William The Outlaw (13 page)

‘OH, NO,’ SAID MRS BROWN. ‘THE SALE’S NOT REALLY OPENED YET. WHAT SORT OF A COAT WAS IT?’

‘How?’ he said.

‘Oh . . . sort of find out where she’s took it an’ get it back,’ said Ginger vaguely, his spirits rising at the thought of possible adventure, ‘ought to be quite
easy . . . heaps more fun than hangin’ round here anyway.’

A cursory examination of the crowd who thronged the Vicarage garden revealed no black coat to the anxious Outlaws. William had been so intent upon asserting his own importance and upon
impressing his watching friends that he had not noticed his customer at all. She had merely been a woman and he had an uneasy feeling that he would not recognise her again even if he were to meet
her.

‘I bet she’s not here,’ said Ginger, ‘’course she’s not here. She’ll’ve taken her coat home jolly quick I bet. She’d be afraid of someone
comin’ an’ sayin’ it was a mistake. I bet she’ll be clearin’ off home pretty quick now – coat an’ all.’

The Outlaws went to the gate and looked up and down the road. The rest of the company were clustered round the lawn where the Member, who was opening the Fête, had just got to the point
where he was congratulating the stall holders on the beautiful and artistic appearance of the stalls, and wincing involuntarily whenever his gaze fell upon the bilious expanse of green and mauve
bunting.

‘
There
she is,’ said Ginger suddenly, ‘
there
she is – walkin’ down the road in it –
cheek
!’

The figure of a woman wearing a black coat could be seen a few hundred yards down the road. The Outlaws wasted no further time in conversation but set off in pursuit. It was only when they were
practically upon her that they realised the difficulty of confronting her and demanding the return of the coat which she had, after all, acquired by the right of purchase.

They slowed down.

‘We – we’d better think out a plan,’ said William.

‘We can watch where she lives anyway,’ said Ginger.

They followed their quarry more cautiously.

She went in at the gate of a small house.

The Outlaws clustered round the gate gazing at the front door as it closed behind her.

‘Well, we’ve got to get it back
some
way,’ said William with an air of fierce determination.

‘Let’s jus’ try askin’ for it,’ said Ginger hopefully.

‘All right,’ agreed William and added generously, ‘
you
can do it.’

‘No,’ said Ginger firmly, ‘I’ve done my part
s’gestin
’ it. Someone else’s gotter
do
it.’

‘Henry can do it,’ said William, still with his air of lavish generosity.

‘No,’ said that young gentleman firmly, even pugnaciously, ‘I’m jolly well
not
goin’ to do it. You went an’ sold it an’ you can jolly well go
an’ ask for it back.’

William considered this in silence. They seemed quite firm on the point. He foresaw that argument with them would be useless.

He gave a scornful laugh.

‘Huh!’ he said. ‘Afraid!
That’s
what you are.
Afraid.
Huh. . . . Well, I c’n tell you
one
person what’s not afraid of an’ ole woman
in an ole black coat an’ that’s me.’

With that he swaggered up the path to the front door and rang the bell violently. After that his courage failed, and but for the critical and admiring audience clustered round the gate he would
certainly have turned to flee while yet there was time. . . . A maid opened the door. William cleared his throat nervously and tried to express by his back and shoulders (visible to the Outlaws) a
proud and imperious defiance and by his face (visible to the maid) an ingratiating humility.

‘Scuse me,’ he said with a politeness that was rather overdone, ‘Scuse me . . . if it’s not troublin’ you too much—’

‘Now, then,’ said the girl sharply, ‘none of your sauce.’

William in his nervousness redoubled his already exaggerated courtesy. He bared his teeth in a smile.

‘Scuse me,’ he said, ‘but a lady’s jus’ come into this house wearin’ a white elephant—’

He was outraged to receive a sudden box on the ear accompanied by a ‘Get out, you saucy little ’ound,’ and the slamming of the front door in his face.

William rejoined his giggling friends, nursing his boxed ear. He felt an annoyance which was divided impartially between the girl who had boxed his ears and the Outlaws who had giggled at
it.

