Just William: William At War Part 10

He remembered that the organisers of the original appeal for sc.r.a.p iron had had notices printed and dropped through letter-boxes, asking people to collect their sc.r.a.p iron and advising them that it would be called for on a certain day. That, then, obviously, was the way to set about it . . .

He a.s.sembled his Outlaws that morning and expounded his scheme to them.

'We'll write notices,' he said, 'and put them into people's letter-boxes, an' then, when they've had time to get the sc.r.a.p iron together, we'll go round an' collect it. We can use my wooden cart or a wheelbarrow or somethin'. An' I bet they'll be jolly grateful to us.'

The composition of his 'appeal' took some time, as none of them could remember exactly how the original one had been worded. The final effort was chiefly William's.

SKRAPPION.

Pleese collect your skrappion and we will call for it tomorro.

By order, William Brown.

They spent several hours copying it out and took it round the village in the evening.

There was another air-raid alarm that night, and again Mrs Beverton and Bella joined the Browns in their shelter. Again Mrs Beverton prattled merrily all night. This time she knitted as well, taking up, as it seemed, almost the entire shelter with elbow acrobatics and running a knitting needle into Mr Brown's eye three or four times before he finally took to flight. Again Bella said 'Marvellous!' fifty times in fifty different tones of voice. Again Emma wore her cork, taking it out only to snub Mrs Brown when she suggested making a milk pudding for lunch the next day. Again the only recognisable sounds outside the shelter were the distant lowing of Daisy and an occasional motorist.

William busied himself with his aeroplane and his plans for collecting sc.r.a.p iron. He was vaguely aware that Mrs Beverton was prattling about a Spitfire Fund exhibition, and asking his mother to tea the next day, but was too much occupied with his own affairs to listen to her.

The next afternoon the Outlaws set off to collect the sc.r.a.p iron. The result was at first disappointing. People were either amused or annoyed but in neither case did they produce any sc.r.a.p iron. Mrs Monks they found specially irritating.

'No, children,' she said firmly, 'we can't be bothered to play games with you now. We have work to do for the country even if you haven't,' and vanished before they could explain that they had come on a matter of urgent national importance.

By the time they reached Miss Milton's they were definitely discouraged. Miss Milton was discouraging at the best of times, and in view of their treatment by normally quite pleasant people they felt that it would be worse than useless to present themselves at the front door and demand sc.r.a.p iron. They were, however, reluctant to leave the house without making some effort towards the attainment of their object.

'Let's go round to the back,' suggested William, 'I believe I remember seein' a lot of rubbish behind her tool shed. Her gardener found 'em in that bit of waste ground he was clearin' for the potatoes.'

They went round to the back and peeped over the hedge. Yes, there was the little heap of sc.r.a.p iron that William remembered having seen battered saucepans, rusty tin cans, old kettles . . .

'Crumbs!' said William. 'That's just what we want. An' she can't want it.' He glanced at the house. 'We won't bother her goin' to ask her. We'll jus' take it through the hedge. I bet that's the best thing to do. I bet she'd rather we did that than come to the house an' bother her . . . I'll get through and hand it out to you.'

He scrambled through the hedge and handed the pieces of sc.r.a.p iron one by one to the others. They almost not quite filled the handcart.

'That's jolly good,' said William as they set off again. 'I bet she'll be jolly grateful to us when she finds out. Let's try Mrs Beverton next,' he suggested. 'She comes to our air-raid shelter, an' my father says she's worse than the air raid, but I bet she'll have a bit of sc.r.a.p iron. I put one of the notices through her letter-box, anyway.'

They trundled the cart along to Mrs Beverton's house, opened her small front gate and wheeled it up the path towards the front door. And then William suddenly stopped. For the French windows of the morning-room were open and inside the morning-room, on a long trestle table, was what could be nothing other than a collection of sc.r.a.p iron kindly left there for them by Mrs Beverton.

'Corks!' gasped William. 'That's jolly decent of her. She's jus' left 'em there ready for us so's we could get 'em without botherin' her. It's jolly decent of her.'

