Children of the Archbishop (26 page)

“You know why I have sent for you?” Dr. Trump began.

Mr. Prevarius nodded.

“How difficult it is,” he admitted, “to guard even the best
kept of secrets. And now to think that this one should have leaked out, too.”

“Secret?” Dr. Trump asked, unwarily.

Mr. Prevarius's eyes opened still wider in astonishment.

“Why, yes. The B.B.C. Do not tell me now that I have confessed it that you had not heard.”

“Explain yourself.”

“Our choir, the broadcast.”

“Broadcast!” Dr. Trump's nostrils dilated as he said the word.

“What broadcast?”

“Then you had
not
heard,” Mr. Prevarius replied gleefully. “But you have a right to know. The B.B.C. is anxious that our choir should sing to all Great Britain. In a series, you understand. ‘Voices of Children.' The National Programme, I believe.”

“And … and when is this to be?” Dr. Trump inquired.

Despite himself he could not help being interested.

Mr. Prevarius paused.

“Next term,” he said slowly. “Somewhere in the second half. Sir John Reith is still considering. The date is not yet fixed. Merely pencilled in. June the 3rd, I fancy.”

Dr. Trump did some rapid thinking. The date was certainly very awkwardly placed. It would mean enduring Mr. Prevarius's company longer than seemed possible. But just think of it! The Archbishop Bodkin Choristers on the B.B.C. It was terrific. Looked at in round figures, it was probably worth a thousand pounds in unsolicited donations …

Mr. Prevarius, however, interrupted him.

“But I see that you are dubious”—Dr. Trump heard the words as though they were coming through a thick curtain—“you are thinking of the effect on the children. Perhaps you are right. The experience may be harmful.”

Dr. Trump started.

“Harmful?” he said. “On the contrary, if they are brought straight home again by the bus they can come to no possible harm.”

“I meant to their voices,” Mr. Prevarius explained. “If I thought that a single treble, even one isolated alto, had been overtaxed by the strain of public appearance …”

“Nonsense,” said Dr. Trump. “Think of choirboys in Cathedrals. They're at it all the time, week-days as well. Of course our children shall sing.”

“As you say, of course,” Mr. Prevarius agreed politely.
“Exactly as you say. But really I cannot hold myself responsible.”

“I shall accept full responsibility,” Dr. Trump told him.

“Besides,” Mr. Prevarius continued, “if I move across to St. Christopher's …”

Dr. Trump started.

“St. Christopher's,” he repeated incredulously. “You mean you are thinking of leaving?”

“There have been approaches,” Mr. Prevarius admitted. “Nothing definite has been settled, of course. Naturally I would want to consult you first. But I must confess, the offer is attractive. Their pension scheme, you know. And the organ. Three manual. Music plays such an important part at St. Christopher's. The Principal there simply adores it …”

But Dr. Trump was not listening. He hated St. Christopher's almost as much as he hated Mr. Prevarius. The way St. Christopher's foisted itself upon the public was nothing less than shameless. St. Christopher's Home of Refuge—he saw the words everywhere, on hoardings; on little highly-coloured cardboard buttons sold by well-meaning ladies on flag-days; in newspaper headlines. “St. Christopher's Boy Saves Centenarian from Drowning,” “Old St. Christopher's Girl Wins Queen's Prize for Needlework,” “Royal Duke Visits St. Christopher's”—it was sickening, downright sickening. And now St. Christopher's was proposing to steal his broadcast.

“Then you don't feel that the publicity would be distasteful?”

Dr. Trump did not reply immediately. Publicity had suddenly become one of life's truly beautiful words. It had taken its place alongside discipline and reorganisation.

“Publicity distasteful …?” he began.

That afternoon, Mr. Prevarius sat down to write a letter. It was addressed to the Director-General, B.B.C., and there were half a dozen sheets of pale mauve note-paper in the waste-paper basket before it was finished to Mr. Prevarius's entire satisfaction.

