Children of the Archbishop (12 page)

But at that moment, his thoughts were interrupted by a most alarming sound. He heard a key turning in the lock and realised that Margaret had locked him in.

It was while Dr. Trump was climbing out of one of the windows—which was not easy because he had to balance himself on the sill like a window-cleaner and close the sash down after him to avert suspicion—that a remarkable thought came to him. He saw himself in a deep arm-chair in a comfortable drawing-room with Margaret seated on the hearthrug at his feet. He was toying lovingly with the lobe of her ear and, as he toyed, he was saying teasingly: “And do you remember, my pet, that first evening when you locked your poor hubby in?”

Then, holding his breath, he jumped.

As he landed, a voice spoke to him.

“Good evening, Doctor,” it said. “A little like rain again, I fear.”

As he spun round he saw the bright glow of a cigarette end. He must practically have jumped on top of the man. And he recognised the voice. It was Mr. Prevarius's. But it was not the voice alone that worried him. It was the grin that lay behind it. And as he stood there the grin came wrapping round him like a serpent,

As Dr. Trump woke next morning he was already hating Mr. Prevarius. Even in his dreams the man had remained with him all night like a bedsore. And now that dawn had come, the image of his skulking there in the bushes with his grin and his cigarette end, re-appeared in all its rank offensiveness. After all, what was the man doing there at that time of night? What indeed? It was Dr. Trump's clear duty to find out. But how—since in the circumstances he could hardly be expected to re-open the subject—could he ever hope to know? With a moan of sheer helplessness
over the unfairness of events, Dr. Trump did something that he had not done since early childhood: he turned over and lay face downwards on the pillow.

And to-day should have been such a happy day. All the week he had been looking forward to it, fondling and caressing the occasion in his mind. And why? Because Dame Eleanor had invited him to tea: tea at The Cedars, Putney Heath, at 4.30.

It was enough to make any man contented. For Bishop Warple, the Suffragan Bishop, was to be there. And already Dr. Trump saw the scene as clearly as though he were peeping through the keyhole. The gleaming crested silver of the teapot. The shining milk-jug and sugar-basin. The flickering spirit flame beneath the kettle. The priceless Crown Derby. The three-tier cake stand. The polished fire guard with the flames respectfully warming the ecclesiastical gaiters. The bowl of pot-pourri on the occasional table. Himself eating an anchovy roll. The ancestors enframed around the walls; the pretty maid in frilly uniform; the rich tapestry curtains. The conversation, lofty but still genial. The elderly spaniel slumbering on the rug …

Not that he had ever actually been inside The Cedars. It was precisely because it was his first visit that it meant so much. It stood for social recognition. Once arrived there, he had so to speak—arrived. He was, indeed, so much preoccupied by the thought that at breakfast he scarcely touched the lightly scrambled eggs that his housekeeper had provided. And, even in Chapel, his thoughts tended to stray away from Zerubbabel, Prince of Judah, and the two thousand one hundred and seventy-two children of Parosh, and concentrate irresistibly on afternoon tea. After all, he told himself, this would be the first time he had ever actually sat down with a Bishop as—but, yes—as an equal.

Over lunch, it was the same—thoughts far away and no appetite. And then, for Dr. Trump, began the real torment. How to get there? That was the problem. If he were chauffeur-driven like Dame Eleanor, it would have been easy—a word whispered through the partition and he would have been delivered on the doorstep. But Dame Eleanor knew that he had no car. Then a hire-car perhaps. But hire-cars are expensive, and the very last thing he wanted was to appear extravagant or ostentatious. A taxi possibly? But supposing the butler opened the front door as he drew up, mightn't he look just a trifle foolish and last-minutish
fumbling for sixpences and threepenny pieces when he should have been handing in his hat and gloves?

It was then that the idea came to Dr. Trump that he would walk. There was something manly and vigorous in the idea. It wasn't far to The Cedars—not more than a mile-and-a-quarter. And if he allowed himself plenty of time—say half an hour or thirty-five minutes he could positively stroll. He liked the picture of himself as he entered the drawing-room unconcernedly, his face aglow with sheer animal well-being.

