William's Television Show (Just William, Book 31) Read online

  “You could clean your shoes,” said Douglas, looking down at those battered mud-encrusted articles.

  “Oh, shut up!” said William and, stung to resentment by the futility of the suggestion, gave the offender a push that sent all four of them slithering down from the roof on to the ground.

  The resultant scrimmage brought them to the notice of Ginger’s mother, who called Ginger in to lunch and unceremoniously dismissed the other three.

  When William reached home he found his family already assembled for lunch. Mrs Brown’s usually placid face wore an expression of gloom.

  “Cheer up, darling,” Robert was saying.

  “Nothing’s as bad as it seems,” said Ethel.

  “It is. It’s worse,” said Mrs Brown. “It’s all very well for you to laugh. You persuaded me to take on this wretched job of secretary to the Village Hall Committee because you said it would give me outside interests and take my mind off household worries, and all it’s done is to give me a whole crop of outside worries that make the inside ones seem like child’s play.”

  “What’s the trouble, my dear?” said her husband.

  Mrs Brown looked at him with an air of patience strained beyond endurance.

  “I’ve told you,” she said. “I’ve told you over and over again. You never listen to a word I say. It all goes in at one ear and out at the other. Well, I’ll tell you again. Are you listening?”

  “Yes,” said Mr Brown.

  “With the ear it goes in at,” said Ethel.

  “Well, there’s dry rot in the Village Hall platform and Heaven only knows how much it’s going to cost to get it out, and if we don’t get it out Mrs Bott or Mrs Monks will just disappear through it one of these days while they’re opening something.”

  “Don’t get it out, then,” said Mr Brown.

  “And we’d arranged to have the whole place done up, starting next week,” said Mrs Brown, ignoring his interruption, “and the Fortescues had promised to store all the stuff in their old stables at Brent House—”

  “What stuff?”

  “Masses of stuff. Crockery and theatrical properties and trestle tables and tea urns and cupboards full of stuff, because the cupboards have to be painted, too. And then when the Fortescues managed to sell their house at last I took for granted that the new man who bought it—”

  “Mr Tertullian Selwyn,” said Robert.

  “Yes . . . Anyway, when I wrote to him to ask him if he would he just wrote back to say that he wouldn’t and when I sent him a copy of the dry rot appeal he just ignored it.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Robert. “I met the Vicar in the Post Office and he was talking about him. He told the Vicar that he didn’t want to have anything to do with local people or local affairs.”

  “Who does he think he is, anyway?” said Ethel disdainfully.

  “I’ve never heard of him before,” admitted Robert, “but evidently he’s a big noise in artistic circles. He began life by qualifying as an architect but he’s never practised. He’s designed ballet settings and ballet costumes and theatrical settings and theatrical costumes and won prizes for embroidery.”

  “How sickening!” said Ethel.

  “Why did he come here if he feels like that?” said Mrs Brown.

  “He wants the artistic inspiration of rural surroundings,” said Robert, “but he doesn’t want contact with rustics. We’re all rustics in his eyes. He says that contact with rustics would blur his artistic integrity . . . And, anyway, he’s in a state of nervous jitters at present.”

  “Why?” said Ethel.

  “He deserves them,” said Mrs Brown.

  “Oh, he poured it all out to the Vicar. He wants his name to be handed down to posterity and he’s afraid that nothing he’s done so far will hand it down, so he’s entered for a competition for the design of a new theatre somewhere or other to house the new experimental drama and till the results come out he—well, he’s in a state of nervous jitters.”

  “Fellow ought to be in a madhouse,” said Mr Brown.

  William had been applying himself busily to a large plateful of stew. Having taken the edge off his appetite, he turned his attention to the conversation that was going on around him.

  “An escaped lunatic’s got the strength of ten men,” he announced. “Ginger said so. His mother’s char-woman’s brother knew someone that once met an escaped lunatic—well, he turned out not to be one in the end, but—”

  “William!” said Mrs Brown, noticing her younger son’s appearance for the first time. “Did you wash your face before you came to the table?”

  “I wiped it over,” said William on a casual note and with a hint of dignity in his voice.