“
My dear Sir
,” it ran, “
I am in sole charge of the music in a recognised educational establishment and wish to offer the services of my choir in connection with a new series (which I suggest might be entitled ‘Voices of Children') suitable for the National Programme
.

“
The use of the choir would, of course, be entirely free and, as for myself, I am ready to rely without demur upon your generosity. Certain of the settings are my own and these, too, I assume would be paid for at the usual rates. If you would like to have me call upon you in order to discuss the matter more fully
…”

You can make all the rules you like, take every precaution, erect barricades, and put broken bottles along the tops of walls, but you still can't prevent two people seeing each other if they have really set their hearts on it. Or even if one of them has.

Take Sweetie and Ginger, for instance. Sweetie was getting on for nine by now, and the first promising moment had come when Sweetie discovered that by climbing up on to the top of the water butt outside the junior girls' lavatory, she could see into the boys' playground over the crescent of the gate that curved downwards in the middle.

It wasn't much of a view—just a narrow half-moon of playground—and it was difficult at first to distinguish Ginger from among the two hundred and fifty other Bodkin orphans who exercised themselves on that particular stretch of asphalt. But size, of course, was a help. And behaviour: there were generally two or three boys following Ginger. But it was his hair that was the certain, the infallible, feature of identification. First, the colour, a fine flower-pot red; and then, the peculiar ridgelike structure that made it stand up in front like a saint's halo that had slipped forward. As soon as Sweetie saw that she knew that she had found the right one.

Then, the problem was simply how to attract his attention. Calling “Cooee” was no good because everyone was always calling out “Cooee.” She couldn't whistle because her front teeth weren't firm enough. And it would simply have been asking for trouble to shout out his name for everyone else to hear. So, in the end, she resorted to an accomplishment of which anyhow she was extremely proud. She had learnt it from Annie, the slow-witted Bodkinian who was still about the place; and it consisted of inserting the forefinger between the front lips while emitting a
high-pitched ululation. A “Red Indian Love Call,” Annie had told her it was, and Sweetie had been practising it for some time. Now that she was proficient, the love-call could cut through the uproar of the break period like a skewer.

Not that it got her very far to begin with. The first time Ginger realised that he was the object of this singular alarm-note he was openly resentful. He came over to the gate and told her to shut up. He even added, speaking quietly but with the utmost distinctness through cupped hands, that if she didn't get down he would bung a brick at her. But when she was there the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that as well, he saw that it was hopeless. Threats weren't going to get rid of her and he must try something else instead. But he was still cautious.

“Wodjerwant?” he asked.

“I can see you,” Sweetie told him.

“Of course you can see me,” Ginger answered. “But wodjerwant?”

“Only just to see you,” Sweetie replied.

The extreme silliness of her response persuaded him that it would be pointless to continue the conversation: at this rate they would never get anywhere.

“You're barmy,” he said shortly. “You're soppy.”

Considering the snub, Sweetie was quite philosophic. She had seen him again and she had got him to take notice of her, which was all that really mattered. The only thing was that he might have been a bit nicer, she felt. It wasn't easy to get on to the top of the water butt, and he might at least have said “Hallo.” But the device had worked, worked splendidly. Because next day when Sweetie climbed up, Ginger was there waiting for her. Admittedly, he moved away as soon as she came into sight, but it showed that he was thinking about her, for he came back twice more, each time covering his face up with his hands so as to be unrecognisable, just to see if she was still looking.

She often wondered how many times he turned up after that, because she wasn't there herself This wasn't due to any slackening-off on her part but simply to the fact that the cover of the water butt caved in as she was getting on to it. It was a tall butt with the better part of five feet of water in it, and it was very nearly the end of Sweetie. By the time Nurse Stedge heard her threshing about inside she had gone down for the third time. And though she was able to support the drowning child with one arm, it
required Sergeant Chiswick's strength to withdraw Sweetie. After that, Sweetie spent three days in the Infirmary, and Dr. Trump had “Danger” notices and barbed wire fixed to all the water butts.

