Children of the Archbishop (30 page)

“More of what?” a voice asked him.

“More of this delay,” Dr. Trump roared back at him. “Don't argue with me. There are five hundred lives in peril.”

And if the Exchange was dilatory, the Fire Station was positively imbecilic.

“Yes, sir, The Archbishop Bodkin Hospital,” a man's voice answered. “We'll be there inside five minutes. Which entrance?”

For a moment Dr. Trump gasped.

“Which entrance, you fool?” he retorted. “Do you think we stand on ceremony at a time like this?”

It was not, however, until he had slammed back the receiver and paused for a moment to wipe his brow that he realised the enormity of what he had just done in summoning the Brigade at all.

“Oh dear,” said Dr. Trump aloud. “This is dreadful. Quite dreadful. It'll be in all the papers to-morrow.”

It was while Dr. Trump was telephoning that the roof collapsed. First, it bulged upwards in the middle as though a huge invisible hand were pushing at it. Then, as suddenly, the hand was removed—withdrawn mysteriously into the fiery depths—and the roof went down after it.

The spectacle was now magnificent. The fall had broken the cross-timbers into kindling wood, and these were caught in the up blast and now went sailing away into the cherry-coloured sky like meteors. One of them passed, comet-wise, over Dr. Trump's head just as he re-emerged into the playground.

But there were more than flaming particles to occupy his attention when he returned. Mr. Rushgrove had got the hose connected and, with Mr. Jeffcote on the other end of the pump handle, was trying hard to work up the pressure. There was now a watery as well as a fiery peril. And Dr. Trump was unsuspecting as he strode towards it.

The first indication that the pump was working properly was when a jet of ice-cold water suddenly shot out of the nozzle and caught him across the ankles.

“Aaah!” Dr. Trump exclaimed involuntarily.

In the excitement of the moment, however, Mr. Rushgrove did not even pause to see which way the jet was pointing. It was sufficient for him that there was a jet at all. “Harder!” he yelled. He was now jerking up and down so energetically that Mr. Jeffcote, who was only a short, slight man, found himself being carried right off the ground and into the air by the sheer force of Mr. Rushgrove's down strokes.

And the effect on the jet was terrific. First it described a wide arc, pursuing people. Next it whip-lashed and made complicated patterns and wave forms in the smoke-laden air. Then it rose vertically like a water-spout and sprayed the assembled company. And finally, gathering itself up in frenzy of intensity, it exploded. The brass nozzle, a solid eight pounds of well-turned metal, abruptly went careening off through the lurid darkness, mortar-bomb fashion.

Dr. Trump crouched almost double as he heard it go whistling over him. He was, in fact, still crouching when the cascade descended. And, with no nozzle to restrain it, the water came down in a broad spreading gush. In a moment Dr. Trump feared that he had been saved from the fire and the unknown projectile only to be drowned in his own playground. Then, as suddenly as the deluge had started, it ceased entirely. Even the squeak and rattle of the pump stopped. And, as he got to his feet, Dr. Trump saw why. Beside the over-turned instrument, Mr. Rushgrove and Mr. Jeffcote lay sprawling on their backs. The long and graceful handle had snapped clean in half.

For a moment, Dr. Trump stood there silent and aghast. Then recovering his voice, he asserted his authority.

“Evacuate the Hospital,” he ordered hoarsely. “Everyone downstairs in three minutes.”

At a high upper window in the Bede Block a man was craning his neck out to its full extent in order to get a better view. It was a long neck and the view that its owner was now getting was all he could wish for. He had, in fact, seen everything—the manning of the pump, the dowsing of Dr. Trump, the collapse of the apparatus—and twice he had nearly fallen out of the window in his excitement.

Now that the drama in the playground was temporarily ended,
he transferred his attention back to the burning store-room. He had been watching this on and off for the last ten minutes. And from the height at which he was standing he could see right down into the blazing shell. Not a detail was hidden. He might almost have been directing the fire instead of merely contemplating it. And the way things were going, the wall of the adjoining laundry would soon be ablaze as well. After that, there was really no telling. The flames might even advance majestically and consume the main buildings.