  “I said, did you wash it?”

  “D’you mean, did I put it right into water?” temporised William.

  “Yes, of course I do.”

  “Well, listen,” said William earnestly. “Cats are s’posed to be clean animals an’ they don’t put their faces right into water! when they wash ’em.” He gave his short sarcastic laugh. “Well, it’s news to me if cats put their faces right into water when they wash ’em. I mus’ say I’ve never seen a cat puttin’ its face right into water when—”

  “William!” said Mr Brown. “Stop arguing and go and wash your face.”

  William stopped arguing and went and washed his face. Returning, he was sent back to improve the process. Returning again, he was sent back to improve the process still further. In an attempt to cover the whole business with ridicule, he plunged his head into water and arranged his wet hair in a series of spikes. He was disappointed that none of his family commented on it when he re-entered the dining-room. Mrs Brown was still holding forth on her grievances.

  “So I suppose we shall just have to go on and on with Bring and Buy Sales and Whist Drives and White Elephant Sales and never getting anywhere . . . Oh, well, it’s Mrs Barlow’s little effort this afternoon and she’s thought of something quite new. She’s got a make-up expert coming to speak on make-up. Everyone pays two and six entry and the expert comes for nothing so there isn’t any trouble about getting White Elephants and things together.”

  “You certainly seem to spend the greater part of your life rounding up the creatures,” said Mr Brown sympathetically.

  William finished his second helping of apple pudding and rejoined his friends in Coombe Wood.

  “Your hair looks jolly funny,” said Ginger.

  “Yes, it’s nearly all washed away same as my face,” said William bitterly as he smoothed back his spikes. “Gosh! Jus’ think of it! Me takin’ all this trouble givin’ her a thoughtful act an’ all she does back to me is carry on about my face!”

  “You’ve not given her one yet,” Henry pointed out.

  “No, ’cause I’ve not got one thought out yet. It’s jolly hard work thinkin’ out a thoughtful act. My brain’s jus’ about worn out with it an’ I bet”—darkly—“all that washin’ didn’t do it any good, either. Well, your brain’s somewhere inside your face, isn’t it, an’ washin’ on an’ on an’ on at it, same as they made me do, mus’ wear it away. Stands to reason. There’s a disease called water on the brain an’ I bet I’ve got it an’ it’s all their fault an’ they’ll be jolly sorry when it’s too late.” He paused to contemplate a pleasant mental picture of his family weeping round his sick bed. “Yes, they’ll be jolly sorry . . . You never hear of a cat with water on the brain. They’ve got more sense. They’ve got this instink I kept tryin’ to tell ’em about.”

  “You don’t look ill,” said Douglas.

  “That’s nothin’ to go by,” said William. “Anyway, you can’t see my brain, can you, you chump! I bet it’s wringin’ wet.”

  “Are you goin’ to go on thinkin’ about this thoughtful act this afternoon?” said Ginger.

  “No,” said William. “I’m goin’ to give my brain a bit of time to dry out before I start usin’ it again.”

  “What’ll we do this afternoon, then?” said Henry.

&nbs
p; “Let’s play Palefaces an’ Redskins,” said William, abruptly abandoning his grievances. “Come on. You be the Paleface ridin’ round your ranch an’ Ginger an’ Douglas be the Redskins ambushin’ you an’ I’ll be the Sheriff that comes in the nick of time to snatch you from the jaws of death. Come on. Let’s start.”

  The game was fast-moving and eventful. The Paleface was scalped, boiled and eaten several times. The Sheriff was kidnapped and tied to a tree with a trail of dynamite attached to his pullover, but in the end Sheriff and Paleface routed the Redskins and a formal trial was held at which William was judge, jury and prosecuting counsel and which suddenly and unaccountably turned into a circus with Douglas and Henry as lions and William and Ginger as lion tamers.

  When William reached home Robert and Ethel were there, but Mrs Brown had not yet returned.

  “Good Lord!” said Robert, eyeing his young brother with an expression of distaste. “Must you go about looking like something that’s been dug up out of the mud?”

