For years the Outlaws had constituted themselves a Red Indian band under William’s leadership, and Hubert Lane, their ancient enemy, had taken no interest in the proceedings, but recently an aunt had presented him with a Red Indian suit, complete with magnificent head-dress, and, on the strength of this, he had organised his followers into a band of braves under his leadership, taking the name Lion Face, which the Outlaws had corrupted to Fat Face. They roamed the woods, but seldom met William’s band, for Hubert was always more adept at evading than at meeting his foes. Occasionally William and his band would amuse themselves by “hunting ole Fat Face” and chasing him and his braves out of the wood, but generally they were content to let them go their way. There was no doubt at all of the supremacy of Chief Hawk Eye, and there the matter was allowed to rest.

  “No,” said William, “I’m tired of chasin’ ole Fat Face. He never does anythin’ but run away anyway, an’ even then he’s so easy to catch that it isn’t any fun.”

  “What’ll we do, then?”

  At that point an angry shout in the distance warned them that a keeper had seen the smoke of their fire.

  “Palefaces!” said William, springing up. “Come on. Let’s pretend to run away, an’ lead them into an ambush.”

  With this ruse for “face-saving”, the Outlaws ran as fast as they could out of the wood and didn’t draw breath till they reached the old barn. There they sat down on the ground, panting.

  “He nearly got us that time,” gasped Ginger.

  “Yes, it was the thin one,” said Douglas. “He runs quicker than the other.”

  “We won’t give either of them a good time when we’ve got our Society goin’,” said William. “We’ll be jolly careful who we give a good time to.”

  “Well, what’ll we do now?” said Henry, who wasn’t particularly interested in William’s Society for the amelioration of the lot of grown-ups. “Let’s think of somethin’ new.”

  The village clock struck one.

  “Time for lunch,” said Douglas. “We’ll think of somethin’ this afternoon.”

  After lunch Ginger had the brilliant idea of playing at smugglers and coastguardsmen in a neighbouring disused quarry, and the next day they were busy holding a review of a fleet of paper boats in the stream, so that William would have completely forgotten his proposed Society if it hadn’t been for the arrival of Aunt Florence.

  He had known for some time, of course, that Aunt Florence was coming to stay at his home, but he had taken little interest in the fact. He realised that aunts’ visits were one of life’s necessary evils, and the best way of dealing with them was to make oneself as unobtrusive as possible while they were in progress.

  Aunt Florence seemed at first just like any other aunt.

  She was thin and short-sighted and absent-minded, and wore the style of hairdressing and coat and skirt that William had come to associate with aunts. It wasn’t till the evening of the first day of her visit that William realised she was different. For, just as he was going to bed, she took out her purse and handed him two half-crowns.

  “A little tip for you, dear boy,” she said, with her bright aunt’s smile. “I’m sure you’ll find some good use for it.”

  William was deeply touched, not so much by the tip (which was an accepted part of an aunt’s visit), but by the fact that it was given on the first day instead of the last. The thought of the tip generally hung over the whole visit—imparting to it a nerve-racking atmosphere of mingled hope and fear. It was tacitly understood that the amount would depend on his behaviour. He was expected to earn it by excessive politeness and an almost impossible perfection of deportment. A series of misunderstandings could reduce it from the expected five shillings to a shilling or even sixpence. It had been known to vanish altogether. That an aunt should deliberately put an end to this painful state of suspense, by giving her tip on arrival instead of on departure, was unprecedented, and, as I have said, it touched William deeply. Moreover, it focused his attention upon her. He felt that he would like to express his gratitude to her in some tangible form.

  At first there didn’t seem to be any way in which he could do this. They had, it turned out, few, if any, interests in common, for Aunt Florence was one of those bird enthusiasts for whom William had so little sympathy. As if the world wasn’t full of things infinitely more interesting than birds! There were rats, for instance, and frogs and weasels and tadpoles and spiders and rabbits and lizards. The undue importance assigned in the animal creation to birds by elderly maiden ladies had always irritated William. Bird baths and bird tables! Nuts and crumbs and bits of cake! As if nothing but birds ever wanted anything to eat! William was sorry to find that Aunt Florence belonged to this class, but she definitely and outstandingly did. She had a little “bird diary’’, in which she noted down all her observations, together with date and place. She imitated the notes of birds in a shrill falsetto. Unaware of William’s deep-rooted prejudice against this hobby, she even tried to interest him in it.

  “The bird I particularly want to find, William,’’ she said earnestly, “is a green woodpecker. It makes a noise like this.’’ She opened her mouth and emitted a shrill, short peal of laughter. “Curious, isn’t it? If ever you hear it, do let me know. I’ve been trying to find one for years. Literally years. It would be such a joy to me to find one here.”

