William The Outlaw (21 page)

There was a sudden lull in the general conversation and his mother said:

‘Do get on with your lunch, William. What
are
you talking about?’

‘About this car,’ said William doggedly.

‘What car?’

‘This car of ours. Well, this man—’

‘
What
man?’

‘This man what’s goin’ to drive it for us—’

But this touched Robert on a tender spot.

‘Any car belonging to the house will be driven by
me
,’ he said firmly.

William was nonplussed for a minute. Then he said gently, ‘I don’t think Robert ought to tire himself out drivin’ cars. I think Robert ought to be keepin’ himself fresh
for his exams an’ things, not tire himself out drivin’ cars. This man’d drive it an’ save Robert the trouble of tirin’ himself out drivin’ cars because
Robert’s got his exams an’ things to keep fresh for. An’ besides all these girls what Robert likes to take out with him – he wun’t talk to ’em prop’ly if
he has to be tirin’ himself out drivin’ the car all the time—’

‘Shut up,’ ordered Robert angrily.

Temporarily William shut up.

‘Are you taking Gladys Oldham on the river this afternoon?’ said his mother.

‘Gladys Oldham?’ said Robert coldly. ‘Whatever made you think I’d be taking a girl like Gladys Oldham anywhere?’

His mother looked bewildered.

‘My dear – only last week you said—’

Robert spoke with dignity and a certain embarrassment.

‘Last week?’ he said frowning, as if he had a difficulty in carrying his mind back as far as that . . . ‘well, I remember I did once think her an entirely different sort of
person to what she turned out to be. . . . He’s called Groves, isn’t he, mother?’

‘Who, dear?’ said his mother mildly.

‘The artist who’s taken The Limes.’

‘I believe so, dear.’

‘I’ve seen the daughter – she’s – she’s—’

He stopped confusedly, trying to hide his blushes.

‘She’s the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen in your life,’ put in his father sardonically.

‘How did you know?’ asked Robert. ‘Have you seen her?’

‘No, I didn’t know – I guessed,’ said his father.

Robert seemed about to launch into a fuller description of Miss Groves, then stopped, glancing suspiciously at William. But William was intent upon his own thoughts. Noticing a slight lull in
the conversation he rose again hopefully to the attack.

‘This man,’ he said, ‘you’d find him awful useful—’

‘
What
man, William?’ groaned his mother.

‘This man what I keep tellin’ you about,’ said William patiently. ‘It seems to me sort of silly to wait till you get a car to get a man to drive it. I think the best
thing is to get this man at once an’ then when we get the car there he is all ready to drive it for us at once ’stead of havin’ to waste the car while we start lookin’ round
for a man to drive it and—’

‘The lunatic asylums of the country,’ remarked Mr Brown, ‘must be full of men who’ve had sons like William.’

William looked at him hopefully.

‘If you feel like that, father,’ he said, ‘I know that this man—’

‘Oh, shut up,’ said Robert again.

‘Yes,’ said William bitterly, ‘what I’d like to know is why you can go on talkin’ an’ talkin’ an’ talkin’ an’
talkin
’
about girls an’ the minute I start talkin’ about this man—’

‘What man?’

‘This man I’ve been tellin’ you about ever since I started talkin’ only no one listens to me. What I say is that this man—’

‘William,’ said his mother, ‘if you say one word more about that man whoever he is—’

‘All right,’ said William resignedly, and turned his whole attention to his pudding.

He renewed the attack, however, after lunch. The car prospects didn’t seem very hopeful but it might be worth while to explore other avenues. He stood at the drawing-room
window looking out at the garden where Jenkins, the gardener, was weeding the bed on the lawn.

‘Poor ole man,’ said William compassionately, ‘I think he’d do with someone to help him, don’t you, mother?’

His mother looked up from the sock she was darning.

‘I think that’s a very kind thought, dear,’ she said, ‘and I’m sure he’d appreciate it. Take one of the kneeling mats out because the grass is rather
damp.’

William’s face fell but after a moment’s hesitation he took a kneeling mat and went out to help weed the bed. He returned a few minutes later pursued by an indignant Jenkins after
having unwittingly uprooted all his pet seedlings.

‘Finished, dear?’ said his mother. ‘You’ve not been long.’

‘No,’ said William, ‘I kind of worked hard an’ got it finished quick. . . . Mother, don’t you kind of think you’d like another gardener ’stead of
Jenkins?’