  “Me?” said William indignantly. “Gosh! I washed myself enough at lunch to last for months, didn’t I? An’ I’ve got a jolly funny feeling comin’ on an’ I shouldn’t be s’prised if it’s not water on the brain. I shouldn’t be s’prised I’m not injured for life. I—”

  Then Mrs Brown entered.

  She looked coy and bashful and radiantly pretty. Her cheeks were delicately tinted, her eyelashes darkened, “eyeshadow” enhanced the blue of her eyes and lipstick gave to her lips an allure with which nature had never endowed them.

  “I’ve been made-up,” she said simply. “The woman used me as a model.”

  “Heavens above!” said Robert helplessly.

  “You’re a menace,” said Ethel. “I shall never dare invite a boy friend to the house again.”

  “Oh, I’ll wash it off,” Mrs Brown reassured her, “but”—she glanced at the mirror over the fireplace—“it does look quite nice, doesn’t it? What do you think of it, William?”

  “I like you better old,” said William politely.

  Then Mr Brown came in and stood in the doorway, open-mouthed with amazement.

  “I’ve been made-up,” said Mrs Brown again. “She used me as a model.”

  “It’s positively staggering, my dear,” said Mr Brown, partly gratified, partly outraged by the sight of his glamourised wife. “I’ve never seen you look like this in all my life before.”

  “And you never will again,” said Mrs Brown, “so make the most of it.”

  “What do you feel like?” said Robert.

  Mrs Brown glanced again at her reflection in the mirror.

  “It makes me think I’ve wasted my life,” she said. “It makes me think of all the things I haven’t done or been to. I’ve never been to the South of France or Ascot or a Buckingham Palace Garden Party or—I can’t think of anything else.”

  “We’ll think of them for you,” said Robert. “You’ve never been on a Polar expedition.”

  “Or to the Olympic Games,” said Ethel.

  “As a matter of fact I’ve always wanted to go to the Olympic Games,” said Mrs Brown. “I took a passionate interest in them in my younger days . . . Well, I’ll go and unmake my face now.” She turned at the door with a sigh. “We only made three pounds. What’s that to a platform full of dry rot? I’m sorry to keep harping on it but I can’t get it off my mind.”

  William slipped over to Ginger’s house. Ginger was in the garden.

  “I say. Ginger, I’ve got an idea for that thoughtful act.”

  “What is it?”

  “Well, she said she wanted to go to the South of France and a Buckingham Palace Garden Party—”

  “Well, you can't take her over there. Gosh! You'll get into an awful row if you do."

  “I know, but she said she wanted to see the Olympic Games, too.”

  “Well, you can’t take her there, either. ’Least, you’d have to wait for years an’ it’d be a bit late for a birthday present for Monday.”

  “Oh, do shut up makin’ objections an’ listen to me,” said William testily. “You start makin’ objections before I’ve had time to open my mouth. I’ve got to have quiet to talk in, haven’t I, same as other people.”

  Ginger was startled into silence by this novel view of William’s eloquence, which had been known to hold its own against the most nerve-shattering uproar.

  “All right,” he muttered. “All right. Go on.”

  “Well, listen,” said William. “We’ve got to do somethin’ to cheer her up ’cause of this dry rot she’s got on her mind. We can’t axshully take her to the Olympic Games, but we can do the things they do at Olympic Games. We can practise them till we’ve got them all right an’ then bring her along to watch them. We’ll find out jus’ what they do an’ do the same things an’ I bet it’ll be as good as the real ones.”

  “Well, nearly,” agreed Ginger and added, “P’raps.”

  “We shan’t be able to get it fixed up tomorrow ’cause of it bein’ Sunday, but we’ll meet after school on Monday an’ practise the games an’ then fetch her along to see ’em. It won’t matter it bein’ in the evenin’. It’ll still be her birthday. Gosh! It’s goin’ to be jolly excitin’, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I ’spect it’ll be that,” said Ginger.

  The four met after school on Monday. Henry, informed of the plan, had come armed with exhaustive information. There were few subjects on which Henry could not arm himself with exhaustive information.