  William concealed his disgust as best he could, for the fire of gratitude still burnt fiercely in his heart. To give him five shillings on the very first night, without waiting to see if he was going to be polite or anything!

  “Poor ole thing!” he said to his Outlaws. “She has a jolly rotten time. Nothin’ but birds an’ things like that. It’s the same with all grown-ups, one way or another,” he went on, returning to his theme.

  “I bet you anythin’ they like bein’ dull,” said Henry again.

  “They can’t,” said William firmly. “Not as dull as that. No one could. It’s just that they’ve forgotten how to have a good time. I bet they’d enjoy it as much as anyone, if only they could get back into the way of it . . . Birds!” He made a grimace expressive of deep disgust and emitted an exaggerated imitation of the green woodpecker note, as rendered by Aunt Florence. “They can’t like bein’ as batty as that. I bet if someone took the trouble to give them a jolly good time, same as they used to have when they were children, they’d enjoy it, and it’d start ’em bein’ jolly again, an’ they’d never want to go back to bein’ dull. An’ I bet we start on her. She deserves it. She was jolly decent about that tip. An’ she mus’ have an awful time.”

  “Well, I don’t see how you’re goin’ to do it,” objected Ginger.

  “I don’t either, jus’ at present,” admitted William, “’cause she’s goin’ about with my mother all the time, an’ I know it wouldn’t be any good tryin’ to make my mother jolly. I’ll jus’ have to wait an’ see how things sort of go on.”

  After tea he rejoined them in a state of great excitement.

  “I say!” he said breathlessly. “I bet it’ll be all right tomorrow. My mother’s gotter cold an’ is goin’ to stay in bed to-morrow an’ my aunt’ll be by herself. I bet we can give her a jolly good time if she’s by herself. There won’t be anyone to interfere an’ make her do dull things. I’ll get her straight after breakfast an’ start givin’ her a jolly good time. Well, I’ll start before that. I’ll give her a jolly good breakfast—not the dull sort of stuff grown-ups gen’rally have. I’ll spend some of the five shillin’s on her. She deserves it. She was jolly decent to give it to me when she did. She always has her breakfast in bed, so I bet I can manage that part all right.”

  The next morning he intercepted the housemaid as she was coming through the hall with Aunt Florence
’s breakfast tray.

  “I’ll take that up,” he said, “so’s to save you trouble, ’cause you’ve got mother’s to take up, too, this mornin’, haven’t you?”

  He rather overdid the politeness of his voice and manner, and she looked at him a little suspiciously, but it was a busy morning, and she had Mrs. Brown’s breakfast tray to take up as well, so she handed it to him with a cautionary: “Well, you mind what you’re doing with it, that’s all, and don’t go dropping it all over the place.”

  “Me?” said William distantly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never drop things.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t, do you?” teased the housemaid. “Quite the lily-white hen, aren’t you?”

  William pulled a face at her, she pulled one back at him, and they parted on friendly terms—the housemaid to prepare Mrs. Brown’s breakfast tray, William to carry Aunt Florence’s upstairs. He paused when he reached the landing, looked carefully round, then vanished into his own bedroom with the tray. A moment later he emerged and carried it into Aunt Florence’s bedroom.

  “Good morning, Aunt Florence,” he said kindly. “I’ve brought your breakfast.”

  “Good morning, dear boy,” said Aunt Florence, sitting up in bed and smiling brightly. “How kind of you! I believe I heard a chiff-chaff a minute or two ago. I—”

  Her voice died away as her eyes fell upon the contents of her breakfast tray. The coffee, bacon, toast and marmalade placed upon the tray by the housemaid had disappeared, and in their place was a large and unwholesome-looking bun, filled with butter cream and decorated on the top with strips of pink coconut, a saucerful of liquorice allsorts, a cupful of sherbet and a carton of ice-cream that had returned to its liquid state during the night. She looked up in amazement, but William, having presented his offering of dainties, had modestly retired. She looked down again with increasing bewilderment at the tray. It must, of course, be some special diet. Really, the modern craze for diets was ridiculous. She’d come across a good many strange ones—at the last place where she’d stayed they’d all started the day with raw carrots—but this was the oddest she’d ever met. Fortunately, she never ate much at breakfast in any case, and she had a tin of plain biscuits with her. She always carried a tin of plain biscuits about with her. She’d found them very useful at the raw carrots place. She ate two or three, then poured away the sherbet and liquid ice-cream, so as not to seem too unappreciative, and got up and dressed.