‘Oh yes,’ he said aggrievedly, ‘’s easy to laugh, in’t it. ’S nice an’ easy to
laugh . . .
an’ all of you afraid to go an’ then
laughin
’ at the only one what’s brave enough. You’d laugh if it was
you
, wun’t you? Oh yes!’ He uttered his famous snort of bitter sarcasm and contempt.
‘Oh yes. . . you’d laugh
then
, wun’t you? You’d laugh if it was
your
ear what she’d nearly knocked off,
wun’t
you? Lots of people ’ve
died
for less than that an’ then I bet you’d get hung for murderers. Your brain’s in the middle of your head joined on to your ear, an’ she’s nearly killed me
shakin’ my brain up like what she did. . . . Oh yes, ’s easy to
laugh
an’ me nearly dead an’ my brains all shook up.’

‘Did she hurt you
awful
, William?’ said Ginger.

The sympathy in Ginger’s voice mollified William.

‘I sh’d jus’
think
so,’ he said. ‘Not that I
minded
,’ he added hastily, ‘I don’ mind a little pain like that . . . I mean, I
c’n stand any
amount
of pain – pain what would
kill
most folks . . . but,’ he looked again towards the house and uttered again his short sarcastic laugh,
‘p’raps she thinks she’s got rid of me. Huh! P’raps she thinks they can go on stickin’ to the ole black coat what they’ve stole. Well, they’re not . . .
let me kin’ly tell them . . . they’re jolly well
not
. . . I – I bet I’m goin’ right into the house to get it off them, so
there
!’

The physical attack perpetrated on William by the housemaid had stirred his blood and inspired him with a lust for revenge. He glared ferociously at the closed front door.

‘I’ll go ’n have a try, shall I?’ said Ginger, who shared with William a love of danger and a dislike of any sort of monotony.

‘All right,’ said William, torn by a desire to see Ginger also fiercely assailed by the housemaid and a reluctance to having his glory as martyr shared by anyone else.
‘What’ll you say to ’em?’

‘Oh, I’ve got an idea,’ said Ginger with what William considered undue optimism and self-assurance, ‘well, if she bought it for a shillin’ I bet she’ll be
glad to sell it for
more’n
a shilling, won’t she? Stands to reason, dun’t it?’

Ginger, imitating William’s swagger (for Ginger, despite almost daily conflicts with him, secretly admired William immensely), walked up to the front door and knocked with an imperious
bravado, also copied from William. The haughty housemaid opened the door.

‘G’d afternoon,’ said Ginger with a courteous smile, ‘Scuse me, but will you kin’ly tell the lady what’s jus’ come in here wearin’ a black coat
that I’ll give her one an’ six for it an’—’

Ginger also received a box on the ear that sent him rolling halfway down the drive, and the door was slammed in his face. It was opened again immediately and the red angry face of the housemaid
again glared out.

‘Any more of it, you saucy little ’ounds,’ she said, ‘an’ I’ll send for the police.’

Ginger rejoined the others nursing his ear and making what William thought was an altogether ridiculous fuss about it.

‘She din’t hit you
half
’s hard ’s what she hit me,’ said William.

‘She did,’ said the aggrieved Ginger, ‘she hit harder . . . a jolly sight harder. She’d nachurally hit harder the second time. She’d be more in practice.’

‘No, she wun’t,’ argued William, ‘she’d be more tired the second time. She’d used up all her strength on me.’

‘Well, anyway I saw yours an’ I felt mine an’ could
tell
that mine was harder. Well, gettem to look at our ears. I bet mine’s redder than what yours is.’

‘P’raps it is,’ said William, ‘it nachurally would be because of mine bein’ done first an’ havin’ time to get wore off. I bet mine’s redder now
than what yours will be when yours has had the same time to get wore off in as what mine has . . . an’ let me kin’ly tell you I saw yours an’ I felt mine an’ I know that
mine was a
jolly
sight harder ’n yours.’