“Fascinating. Absolutely fascinating,” Mr. Prevarius reflected. “I wouldn't have missed this for anything.”

At this point it is important to see things in their true perspective. Admittedly, the laundry store-house was already gutted, and the despatch department in jeopardy. If a wind had sprung up, the whole laundry block would probably have been doomed anyway. On the other hand, the store-house and the laundry block was at the remote apex of the Hospital area. Beyond the laundry lay the junior boys' classrooms—entirely empty at night-time. And beyond the boys' classrooms spread a broad expanse of unignitable asphalt, with the dormitories, the real death-traps, on the far side. Nothing short of a spark carried on a strong gale could possibly have laid them open to any danger at all. And, up to the present, there was not even a breeze. The night, in fact, was unusually calm for late February.

The decision to evacuate the Hospital was thus one that had called for the highest moral courage. Drenched and breathless as he was, Dr. Trump had been compelled to choose without an instant's hesitation between a remote and terrible possibility and the present and immediate likelihood of having a sick bay filled up by to-morrow evening with cases of common cold. He dared not think what Mrs. Gurnett was going to say to him. And, with a quick catch of his breath, he realised the awfulness of what he had just done. The assembly point for fire drill was the main playground. This meant that within the next two-and-a-half minutes nearly three hundred boys of all ages would be dragged from the safety of their beds and led defenceless into the very jaws of the conflagration.

Clearly, there was not a moment to be lost. Summoning up
the last vestiges of his strength, Dr. Trump gave his second order of the day.

“Open the gateway into the girls' playground,” he said. “Mr. Dawlish will remain here to direct the boys through.”

He paused.

“Boys over on the South side,” he added. “Mrs. Gurnett will keep her girls to the North.”

A moment later, the first of the evacuees came out. They were Mr. Pippett's class, the very junior ones of seven and eight. Because they had been roused and rounded up so suddenly they wore the vacant expression of astonished cherubs. They gaped. But Mr. Pippett gave them no time for wonderment. He was tirelessly turning, and yapping at their heels like a sheepdog. And, in consequence, the flock scampered. Only one or two of them were crying, but Mr. Pippett himself beamed. He had beaten the clock by nearly twenty-five seconds and glory shone on him. As he passed Dr. Trump, he tried to catch his eye. But Dr. Trump was preoccupied.

“Don't hang around, Mr. Pippett,” he said. “No blocking up the gateway.”

It was some time before anyone else emerged. No records were broken this time. Mr. Rushgrove came second with six minutes exactly. Mr. Jeffcote came next with seven-and-a-half. And, by the time Mr. Dawlish appeared, the ten-minute mark had been passed and eleven minutes was coming up. It was as much as Dr. Trump could do not to box Mr. Dawlish's ears as he went by him.

Meanwhile, under Mrs. Gurnett's supervision, the girls' side had been cleared more rapidly. Sergeant Chiswick had been sent through to ensure that in the darkness the ranks of sexes did not get mixed. And when Dr. Trump had at last returned from waiting for the fire-engine, everyone had assembled.

“What do you propose to do now you've got them here?” Mrs. Gurnett asked pointedly.

“Count them,” Dr. Trump snapped back at her. “Call the roll immediately.”

The firemen who had finally succeeded in getting their hoses through the courtyards and alleyways were by now shouting orders to each other so loudly that the calling out of names was impossible. At last Dr. Trump could stand it no longer and went through to tell them to make less noise. As a result, the Fire Superintendent
was rude to him, and Dr. Trump threatened to report the Superintendent. He even demanded that the man should stop what he was doing—winding up a fire-tower or something—and apologise. But the Fire Superintendent took no notice, and a moment later stepped on to the rising platform and was out of ear-shot.

By the time Dr. Trump returned, the roll-call had already been taken.

“All present?” Dr. Trump asked curtly.

“One missing,” Mrs. Gurnett replied. “It's Sweetie.”

“She can't be missing,” Dr. Trump replied. “Call the roll again.”

He stood there stamping his feet with irritation. It was maddening, positively maddening the way carelessness came breaking in even at times like these. He was therefore all on edge when he turned to Mr. Dawlish.