  “They have running, jumping, boxing, fencing, wrestling, shooting, cycling, rowing, tennis, football, polo, gymnastics an’ throwing the hammer. I looked it up in my father’s encyclopaedia.”

  “We can’t do quite all those,” said William, a little taken aback. “Not quite all. We can do some of ’em, of course. We’ll pick out the best.”

  “We could run an’ jump an’ box an’ wrestle,” said Ginger.

  “An’ cycle an’ fence,” said Henry. “We could use walking-sticks for fencing.”

  “We could play polo if we had a horse,” said Douglas. “I’ve always wanted to play polo.”

  “Throwing the hammer’s all right,” said William. “We’ve got a new hammer at home. I bet I could borrow it for a bit without anyone knowin’.”

  “Where’ll we have the practice?” said Ginger. “In the field by the old barn?”

  “No,” said William. “Everyone can see that from the road. Someone might see an’ tell her about it an’ it’s got to be a s’prise.”

  “There’s that bit of land behind Brent House,” suggested Henry. “No one’ll see us there.”

  “But it b’longs to Brent House,” said Ginger doubtfully. “That new man that’s come to live there might make a fuss.”

  “No, he won’t,” said William. “My fam’ly was talkin’ about him. He’s called Mr Selwyn an’ he isn’t int’rested in rustics an’ we’re rustics so he won’t be int’rested in us. Come on. Let’s c’lect the things an’ start the practice.”

  “I’ll bring my cycle,” said Henry.

  “I’ll bring walking-sticks for fencin’,” said Ginger.

  “If I can find a horse I’ll bring it for polo,” said Douglas.

  “I’d bring our new hammer,” said William.

  They returned a little later with the various implements.

  Douglas arrived first. They found him gazing through the hedge at the smooth back lawn of Brent House.

  “That man doesn’t seem to be anywhere about,” he said, “so we needn’t worry.”

  “Haven’t you brought anythin’ for the games?” said William sternly.

  Douglas stooped down and picked up a croquet mallet and ball.

  “Yes, I thought these’d do for polo if we could find a horse, but I couldn’t find one. I looked everywhere.”

  “Oh, you’re bats!” said William. “Now come on. Let’s start. We’ll start with throwin’ the hammer.”

  “No, with fencin’,” said Ginger.

  “C
ycling,” said Henry.

  “Polo,” said Douglas. “I don’t see that a horse is all that necess’ry.”

  They leapt into their parts with enthusiasm and for a few minutes the scene was one of wild confusion—Henry wobbling about on his bicycle, holding the handle-bar with one hand and flourishing a walking-stick with the other as he carried on a fencing match with Ginger on foot, William throwing his hammer, Douglas playing a complicated game with croquet mallet, ball and imaginary horse. Then William called the team to order.

  “We can’t do it this way,” he said. “It’ll never get to be a thoughtful act, the way you’re goin’ on.”

  They gathered round him breathlessly, Henry and Ginger still carrying on a spirited if erratic fencing match.

  “Now listen,” said William, assuming his generalissimo air. “We’ll do ’em all in turn an’ we’ll do ’em prop’ly. We’ll practise ’em. We’ll start with throwin’ the hammer an’ I’ll do it first an’ then the rest of you do it. Now watch.”

  They watched.

  He swung the hammer round his head then sent it flying. It flew through the air, over the hedge of the garden of Brent House, and vanished from sight.

  Immediately there came the sound of a yell of anguish, followed by a groan.

  “Gosh!” gasped William.

  They crept to the hedge and stood, a small apprehensive group, peering through it.

  A man lay prone in the middle of the lawn. About a yard from his head lay the hammer that was obviously the cause of his downfall.

  “We’ve killed him,” said Ginger solemnly. “We’ve killed Mr Selwyn.”

  “We’ll get in an awful row if we have,” said Douglas. “There’s lors against it.”

  “Murder,” said Henry with a certain morbid relish.

  “Let’s go an’ have a look at him an’ see,” said William.

  They made their way to the lawn through a small green gate in the hedge and stood looking down at the man who lay there unconscious. He had sparse red hair, bushy red eyebrows and he wore a raincoat buttoned up to his neck.