And as he put on his new black silk dickey—it was real silk with a rather pleasing moiré finish—it occurred to him that he would let fall some chance remark about fresh air and the joy of sunlight just to show them the kind of man he really was. Bishop Warple, he remembered, was strongly in favour of exercise in all its most violent forms; and he could scarcely forbear admiring a similar taste in others.

The first set-back occurred punctually at 3.55, just as he was ready to leave. He had already adjusted the angle of his hat in the mirror and was reaching down into the hall-stand for his umbrella when he discovered that it was not there. Then he remembered. And, as he did so, a bomb of ice exploded in his stomach. He had left his umbrella and his overshoes in the day nursery. They were tucked neatly away behind the dolls' house—not so neatly, however, that a cleaner would not have found them by now. And, once found, how could they be accounted for? Really it was sickening—yes, positively sickening—the way everything was conspiring to ruin the whole delightful afternoon.

But Dr. Trump was not to be deflected. He went over to the windows and studied the weather. There was certainly no call for overshoes. And none that he could see for an umbrella. The sky was clear except for a cloud or two over Walham Green way, and there was a pleasant breeze blowing. It was, in fact, the very afternoon for a saunter. And, regarded in that spirit, an umbrella was positively superfluous.

Without further delay, therefore, Dr. Trump set out, his neatly folded kid gloves held firmly in his hand. He did not hurry; and, as he walked, he looked about him. Really the gardens of the Hospital were charming, quite charming. And, since he had excluded the children from the front paths, everything looked distinctly fresher and more pleasing. The grass-edges, in particular, showed improvement. There was now a geometrical, even cliffedge,
abruptness to the lawns that appealed to his whole sense of beauty.

Because he was gratified, he allowed himself a pleasantry as he passed Sergeant Chiswick's gate-house. The man was sitting on a wooden chair just outside his own front door and Dr. Trump hailed him.

“Ah, basking, I see,” he observed.

Sergeant Chiswick rose hurriedly.

“Sorry, sir,” he replied.

But Dr. Trump merely flipped his gloves back at him.

“No, no, my good man,” he said, “pray continue as you were. It is sunny. And it is Sunday. Therefore—bask.”

He smiled inwardly at his own good humour as he mounted St. Mark's Avenue. It was really quite extraordinary how the human touch ingratiated one with the working classes. He was sure, for instance, that Sergeant Chiswick would look back on those few words and remember them cherishingly.

But already there was something else that was occupying Dr. Trump's thoughts. His shoes, his new shoes, were troubling him. There was some invisible constriction across the instep. Not to put too fine a point upon it, they were too tight. And the farther he walked, the tighter they became. It was now as if red-hot bars had been inserted just below his arches. There was only one thing for it if he could get as far, and that was to sit down and ease them. At the corner of St. Mark's Avenue and Wendover Gardens—right at the Putney Heath end, that is—a thoughtful Borough Council had placed a park seat. It was a pleasant spot, much sought after by lovers, with a telephone kiosk at one end and a wire-mesh waste-paper basket at the other.

It was while he was resting on the seat with his shoes unlaced and supported only by his toes that the rain began. A mere few sultry drops at first coming from an apparently clear sky, they startled him. He could not believe in them. He suspected birds. But it was rain, all right. And, while he sat there, hurriedly lacing up his shoes once more, the downpour started. There was no doubt about it this time. It was the genuine stuff, tropical typhoon by nature, that Sid Harris had always believed in.

Because there was nowhere else to shelter, Dr. Trump moved into the telephone kiosk. Except for the panel of glass that was missing in the door panel, it was dry, bone-dry, inside. But bare. There was merely a dog-eared directory and a cardboard notice
“Out of Order” on the little shelf where the instrument should have been. Then a terrible thought came to Dr. Trump. He looked down at the damaged apparatus and wondered whether he might himself be suspected. Suppose there were a policeman watching. How was he to know that he would not be haled before a magistrate as a destroyer of Post Office property, a hooligan, a tamperer?

He had been inside the kiosk for a full five minutes before he looked at his watch. And, when he did so, he started. It showed four-sixteen. At this rate, he would have to make a bolt for it the very moment it stopped raining. And, what was worse, it showed no sign of stopping. At four-twenty it was still fairly lashing down and it was not until four-twenty-two that it showed the least hint of slackening. But every minute was precious now.