After a spirited quarrel which culminated in a scuffle which culminated in an involuntary descent of both of them into the ditch, the matter was allowed to rest. Ginger had in secret been
somewhat relieved at the housemaid’s reception of his offer as he did not possess one-and-six and would have been at a loss had it been accepted.

An informal meeting was then held to consider their next step.

‘I votes,’ said Douglas who was the one of the Outlaws least addicted to dangerous exploits, ‘I votes that we jus’ go back to the Fête. We’ve done our
best,’ he added unctuously, ‘an’ if the ole coat’s sold, well, it’s jus’ sold. P’raps she’ll be able to get it back by goin’ to a lawyer or to
Parliament or somethin’ like that.’

But William, having once formed a purpose, did not lightly relinquish it.

‘
You
can go back,’ he said scornfully, ‘I’m jolly well not goin’ back without that ole coat.’

‘All right,’ said Douglas in a resigned tone of voice, ‘I’ll stay an’ help.’

To Douglas’s credit be it said that having uttered his exhortation to caution he was always content to follow the other Outlaws on their paths of lawlessness and hazard.

‘Tell you what I’m goin’ to do,’ said William suddenly, ‘I’ve
asked
for it polite an’ if they won’t give it me then it’s
their
fault, in’t it? Well I’ve
asked
for it polite an’ they wun’t give it me so now I’m jolly well goin’ to
take
it.’

‘I’ll go with you, William,’ volunteered Ginger.

‘I think,’ said William, frowning and assuming his Commander-in-Chief air, ‘I’d better go on alone. But you jus’ stay near an’ then if I’m in
reel
danger – sort of danger of life or death – I’ll shout an’ you come in an’ rescue me.’

This was such a situation as the Outlaws loved. They had by this time quite lost sight of what they were rescuing and why they were rescuing it. The thrill of the rescue itself filled their
entire horizon. . . .

They went round to the side gate where they crouched in the bushes watching the redoubtable William as he crept Indian fashion with elaborate ‘registration’ of cunning and secrecy
across a small lawn up to a small open window. Breathlessly they watched him hoist himself up and swing his legs over the window sill. They saw his freckled face still wearing its frown of
determination as he disappeared inside the room.

He had meant to make his way through the room to the hall where he hoped to find the black coat hanging and to be able to abstract it without interference and return at once to his waiting
comrades. But things are seldom as simple as we hope they are going to be. No sooner had he found himself in the room than he heard voices approaching the door and with admirable presence of mind
dived beneath the round table in the middle of the room, whose cloth just – but only just – concealed him from view.

The lady whom the Outlaws had followed down the road – now divested of the fateful black coat – entered the room followed by another gayer and more highly-coloured lady.

‘A
black
coat, did you say?’ said the first lady.

William, beneath the table, pricked up his ears.

‘Yes, if you
can
, dear,’ said the highly-coloured lady, ‘if you’d be so good, dear. I only want it for tomorrow for the funeral. I think I told you didn’t I,
dear? A removed cousin whom I hardly knew – a
very
removed cousin – but they’ve invited me and one likes to show oneself appreciative of these little attentions – not
that I think he’ll have left me a penny in his will and it certainly isn’t worth while
buying
black but I
have
a black dress and if you
wouldn’t
mind lending
me a black coat.’

‘Certainly,’ said the first lady. ‘I can let you have one with pleasure. It’s in the hall. It’s one I’ve only just bought . . .’

William ground his teeth . . . So it
was
in the hall! If he’d only been a few minutes earlier . . .

They went into the hall and William gathered that the black coat was being displayed.

‘Quite a bargain, wasn’t it?’ he heard the first lady say.

It was all he could do to repress a bitter and scornful ‘Huh!’

They returned – evidently with the coat.

‘Thank you so much, dear,’ said the highly-coloured lady, ‘it’s just what I wanted and
so
smart. What was it like at the Fête . . . ?’ she was trying
on the coat and examining herself smilingly in the overmantel mirror. ‘I must say it
does
suit me.’