‘Why ever?’ said his mother in surprise.

‘Well, he always seems so sort of disagreeable an’ this man—’

‘What man?’

‘This man I keep tellin’ you about,’ said William patiently, ‘he’s an abs’lutely
wonderful
man. He can do anythin’. He can drive a car . . .
he’s the one what’s goin’ to drive our car . . . an’ – an’ there’s nothin’ he
can’t
do, look after clothes an’ people what are
queer in the head an’ – an’ – she was ever so nice an’ cryin’.’

‘William, dear,’ said Mrs Brown, ‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about, but before you do anything else go and wash your hands and brush your
hair.’

William sighed as he went to obey. His family seemed to have no souls above hands and hair and that sort of thing.

The Outlaws met the next afternoon to report progress.

‘I did all I could,’ said William, ‘I tried to make ’em get a car so’s we could have him to drive it an’ they jus’ wun’t. I tried makin’
’em have him as a gardener an’ they wun’t do that either.’

Ginger, looking melancholy, related his experiences.

‘I thought we might have him as a gardener, too,’ he said, ‘an’ so I tied a string across the doorway of the greenhouse ’cause I thought that if ours fell an’
sprained his ankle I could tell ’em about this new one an’ then they’d get him. I din’t think it would do ours any harm to sprain his ankle – jus’ give him a
nice rest for one thing an’ – an’ he’s such a crabby ole thing. It might make him kinder same as what they say sufferin’ does in books.’

‘Did he fall?’ said the Outlaws with interest.

‘No,’ said Ginger sadly, ‘he saw me doin’ it an’ went an’ told my father.’

‘Was he mad?’ said the Outlaws with interest.

‘Yes,’ said Ginger still more sadly, ‘he was awful mad. Simply wouldn’t listen to me tellin’ him I’d tied it there to practise skippin’.’

The Outlaws murmured sympathy and then Henry spoke.

‘Well, I tried to get ’em to have him as a man what looks after clothes—’

‘Valley,’ murmured Ginger.

‘An’ I kep’ tellin’ my father an’ my brother that their clothes looked to me’s if they wanted brushin’ or cleanin’ or pressin’ or
somethin’ an’ I was goin’ to tell ’em about this man what’d come an’ do it for them, but,’ mournfully, ‘they din’t give me a chance to
get’s far as that. Seems to me that it’s very funny that one can’t try’n help a poor man what’s out of work without bein’ treated like that about it.’

Again the Outlaws murmured sympathy, then Douglas spoke up.

‘I thought I’d try’n get him as a sort of man nurse so I acted like I was goin’ queer in my head.’

‘What did they do?’ said William.

An expression of agony passed over Douglas’s face.

‘Gave me Gregory powder,’ he said, ‘an’ I couldn’t sort of seem to make ’em understand I was actin’ queer in the head. They seemed to think I was
actin’ ordin’ry. Anyway when they got reely mad I had to stop it ’cause I was afraid they’d start on me with more Gregory powder, an’ it’s a wonder I’m not
poisoned dead with the first lot. It’s more diff’cult than you’d think,’ he ended meditatively, ‘to make folks think you’re queer in the head.’

‘So nobody’s got nothing,’ William summed up the situation sadly and ungrammatically.

But Ginger was more cheerful.

‘Well, there’s lots other houses in the village ’sides ours,’ he said, ‘an’ there’s lots other fam’lies in the village ’sides ours. I votes
we start on them. Seems to me that people outside your own fam’ly always give you more ’f a chance to explain what you mean than people in your fam’ly. They don’t start
bein’ mad at you before you’ve reely got to what you want to say like people in your own fam’ly do.’

The Outlaws considered the suggestion in silence. Then William pointed out its obvious disadvantage.

‘Yes, but most of the people round here,’ he said simply, ‘know us, an’ so it wun’t be much use.’

‘There’s someone new come to The Limes,’ said Henry, ‘I heard my mother talkin’ about them.’

‘So did I mine,’ said Douglas, ‘he’s an artist.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said William, ‘so did I mine. An’ he’s got – a daughter what’s the most beautiful girl what Robert’s ever seen.’

‘Well, let’s try him,’ said Ginger, ‘he oughter want someone to look after his clothes or drive his car or nurse him when he’s queer in the head or something.
Who’ll try him? I votes William does first.’

‘All right,’ said William who was always ready for any fresh adventure. ‘I’ll go straight off now ’fore he gets anyone else.’