'CORKS!' GASPED WILLIAM. 'IT'S JOLLY DECENT OF HER.' THE COLLECTION OF Sc.r.a.p IRON WAS CERTAINLY IMPRESSIVE.

He wheeled the cart across the lawn, put it down beside the French window, and entered the morning room.

The collection of sc.r.a.p iron was certainly impressive heavy pieces of metal, jagged pieces of metal, dull pieces of metal of all textures, shapes and sizes.

'There's not room for it all in the cart,' said Ginger.

'No, but it's a jolly sight better than that stuff of ole Miss Milton's,' said William. 'It's jolly good sc.r.a.p iron, an' it's jolly decent of her to put it out ready for us like this. I'd like to take it to Hadley first, before Miss Milton's. They'll be jolly pleased with it down at Hadley. I bet it'll be the best they ever had . . . I say! We could leave Miss Milton's ole stuff here, an' take this down to Hadley an' then come back for Miss Milton's, couldn't we? I bet that's a jolly good idea . . . Come on, let's take Miss Milton's out an' put this in. This'll just fill the cart nicely, an' then we can get a bit more to put with ole Miss Milton's an' make up the second cartful. Come on . . .'

In a few minutes they had emptied the cart, put its contents on the trestle table, and put the contents of the trestle table into the cart.

Then, with the pleased feeling of a patriotic duty satisfactorily accomplished, they set off to Hadley.

Mrs Beverton's preparations for the Spitfire Exhibition tea party were somewhat behindhand. She had taken her afternoon nap, as usual, and overslept, so that she was still hara.s.sing her little maid over the arrangements for tea when the guests were due to arrive.

Moreover, Bella, who was supposed to have copied out the labels for the exhibits, so kindly lent by Mrs Beverton's cousin, had forgotten all about it, and was now hastily scribbling them upstairs in her bedroom. Bella was feeling rather disgruntled, firstly because she had not heard from her latest boy friend for over a week and secondly because she was beginning to have a horrible suspicion that the green jumper didn't suit her. So, though everything was still 'Marvellous', it was marvellous in a minor key.

'Bella, do hurry up with those labels,' called Mrs Beverton from downstairs. 'I thought you'd have got them done this morning.'

'I was busy,' said Bella petulantly. 'I was finis.h.i.+ng that wretched jumper. I think it's a frightful colour.'

'Well, you would have it,' said Mrs Beverton unsympathetically.

'I know. It looked all right on Ethel.'

'Oh, well, any colour suits Ethel,' said Mrs Beverton. 'She's so pretty.'

'Marvellous,' said Bella tartly.

'Now do hurry up with those labels, dear. I can't think why you've been so long.'

Bella muttered something under her breath that certainly wasn't 'Marvellous', and scrawled the remaining half-dozen labels.

'I've finished them now, Mother.'

'Well, I wish you'd go and put them on the exhibits in the morning-room, dear. It's after four, and I've still got to change.'

'But I don't know which to put on which,' objected Bella.

'You can't go wrong, dear. I've put them in a straight line in order all along the table and the labels are numbered. Just put label number one on the one nearest the door and so on to the window. You can't go wrong, and I'm sure it's nice for you to feel that you're helping mother.'

'Marvellous!' said Bella in what she imagined to be a tone of cutting irony.

She took the labels down to the morning-room. She was still feeling aggrieved by her mother's reference to Ethel Brown. She never had been able to understand what people saw in Ethel Brown. Personally she thought that Ethel looked a perfect sight in the green jumper. She never had liked her hair. Or her voice. Or her eyes . . .

She stood in the doorway of the morning-room and looked with dispa.s.sionate contempt at the collection of metal on the table . . . It was the first time she had seen it (she had been out when it arrived) and it was, she thought, a pretty rotten show. It wasn't in a straight line either, whatever her mother might say. She straightened it and began to put the labels round. 'Part of wing of Messerschmitt' (looked more like a rusty old saucepan). 'Piece of sh.e.l.l casing' (looked more like an old kettle lid what you could see of it for rust). 'Part of aileron from Dornier 17' (more like an old sardine tin). She flung the labels down, anyhow, one by one. There were too many labels for the exhibits, but she didn't care. She wasn't interested in the rotten old exhibition, and she didn't care whether it was a success or not. After all, one would expect one's own mother to appreciate one's good points if no one else did. She had always thought that her hair, especially after a brightening shampoo, was a better colour than Ethel Brown's any day . . .

