Children of the Archbishop (36 page)

Dr. Trump spent the greater part of the morning getting ready for him. He removed one of the “DON'T WALK ON THE GRASS” notices so that there would be a place for the toddlers to romp. He brushed up his old Norfolk jacket and grey flannels in case the photographer felt that his new black was a trifle too formal for the setting of some of the pictures. He rearranged his desk so that Big Friend could be seen at work with the presentation desk calendar, the travelling clock, the silver inkwell and the chromium blotter all showing. And finally he asked Felicity to arrange a large bowl of flowers on the side-table. Then, conscious that there was nothing left unprepared, he sat back and re-read what he had written. He was still reading when three o'clock struck on the carillon-clock—it was “Men of Harlech” to-day—and “Child and Camera” was shown in.

Dr. Trump's first impression of his visitor was, he was bound to admit, distinctly unfavourable. The man might have been connected with the Black Bourse, or even with the international drug traffic rather than with juvenile photography. He was so undisguisedly foreign. Mr. Zibbo, his unreadable name turned out to be; and he was Hungarian. He was short, bald, and spectacled. They were very large spectacles that he wore and he seemed to be focusing for an exposure even when he was merely looking at Dr. Trump. And there was an abruptness, a kind of fanatical suddenness about him, that Dr. Trump found most disconcerting.

After one particularly offensive stare he made little smoothing motions in the air with his hands.

“Plees to be natural,” he said. “There iss nothing for nervousness.”

Dr. Trump drew himself up in his chair.

“I assure you that I am not in the least nervous,” he told him. “I am … er entirely natural.”

But Mr. Zibbo only shook his head.

“Now it iss worsse,” he said. “Much worsse. Breeth plees.”

Dr. Trump carefully restrained himself from replying. Really, this little monster who was staring at him was nothing less than impossible. Another question like the last one, and he would send “Child and Camera” packing, and go to one of the reliable local firms.

But Mr. Zibbo was not easily put off.

“Breething iss mosst important in life,” he went on. “It iss the mosst important thing of all. I learn that in Vienna. Now I breeth always. Like thiss. I show you how some time. Now we look at the children, plees.”

On their way over to the Latymer Block, Mr. Zibbo became intimately autobiographical. He had begun specialising in children—delinquent ones especially—in Buda, he said. Then in Rome he had found the material for his book,
Children in Focus
. Dr. Trump had heard of it, no? He would send him a copy. Two guineas, yess? Dr. Trump had written many books himself, no? Mr. Zibbo was writing another one. It was to be all about photographing children. Dr. Trump would like to order a copy, yess? It would be three guineas this one, with every photograph signed. The children were all Armenian. Next year, Mr. Zibbo was going to China. Chinese children had very photogenic heads.

By now they had reached the grass plot from which Dr. Trump had removed the “DO NOT WALK ON THE GRASS” notice. Dr. Trump paused.

“It is here,” he said, “that I propose to be taken romping with the toddlers.”

Mr. Zibbo spread out his hands.

“Toddlers, yess,” he said. “What is ‘romp,' plees?”

“Play merrily,” Dr. Trump told him. “Go down on all fours. Sing.”

“You go down on all fours?” Mr. Zibbo asked.

“Only for the purposes of this photograph,” he replied.

Mr. Zibbo spread out his hands again.

“We see,” he said guardedly. “We think about it.”

Dr. Trump was particularly pleased by the scene that met them
as he opened the door of the Ridley Block. The junior girls were ranged in a long line ready to go through to fancy needlework. There was not so much as a tremor anywhere in the whole length of the column, and the effect of so much Archbishop Bodkin uniform seen against the high Gothic windows was beautiful, spiritual, like something out of a Church pageant.

“There,” he said proudly. “These are our little ones. Why not snap them now and then we can go across to the woodwork room. You'll find everything ready.”

But Mr. Zibbo was not impressed.

