William The Outlaw (25 page)

He turned the hose on to them. That was almost more fascinating than cleaning the car. The water bounced back at you from the wall unexpectedly and delightfully. He could sluice it round and
round the wall in patterns. He could make a mammoth fountain of it by pointing it straight at the ceiling. After some minutes of this enthralling occupation he turned his attention to the tap which
regulated the flow and began to experiment with that. Laying the hose pipe flat on the floor he turned the tap in one direction till the flow was a mere trickle, then turned it in the other till it
was a torrent. The torrent was more thrilling than the trickle but it was also more unmanageable. So he tried to turn the tap down again and found that he couldn’t. It had stuck. He wrestled
with it, but in vain. The torrent continued to discharge itself with unabated violence.

William was slightly dismayed by the discovery. He looked round for a hammer or some other implement to apply to the recalcitrant tap, but saw none. He decided to go back to the kitchen and look
for one there. He dripped his way across to the kitchen and there looked about him. The bell was still ringing violently. The blue disc was still wobbling hysterically. It occurred to William
suddenly that as sole staff of the house it was perhaps his duty to answer the bell. So he dripped his way upstairs. The blue disc had been marked 6. Outside the door marked six he stopped a
minute, then opened the door and entered. A woman wearing an expression of suffering and a very purple dress lay moaning on the sofa. The continued ringing of the bell was explained by a large book
which she had propped up against it in such a way as to keep the button pressed.

She opened her eyes and looked balefully at William.

‘I’ve been ringing that bell,’ she said viciously, ‘for a whole hour without anyone coming to answer it. I’ve had three separate fits of hysterics. I feel so ill
that I can’t speak. I shall claim damages from Dr Morlan. Never,
never
, NEVER have I been treated like this before. Here I come – a quivering victim of nerves,
riddled
by
neurasthenia – come here to be nursed back to health and strength by Dr Morlan, and first of all off he goes to some aunt or other, then off goes the housemaid. And I shall report that cook
to Dr Morlan the minute he returns, the
minute
he returns. I’ll sue her for damages. I’ll sue the whole lot of you for damages; I’m going to have hysterics
again.’

She had them, and William watched with calm interest and enjoyment. It was even more diverting than the silver cleaning and the hose pipe. When she’d finished she sat up and wiped her
eyes.

‘Why don’t you
do
something?’ she said irritably to William.

‘All right – what?’ said William obligingly, but rather sorry that the entertainment had come to an end.

‘Fetch the cook,’ snapped the lady, ‘ask her how she
dare
ignore my bell for hours and
hours
and HOURS. Tell her I’m going to sue her for damages. Tell
her—’

‘She’s gone,’ said William.

‘
Gone!
’ screamed the lady. ‘Gone where?’

‘Gone off,’ said William; ‘she said she was fair finished an’ went off.’

‘When’s she coming back? I’m in a most critical state of health. All this neglect and confusion will be the
death
of my nervous system. When’s she coming
back?’

‘Never,’ said William. ‘She’s gone off for good. She said
her
nervous system was wore out an’ went off – for good.’

‘Her nervous system indeed,’ said the lady, stung by the cook’s presumption in having a nervous system. ‘What’s anyone’s nervous system compared with mine?
Who’s in charge of the staff, then?’

‘Me,’ said William simply. ‘I’m all there is left of it.’

He was rewarded by an even finer display of hysterics than the one before. He sat and watched this one, too, with critical enjoyment as one might watch a firework display or an exhibition of
conjuring. His attitude seemed to irritate her. She recovered suddenly and launched into another tirade.

‘Here I come,’ she said, ‘as paying guest to be nursed back to health and strength from a state of neurasthenic prostration, and find myself left to the mercies of a common
house-boy, a nasty, common, low, little rapscallion like you – find myself literally
murdered
by neglect, but I’ll sue you for damages, the whole
lot
of you – the
doctor and the housemaid and the cook and you – you nasty little –
monkey . . .
and I’ll have you all hanged for murder.’

She burst into tears again and William continued to watch her, not at all stung by her reflections on his personal appearance and social standing. He was hoping that the sobbing would lead to
another fit of hysterics. It didn’t, however. She dried her tears suddenly and sat up.

‘It’s more than an hour and a half,’ she said pathetically, ‘since I had any nourishment at all. The effect on my nervous system will be serious. My nerves are in such a
condition that I must have nourishment every hour, every hour at least. Go and get me a glass of milk at once, boy.’

William obligingly went downstairs and looked for some milk. He couldn’t find any. At last he came upon a bowl of some milky-looking liquid. Much relieved he filled a glass with it and
took it upstairs to the golden-haired lady. She received it with a suffering expression and closing her eyes took a dainty sip. Then her suffering expression changed to one of fury and she flung
the glass of liquid at William’s head. It missed William’s head and emptied itself over a Venus de Milo by the door, the glass, miraculously unbroken, encaging the beauty’s head
and shoulders. William watched this phenomenon with delight.

‘You little fiend!’ screamed the lady, ‘it’s
starch
!’

‘Starch,’ said William. ‘Fancy! An’ it looked jus’ like milk. But I say, it’s funny about that glass stayin’ on the stachoo like that. I bet you
couldn’t have done that if you’d tried!’

The lady had returned to her expression of patient suffering. She spoke with closed eyes and in a voice so faint that William could hardly hear it.

‘I must have some nourishment at once. I’ve had nothing –
nothing –
since my breakfast at nine and now it’s nearly eleven. And for my breakfast I only had a
few eggs. Go and make me some cocoa at once . . . at once.’