Mrs Beverton had changed into her mauve georgette just in time to breathlessly receive the first guest. There were so few social activities of any kind nowadays that all the invitations she sent out had been accepted even at such short notice. Mrs Monks was coming and Miss Milton and Mrs Bott and Mrs Clavis and Mrs Barton and Mrs Brown and Miss Blake and Miss Featherstone.

Mrs Beverton hurried breathlessly down to the drawing-room just as the little maid was admitting Mrs Barton. One by one but almost immediately afterwards (for the meaningless urban convention of arriving everywhere half an hour late was rightly held in scorn here) the others arrived.

'Do come in,' said Mrs Beverton brightly as she ushered them into the drawing-room. 'So nice of you to come to my little party. All in a good cause, isn't it? I thought that we'd have tea first and that while we were having it you could go one by one and see the exhibition. There really isn't room in the morning-room for all of us. I've put a plate on the table near the door, and if you'll all put your sixpence in that or however much more you like to make it, of course . . . All the exhibits are numbered and described. Will you go first, Miss Featherstone? You know where the morning-room is, don't you? Just across the way . . .'

Miss Featherstone went out, and the others sat down and began tea. In a short time Miss Featherstone returned. She looked pale and bewildered.

'Well,' said Mrs Beverton with a complacent and expectant smile, 'did you find it interesting?'

'Er yes,' said Miss Featherstone uncomfortably, avoiding her hostess's eye. 'Er y-yes.'

'Tragic, of course, I agree,' said Mrs Beverton. 'Definitely tragic, of course. I quite understand how you feel. I'm not one to gloat over it myself. However you look at it, it means tragedy in one form or another . . . Now, Miss Blake, would you like to see it? Just pop your sixpence on to the plate. Or a bit more, of course, if you really like the show . . . You know the way to the morning-room, don't you? . . . A little more tea, Mrs Brown?'

A few moments later Miss Blake returned to the room. She, too, looked pale and bewildered.

'Well?' said Mrs Beverton again expectantly. 'It's interesting, isn't it?'

Miss Blake avoided both her hostess's eye and Miss Featherstone's as she stammered 'Er yes,' and returned to her seat.

Mrs Beverton looked from her to Miss Featherstone in surprise. How odd people were nowadays! No interest in anything not even a Spitfire Fund Exhibition. It must be the war, of course, and lack of sleep . . . She was glad it hadn't taken her like that.

One by one the other guests went in to see the exhibition, and all returned with that same air of bewilderment; that constrained and embarra.s.sed manner.

'What do you think of it?' murmured Mrs Clavis to Mrs Barton under cover of the general conversation. 'Do you think that the war's turning her queer?'

'Well, the whole thing's most extraordinary,' said Mrs Barton. 'I can only put it down to lack of sleep. I hardly like to think it's a deliberate trick.'

'I'm not so sure,' said Mrs Clavis darkly. 'I'm really not so sure.'

'Odd that no one's said anything.'

'Well, one doesn't like to. I didn't give any money, did you?'

'Indeed, I did not,' said Mrs Barton. 'The thing's a deliberate fraud. At least it's a fraud, whether deliberate or not, it's not for me to decide.'

'I should think that Mrs Monks would say something,' said Miss Blake hopefully. 'I mean, it's supposed to be the duty of the church to speak out.'

Mrs Monks was at that moment entering the room, and it was quite clear that she was going to 'speak out'. She stood just inside the drawing-room door, fixing her eyes on Mrs Beverton in dramatic denunciation.

'Mrs Beverton,' she said in the voice that she generally kept for unruly choir boys. 'Mrs Beverton, I cannot allow you to continue this gross deception.'

Mrs Beverton gaped at her.