“I photograph children,” he said. “Not seely clothes. I photograph them naked in the sun. To-day eess not hot enough. I only look. Then next time everyone naked, plees. Then I make my picture …”

After that, it was L. Tuckett & Son, Artistic Photographers, from the High Street, who took the photographs. And very creditable they were, too, considering that they were all done one morning by the aid of flash-light bulbs. There was only one serious shortcoming and that was in Mr. Tuckett's choice for the two portraits on the cover. Indeed, when the proofs reached Dr. Trump he could hardly credit it when he saw Sweetie and Ginger framed side by side on the front cover.

But by then the cost of composition, proof-correction, re-setting and all the rest of it had become so alarming that he was forced to let it go. There was simply no alternative. When he raised the matter with the Board, Dame Eleanor made it perfectly plain to him that the Board was not prepared to sanction another penny for the pamphlet.

In her view, a Roneo-ed letter signed by the Chairman was the right vehicle for an appeal, and she intimated that this was how it would be next time.

Mr. Prevarius was not really paying much attention to Hospital business at the moment. He had just met with more success. Or rather with two successes—one as Sidney Prevarius, B.D., the other as Berkeley Cavendish, author and composer of “Lullaby Lady” and “Four o'clock Doll.”

The first was in connection with “Infant Innocence,” a two-part song for children's voices. Published by an obscure house in St. Paul's Churchyard, it had already been sung at half a dozen choir festivals and been commented on favourably by
The Church of England Newspaper
and
The Musical Times
. Thoughtfully dedicated to “My friend and master, Samuel Trump, D.D.,” its publication had done Mr. Prevarius nothing but good within the Hospital—even though the Warden was still waiting impatiently for something firm in the way of a date for the broadcast.

Mr. Berkeley Cavendish's little piece, on the other hand, had done him good in a wider and more prosperous world. Entitled “Switchback,” it was being played by West End dance-bands, and in the halls of Camberwell and Poplar. The American sheets were coming out next month and there was a French version, “L'Amour en cendres,” ready for the Autumn. A catchy little tune, da-da-da-dee-dee, and good words, had done the trick. The words, indeed, were pure inspiration from nowhere and had occurred to Mr. Prevarius during one of Dr. Trump's sermons. They ran lightly off the tongue as follows:

Life is a switchback

And I can't hitch back

My wagon to your star
.

You've gone away too far
…

I'm on my own now

And all alone now

Casting till I die

Lassos at the sky
.

In the original version there were eleven other verses besides. And when Mr. Prevarius had cut them down to the conventional half-dozen, what he had was the cream, the real money-maker.

It was, indeed, the success of “Switchback” that changed Mr. Prevarius's life in more than one direction. He had already developed a rather pretty taste in dress, currently favouring something double-breasted in black, with a lavender waistcoat and lightish check trousers, but he had simply nowhere he could put it on. Or rather, having put it on, he had to take it off again. And he had grown to hate the Gentlemen's Lavatory at Charing Cross—the attendant always looked at him so suspiciously every time he changed from dark clericals into magenta and spats.

Mr. Prevarius decided therefore that he would rent a room. A
pied-à-terre
. A hide-away. A bolt-hole. A den. Even possibly a love-nest. And he began looking around. He considered Albany, but dismissed it as too expensive. Shepherd Market? Too distracting. Bloomsbury? Rather damp and boarding-housy. Westminster? There was the nuisance of those everlasting bells. Old Hampstead? Too far, and full of children. Regent's Park? Admirable, but what did he want with a 999 years' lease and twelve bedrooms? So in the end he compromised with 23a Deirdre Gardens, a cul-de-sac just off the Fulham Road.

No one could exactly describe it as fashionable. The steam laundry at the bottom saw to that. But 23a was mercifully at the right end. It was in fact next door but one to a public-house, the “Duke of Clarence”. And the large block nearly opposite that had been converted into studios added just that note of Latin Quarter and Bohemianism that Mr. Prevarius felt so much that he needed.