William went downstairs again and looked for some cocoa. He found a cupboard with various tins and in one tin he found a brown powder which might quite well be cocoa, though there was no label
on it. Ever hopeful, he mixed some with water in a cup and took it up to the lady. Again she assumed her suffering expression, closed her eyes and sipped it daintily. Again her suffering expression
changed to one of fury, again she flung the cup at William and again she missed him. This time the cup hit a bust of William Shakespeare. Though the impact broke the cup the bottom of it rested
hat-wise at a rakish angle upon the immortal bard’s head, giving him a rather debauched appearance while the dark liquid streamed down his smug countenance.

‘It’s knife powder,’ screamed the lady hysterically. ‘Oh, you murderous little
brute.
It’s knife powder! This will be the death of me. I’ll never get
over this as long as I live – never,
never
, NEVER!’

William stood expectant, awaiting the inevitable attack of hysterics. But it did not come. The lady’s eyes had wandered to the window and there they stayed, growing wider and wider and
rounder and rounder and wider, while her mouth slowly opened to its fullest extent. She pointed with a trembling hand.

‘Look!’ she said. ‘The river’s flooding.’

William looked. The part of the garden which could be seen from the window was completely under water. Then – and not till then – did William remember the hose pipe which he had left
playing at full force in the back yard. He gazed in silent horror.

‘I always
said
so,’ panted the lady hysterically, ‘I
said
so. I said so to Dr Morlan. I said “I couldn’t live in a house in a valley. There’d be
floods and my nerves couldn’t stand them,” and he said that the river couldn’t possibly flood this house and it can and I might have known he was lying and oh my poor nerves, what
shall I do, what
shall
I do?’

William gazed around the room as if in search of inspiration. He met the gaze of Venus de Milo soaked in milk and leering through her enclosing glass; he met the gaze of William Shakespeare
soaked in water and knife powder and wearing his broken cup jauntily. Neither afforded him inspiration.

‘It rises as I watch it – inch by inch,’ shrilled the lady, ‘
inch
by
inch!
It’s terrible . . . we’re marooned . . . Oh, it’s horrible.
There isn’t even a life belt in the house.’

William was conscious of a great relief at her explanation of the spreading sheet of water. It would for the present at any rate divert guilt from him.

‘Yes,’ he agreed looking out with her upon the water-covered garden. ‘That’s what I bet it is – it’s the river rising.’

‘Why didn’t you
tell
me?’ she screamed, ‘you must have known. Why, now I come to think of it, you were dripping wet when you first came into the room.’

‘Well,’ said William with a burst of inspiration, ‘I din’ want to give you a sudden shock – what I thought it might give you tellin’ you you was
macarooned—’

‘Oh, don’t
talk
,’ she said. ‘Go down at once and see if you can find any hope of rescue.’

William went downstairs again. He waded out to the hose pipe and wrestled again with the tap beneath the gushing water. In vain. He waded into a neighbouring shed and found three or four
panic-stricken hens. He captured two and took them up to the lady’s room, flinging them in carelessly.

‘Rescued ’em,’ he said with quiet pride, and then went down for the others. The mingled sounds of the squeaking and terrified flight of hens and the lady’s screams
pursued him down the stairs. He caught the other two hens and brought them up, too, carelessly flinging them in to join the chaos. Then he went down for further investigations. In another shed he
found a puppy who had climbed into a box to escape the water and there was engaged in trying to catch a spider on the wall. William rescued the puppy, and took it upstairs to join the lady’s
menagerie.

‘Rescued this, too,’ he said as he deposited it inside.

It promptly began to chase the hens. There ensued a scene of wild confusion as the hens, with piercing squawks, flew over chairs and tables, pursued by the puppy.

Even the lady seemed to feel that hysterics would have no chance of competing with this uproar, so she began to chase the puppy. William returned to the deluge in which he was beginning to find
an irresistible fascination. He had read a story not long ago in which a flood figured largely and in which the hero had rescued children and animals from the passing torrent and had taken them to
a place of safety at the top of a house. In William’s mind the law of association was a strong one. As he gazed upon the surging stream he became the rescuer hero of the story and began to
look round for something else to rescue. There appeared to be no more livestock to be rescued from the sheds. He waded down to the road, which also was now partially under water, and looked up and
down. A small pig had wandered out of a neighbouring farm and was standing contemplating the flooded road with interest and surprise. The hero rescuer of William’s story had rescued a pig.
Without a moment’s hesitation William waded up to the pig, seized it firmly round the middle before it could escape, and staggered through the deluge with it and into the house. Though small
it showed more resistance than William had expected. It wriggled and squeaked and kicked in all directions. Panting, William staggered upstairs with it. He flung open the door and deposited the pig
on the threshold.

‘Here’s somethin’ else I’ve rescued,’ he said proudly.

The lady was showing unexpected capabilities in dealing with the situation. She had taken the china out of the china cabinet and had put the hens into it. They were staring through the glass
doors in stupid amazement and one of them had just complicated matters by laying an egg.

The lady was just disputing the possession of a table runner with the spirited puppy who thought she was having a game with it. The puppy had already completely dismembered a hassock, a mat and
two cushions. Traces of them lay about the room. Venus and Shakespeare, still wearing their rakish head adornments, were gazing at the scene through runnels of starch and liquid knife-powder. Miss
Polliter received the new refugee in a business-like fashion. She had evidently finally decided that this was no occasion for the display of nervous systems. She seemed, in fact, exhilarated and
stimulated.

‘Put him down here,’ she said. ‘That’s quite right, my boy. Go and rescue anything else you can. This is a noble work, indeed.’

The puppy charged the pig and the pig charged the china cabinet. There came the sound of the breaking of glass. The egg rolled out and the puppy fell upon it with wild delight. The hens began to
fly about the room in panic again.