'Th-t-t-t-this what?' she said.

'This gross deception,' repeated Mrs Monks. 'This obtaining of money under false pretences for whatever purpose.'

'I I don't understand you,' stammered Mrs Beverton. 'Really Mrs Monks, I know that we're all suffering from lack of sleep, but-'

'Your exhibition is nothing but a collection of sc.r.a.p iron of a particularly valueless description.'

'How dare you?' said Mrs Beverton. 'This collection was lent me by my cousin. She made two pounds, six s.h.i.+llings and tenpence halfpenny by it for her local Spitfire Fund, and you have the impertinence to say-'

Miss Milton now appeared in the doorway. She, too, had been in to see the 'Exhibition'. Her small precise figure quivered with indignation.

'This is an outrage, Mrs Beverton,' she said.

Mrs Beverton gazed helplessly from one to the other. Two of them suffering from delusions as a result of lack of sleep . . . 'What on earth do you mean, Miss Milton?' she said. 'I know that we've had to spend most of the nights in our shelter lately, and I know that- '

'You must be aware,' said Miss Milton, 'that your so-called exhibition is merely a collection of sc.r.a.p iron purloined by means I do not understand from the back of my tool shed?'

'You're mad,' said Mrs Beverton. 'You must be mad.'

'I recognise every single piece,' said Miss Milton grimly. 'There's the old fish slice that I threw away because it was too small, and that you have the impertinence to label as part of a Dornier wing. There's that old saucepan that leaks and I had soldered twice, and that you've labelled as a German incendiary bomb. The whole thing is beneath contempt and an insult to our intelligence. It-'

Dazedly Mrs Beverton appealed to the others, but to her amazement they supported her accusers. They hadn't liked to say anything, but well, Miss Milton and Mrs Monks were quite right. It was just a collection of sc.r.a.p iron. They didn't know how Mrs Beverton had the face to play such a trick on them.

'This is a conspiracy,' said Mrs Beverton dramatically. 'Nothing other than a conspiracy.'

She swept into the morning-room, followed by her bewildered guests. At the door she stopped and stared at the line of rusty battered metal on the table.

'It's a German plot,' she gasped. 'It's the work of someone who wants to stop the money going to the Spitfire Fund.' Her eyes roved accusingly over her guests. 'One of you must be responsible. It was a genuine exhibition before you came, wasn't it, Bella?'

'Oh no, Mother,' said Bella calmly, 'it wasn't. It was just like this.'

'What?' said Mrs Beverton, clutching her head with both hands. 'Am I mad or are you?'

'Well, I'm not,' said Bella calmly.

At this point the little maid entered.

'It's that there William Brown, 'm,' she said. 'He says, thank you very much for the sc.r.a.p iron an' he's come back for the lot he left here.'

'Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!' groaned Mrs Brown. 'I had a feeling all along that William was at the bottom of it.'

'How simply marvellous!' squeaked Bella.

Mr Brown a.s.sumed his sternest expression when Mrs Brown laid the story before him that evening.

'I quite agree with you, my dear,' he said. 'The boy's getting hopelessly out of hand. Just because there's a war on he thinks he can be allowed to go about making a nuisance of himself to everyone. He needs a lesson, and I'll see that he gets it.'

'It was dreadful,' moaned Mrs Brown, 'and then when Mrs Beverton said in front of everyone that she wouldn't dream of using our air-raid shelter any more, I felt-'

'Said what?' demanded Mr Brown.

'That she wouldn't dream of using our air-raid shelter any more.'

'She actually said that?' asked Mr Brown slowly.

'Yes. In fact she made arrangements then and there to join the Bartons.'

The look of severity faded from Mr Brown's face. As far as a face of his particular cast of grimness could be said to s.h.i.+ne, it shone.

'So she won't be coming if there's a raid tonight?'

'No, dear. But about William-'

'Yes, yes,' said Mr Brown impatiently. 'The boy obviously meant no harm. I can't see what you're making all this fuss about. Actually, when you come to think of it, he was trying to help. I can't understand why you're so hard on the child.'

'But-' began Mrs Brown.