William entered the garden gate of The Limes and looked cautiously around him. There was no one in sight. The building was a long, low one with French windows opening straight on to the
garden.

William was furtively exploring this in order to see how the land lay before venturing up to the front door when a voice called out:

‘Boy! Hi! Come here!’

A man had suddenly appeared at one of the downstairs windows and was beckoning to him.

Warily William approached. The man had a pointed beard, and very bushy eyebrows.

‘Boy!’ he called again.

‘Uh-huh?’ said William non-committally, coming up to the window. The room inside was evidently a studio. Several easels stood about and the table was littered with tubes of paint and
palettes.

‘Just what I wanted,’ said the man, ‘a boy – a real human boy – of the ruffian type, too. Splendid! My boy, I’ve been longing for you all morning. I’ve
tried to materialise you. You are probably at this moment nothing but the creature of my brain. I wished for a boy and a boy appeared. I was just thinking that I must go out into the highways and
byways to search for one when lo! the boy my thoughts had conjured up stood before us. I’m a superman, a magician. I always had a suspicion that I might be. Come in, boy.’

Distrustfully William entered the studio. The man gazed at him rapturously.

‘Just what I wanted,’ he said, ‘a dirty rapscallion of a boy with a crooked tie and a grimy collar.’

This insult stung William to retaliation. He gazed coldly at the artist who had a smear of yellow paint down one side of his face, and said:

‘Bet I’m as clean as you are . . . an’ as to
ties
—’ his gaze wandered down to the artist’s flowing bow and stayed there meaningly.

‘Spirited withal!’ commented the artist, ‘better and better. . . . Come in.’

William came in.

‘Sit down.’

William sat down.

‘Now I’m going to draw you,’ went on the artist. ‘I’m a genius whose immortal masterpieces are but inadequately recognised by his generation, therefore perforce I
eke out a modest livelihood illustrating magazine stories, and some idiot here,’ he touched a manuscript, ‘has written one about a boy. Fancy writing a story about a boy. Now where
shall I find a boy? thought I. I wish I had a boy, and lo! a boy appears. . . . Keep still, boy. Stand just so . . . look here . . . and keep quite still.’

William, his brain working quickly, stood just so, looked there and kept quite still.

The artist sketched in silence, putting William into various postures. At the end he passed him the sketches for his inspection. William gazed at them coldly.

‘Not much like me,’ he commented.

‘Think not?’ said the artist, ‘probably you have an idealised conception of your appearance.’

William looked at him suspiciously.

‘I’ve not got anythin’ like what you said,’ he remarked, ‘never even heard of it so I can’t have. Would you like a man to drive your motor-car?’

‘I’ve not got a motor-car,’ said the artist, busily engaged in putting finishing touches into his sketch.

‘Well,’ said William, ‘what about someone to brush your clothes?’

‘I prefer my clothes unbrushed,’ said the artist; ‘dust protects the material.’

William considered this point of view with interest, storing it up for future use, then returned to the point at issue.

‘Wun’t you like someone to look after you when you’re queer in the head?’

‘No,’ said the artist, ‘it’s more fun not having anyone to look after you when you’re queer in the head.’

He put the sketches on to one side and took up a manuscript from the table.

‘Good Lord,’ he groaned as he glanced through it, ‘Charles the First’s time. Why the dickens do they write stories about Charles the First’s time? Where the deuce
am I to get anyone to sit for me in the costume of Charles the First’s time? Tell me that.’

William told him.

‘I know a man what’d come to sit to you,’ he said, promptly, ‘he’d want payin’.’

‘Oh, he would, would he?. . . All right, I’ll pay him. But the question is, has he got a costume of Charles the First’s time?’

‘I don’t—’ began William, then stopped. ‘Oh, yes, I expect so. . . . Oh yes, he’s sure to have. Oh, yes, we’ll get him one anyway.’

‘A protégé?’ said the artist.

‘Uh-huh?’ said William. ‘No. He’s as nice as what you are. Nicer.’

‘
Touché
,’ said the artist. ‘Well, bring him along in his Charles I costume and I’ll pay him half a crown an hour.’

The remuneration seemed princely to William.

‘A’right,’ he said, impressed. ‘A’right. I’ll bring him along. An’ if you find out you want any other sort of man he’ll be that, too. He can do
anythin’.’

With that he departed and joined the Outlaws who were still waiting for him in the road.

‘Well, you
have
been a time,’ said Ginger.