“Are all yours all right?” he demanded.

“All except one,” Mr. Dawlish replied. “It's Ginger. We're just re-counting.”

“Then count faster,” Dr. Trump ordered.

The big staircase looked very empty and lonely when Sweetie reached the end of it. Even though she was ten she didn't like empty, lonely places; not even in the daytime. At this moment, all the lights were shining and no one was about anywhere. It was emptier than she had ever known it. Not that she had expected to meet anyone. Five minutes ago she had been in the midst of them all as they had come pouring down the stairs. But that was what had been so silly—the speed with which they had all left. Nurse Stedge hadn't given them time to get a thing. And if the place were going to be burned down Sweetie wanted to be quite sure that her drawings were safe. It was her drawings that she was going back for now.

Tightening her lips, she began to climb. There were eight landings altogether. In the stillness, her feet sounded as loud as if she had been stamping. In the emptiness, too, the echoes started. It was as though there were dozens of other little girls, all stamping, racing up after her.

And really there didn't seem any need for all this hurry. There wasn't the least sign of burning anywhere. She could quite safely
have left her drawings where they were. But as she had come all this way back for them she felt that she might as well get them. She was, in fact, just gathering them together into a bundle when she heard someone on the stairs.

At first, she scarcely dared to look. Perhaps it was burglars. Burglars always came at night: she knew that. And sometimes they carried pistols and murdered people. But somehow the person on the stairs didn't sound like a burglar. He was whistling, and Sweetie knew that real burglars never whistled. So she forgot that she was frightened and turned round to look. And, when she looked, it was all right. Because it wasn't a burglar who was out there: it was only Ginger.

“What's the matter?” she asked, as soon as she had got the window open. “Are they after you again?”

“I heard you was missing,” Ginger answered. “So I came up to look for you.”

He did not add that he regarded himself as responsible for the fire, and therefore had the matter of human life upon his conscience. But it would have been superfluous.

For Sweetie merely smiled at him.

“That was very nice of you,” she said. “I've got what I came for. We can go back down again now.”

With that, she took his hand.

And that was how it was that when Nurse Stedge, distraught by now with anxiety, reached the entrance to the Latymer Block, she met Sweetie and Ginger coming out hand-in-hand. They were not even hurrying. With their heads bent close together, they were in close and intimate conversation about something—Nurse Stedge could not guess what. All that she knew was she suddenly felt out of it, almost as though she were eavesdropping. And, in her annoyance, she suddenly lost her head.

“Come here at once, you wicked children,” she screamed at them. “Do you both want to be burnt alive?”

Which was absurd, of course, because the fire never got round to that part of the Hospital at all.

Afterwards, it seemed to Dr. Trump that the fire itself had been the least of the disturbance.

By next morning the ashes were not even warm. Merely wet. The Brigade had gone on for hours pouring water into the ruins, and the basement of the laundry was now an unsavoury-looking black marsh with bits of charred woodwork floating on the surface. Then, with the dawn, the visitors began.

The men of the Salvage Corps were still floundering about in the slops retrieving bits of Hospital property—door-knobs and things—from the puddles, when the gentlemen of the Press arrived. At first, Dr. Trump refused indignantly to see them: he ordered that they should be sent away again immediately. But, in doing so, he misjudged the measure of Fleet Street. For, one by one the reporters politely raised their hats, went off, and came in again by the side entrance. And with the instinct and training of their kind they tracked down Mr. Dawlish like a pack of beagles. He was surrounded by six of them, all with open notebooks in their hands, when Dr. Trump suddenly came upon them. And to Dr. Trump's dismay he heard Mr. Dawlish saying with a note of self-satisfaction that he had never detected in his voice before: “When I first noticed that the building was ablaze …”

To Dr. Trump this was insufferable, yes, it was positively insufferable, that Mr. Dawlish, while actually under notice of dismissal, should become a popular hero. And the unmistakable click of a camera showed that all the vulgar tributes to popularity were at this moment being paid to him. Dr. Trump stepped forward to intervene. But it was too late. Already his future father-in-law, the Bishop, was advancing towards him, striding daintily through the debris like a giant penguin.