It was largely because she was kept in the Infirmary that she had so much time on her hands. And she spent most of it in thought. Barbed wire, she knew, would make that particular look-out point impossible. Besides, water butts would be too conspicuous after what had happened: everyone would be watching them. So she decided that she would write to Ginger instead. She would use an ordinary piece of exercise-paper, fold it into a paper-dart and simply shoot it over the top of the dividing wall. Then Ginger could read it and send his reply by the same route. A whole barrage of correspondence could pass between them in this way. But again there were difficulties. In the first place, somebody might see it all happening and stop it immediately: then there would be more trouble and more no sweets. Secondly, she couldn't be sure that Ginger would reply: he might simply catch the notes and keep them. But it was the third difficulty that was the greatest of all: she couldn't make paper-darts, never had been able to, didn't even know how to begin.

But even if she could think of no means of actually sending the letter it was still fun writing to him; and, sitting up in bed in the Infirmary, she wrote “For Ginger,” “For Ginger,” “For Ginger” over and over again, all down the piece of paper that Nurse Stedge gave to her just to keep her quiet.

And that is as far as it would ever have got if it had not been for Annie, who had taught her the love-call. A simple-minded, if not actually deficient creature, she had the bright scarlet thread of true romance running right through her nature. Sweetie did not even have to explain what she was up to: Annie spotted it at once.

“Is Ginger your boy-friend?” she asked.

Sweetie considered the question.

“Not really,” she said, “I don't think he likes me.”

“But do you like him?”

Sweetie was silent again.

“Yes,” she said at last. “Very much.”

“Well, you write your letter and I'll get it to him,” Annie promised. “Only don't teli anybody. Cross your heart.”

Sweetie crossed her heart.

“I'll write it now,” she said, licking the pencil in readiness.

She took some time over it, making several false starts before she was satisfied. Then, when it was finished, she doubled the
paper over so that no one else should see. She had done her work carefully and, to avoid any possibility of mistake, she had used block capitals throughout. It was a perfect little letter and said everything that she had wanted to say. She sat back exhausted, and waited for Annie to come round again.

Naturally, Annie wanted to read what was written and Sweetie didn't in the least mind showing her: she was rather proud, in fact. What she was absolutely unprepared for, however, was to find that Annie didn't think much of it.

“Is that all you're going to say?” Annie asked.

Sweetie read the letter again from start to finish.

“That's all,” she said.

“Aren't you even going to sign it?”

Sweetie looked up. She was worried now. Perhaps there was something wrong with the letter after all.

“Do you think I ought to?” she asked anxiously.

“Well, he won't know who it's from, if you don't,” Annie told her.

But Sweetie only smiled.

“He'll know, all right,” she said.

And, with that, she handed the letter back again. All that it said was: “FOR GINGER.”

After Annie had taken the letter Sweetie felt strangely flat. Flat and empty. She didn't actually regret having written. But she wondered nevertheless whether it might not have been better to wait a bit longer to see if Ginger would write to her first. The news of her disaster in the water butt would be certain to have gone right through the whole Hospital by now. And, if he really cared, Ginger would have been quite certain to get in touch with her somehow. After all, it was for his sake that she had nearly drowned herself.

And waiting to see if there would be any reply was the worst part of all. She became moody and suspicious. She decided that she didn't like Ginger after all. She hated him. And she began to doubt whether Annie had even delivered the letter. But, in this, she did less than justice to a born go-between. In affairs between the sexes Annie was at the highest fulfilment of her nature. She was deriving a vicarious and sublimated form of pleasure from the whole episode. Even if it did not amount to much—couldn't in the nature of things ever hope to add up to anything—it was still serving the cause. And it was starting off all right. She recognised that Sweetie had got the right stuff in her.

She had even thrust the message, for what it was worth, right into Ginger's own hands. And she had been forced to invent an entirely unnecessary journey to the boys' side to do so. This had taken some arranging. But not half so much as bending down and pretending to pick up the piece of paper so that, if anyone was watching, it would look as though Ginger had dropped it.