The rain meanwhile had lost its first fury and had set in steadily and thoroughly in the fashion that is good for lawns. It was patient-looking rain and there seemed no reason why it should stop before nightfall. Dr. Trump looked at his watch. Good heavens! It was four-twenty-five already. This was frightful. Rain or no rain, if he was to get there at all he would soon have to make a dash for it.

He started off like a road-racer, his arms swinging. But he had heard four-thirty strike just as he had left the kiosk, and no amount of hurrying could save him now. The most that he could hope for was that he would not be so late as to be conspicuous. He still trusted that he could slip in unobtrusively, saying: “Forgive me, Dame Eleanor. I sheltered for a moment to allow the worst to pass.”

But he had under-estimated the length of Wendover Gardens. And of Gresham Crescent. There seemed to be no end to either of them. He went plodding on, wincing every time his foot touched the ground, and getting steadily wetter. He was really wet by now. And his dickey, his new black silk dickey was apparently not so superior as he had thought it. It was steadily working up into a fan-pattern of sodden pleats and creases. Soon it would be merely a crumpled black bib.

Then Dr. Trump heard the sound of a car and wondered if it could possibly be a taxi. The car itself was still coming down Evelyn Avenue ahead of him. Dr. Trump hurried forward. He and the vehicle reached the corner simultaneously and his hand was already raised to summon it before he realised his mistake. This was no ordinary car. It was daffodil yellow picked out in
vermilion, and on the side, the words “Tootie-Fruitie” and “Only best cream used in our ices” were lettered in coach-builders' scroll-work.

After one glance, Dr. Trump hurriedly dropped his hand again, and pretended that he had merely been adjusting his hat. But it was too late. He had been observed. The appalling object drew up in front of him. And, as he tried to slip round the back of it, a voice called out to him.

“You wanta me,” it said.

“Thank you, yes. I mean no,” Dr. Trump replied with a brief, chilling smile that was intended once and for all to get rid of the man. Italians, however, are a warm-hearted race, not easily chilled. And Mr. Rapporto—his name was displayed conspicuously on the door panel—was already concerned about Dr. Trump's welfare.

“I driva you,” he went on. “You getta wet.”

As he said the words, he swung the yellow and vermilion door wide open and beckoned invitingly.

Dr. Trump shrank back against the railings.

“No really, thank you,” he said firmly. “I must not detain you.”

Mr. Rapporto gave a loud guffaw.

“You notta detain me,” he replied. “I goa home already.”

“Good afternoon,” answered Dr. Trump, and started to walk on again.

But it was no use. Mr. Rapporto followed and drew level.

“I makea no charge,” he said. “I no likea see you getta wet.”

“Good afternoon,” Dr. Trump answered for the second time.

Then Mr. Rapporto grew angry.

“What issa the matter With you?” he demanded. “You afraida I kidnap you?”

This time Dr. Trump did not attempt an answer, and his silence aggravated Mr. Rapporto still further.

“Perhaps I notta good enough” he shouted. “You snobba. You afraida your friends seea you.”

Mr. Rapporto had raised his voice alarmingly.

“Please. Please,” Dr. Trump said firmly.

Immediately Mr. Rapporto stopped the car.

“That'sa better,” he replied. “Getta in. I no wanta da thanks.”

Dr. Trump hesitated. Inside, the car looked even more repellent than from the outside. It was full of cans and flat cardboard boxes.
And now that it was alongside him he was aware of a sticky, sickly smell that came pouring from it. It would be like sitting inside a blanc-mange.

On the other hand, the rain was coming down harder again. And if he was ever to reach The Cedars he would have to get there somehow. Besides he could not afford to risk any more of that dreadful shouting. And, once in the car, it would not be so bad. After all, if he entirely covered up his clerical collar with his hands no one would even notice him. It was simply that the act of getting into the contraption was so shaming. And to avoid prolonging the shame he hurried. He was impetuous. He sprang.

As he sprang, Mr. Rapporto cried out: “Minda da cornets.”

But it was too late. There was the sound of crunching as though a hundred egg-shells were all being crushed at once. Dr. Trump hurriedly shifted his position. But it was too dark inside the little front compartment. He could not see properly what he was doing. His feet came to rest on something soft and yielding and again there was the sound of crunching.