No. 23a was kept by two elderly maiden ladies, the Miss Lewises. They were newly arrived in the neighbourhood, and were proposing to make a living by letting rooms. In his first interview—on. the doorstep—they inquired which room he was after. And Mr. Prevarius discovered that he could have the choice of the second floor front or the small third floor back. There was 3s. 6d. a week difference. But the success of “Switchback” had made him carefree of money, even spendthrift. He took the second floor front and paid a month's rent in advance.

The matter of references, however, presented some difficulty. The Archbishop Bodkin Hospital was clearly out of the question. And he was not anxious to give his music publishers in the Charing
Cross Road—because being known ties a man down somewhat. So, in the end, he compromised. He gave the name of Berkeley Cavendish
as a reference
. And inquiring politely the next time he visited his little Soho newsagents to see if there were any letters for him, he was able to send the Miss Lewises an entirely satisfactory and reassuring sort of reference; even a rather magnanimous one.

Unfortunately, however, multiple lives tend to be rather confusing. On the doorstep he had, for example, described himself on the spur of the moment as a travelling University examiner from St. Andrews. The name, he added, was Gordon—Archie Gordon. His wife, his wee wifie as he remembered to call her, might from time to time be visiting London with him—and that should solve things, he told himself, so long as he remembered to stick to the same girl. He himself, he explained, would be in London every Thursday for his examinations. Altogether, it was a little masterpiece of invention. It gave him no fewer than four personalities—as a choir-master, as song-hit writer, as university examiner—and as wolf.

And if the Miss Lewises needed any further proof of his intentions, the scale of the refurnishing that he embarked upon spoke for his permanency. It was only the
kind
of furniture that left them puzzled. And this itself was largely fortuitous. It was simply that a secondhand dealer in the Fulham Road had marked down a whole collection of miscellaneous Chinese junk—lacquered fretwork chairs, a deeply-embossed decorated altar, carved stools, a pair of shields, joss-stick holders and a war-mask—and Mr. Prevarius bought the lot. That, and a really good divan from a shop opposite, completed the room.

Not that Mr. Prevarius was yet content. There was still the piano. And here he fairly let himself go. Getting trade terms through Mr. Spike Jerome, he bought a boudoir grand. It was a pleasing piece in ebony—Mr. Prevarius would have preferred satinwood as going better with the flowered curtains that he had planned, but the red lacquer furniture plainly dictated something darker—and there was all the fun in paying for it, of knowing that the money was really in the bank.

The only little set-back occurred when he suddenly recalled that at No. 23a Deirdre Gardens he wasn't the gentleman who had signed the cheque. He was Mr. … Mr. … who the devil was he? Yes, Gordon, of course; it was Cavendish who had been kind enough to give the reference. But with what
Christian name? Alistair? Alexis? Adolphus? Augustin? He had forgotten.

“I … I am sending it as a present to a friend. A surprise, you understand,” he said vaguely. “I will phone up and complete the address later.”

Mr. Prevarius passed his handkerchief across his forehead as soon as he got outside. This was altogether too dreadful. He had never suspected that multiple identities would prove so bewildering. And why, oh why, had he told the innocent Miss Lewises that absurd story about being a university examiner? Why wasn't the story that he had told Desirée, about being a director of something, good enough?

To get things sorted out and tidy, Mr. Prevarius slipped into a tea-shop and over a cup of coffee and a bun made a few notes on the back page of his diary, just to clear his mind. In his rather charming, backward-sloping hand he inscribed:

Sidney Prevarius, B.D., Archbishop Bodkin Hospital.

Berkeley (de Vere) Cavendish, c/o Moulton's Newsagency, Leak Street, Soho, director.

—Gordon, 23a Deirdre Gardens, W.9. University examiner.

That done, he felt better. But twice the diary came out again. The first time was when almost immediately he remembered that his Christian name was Archie. And the second time—it was so abrupt and unpremeditated that he spilt coffee all over himself—was when he snatched open the diary to destroy the incriminating evidence of all the names on one piece of paper.

Phew! His forehead was really sopping this time. And to make certain that the waitress could not piece the bits together afterwards, he dropped them into the ash-tray and set fire to the remains. There was quite a little blaze, because he had not noticed that the edge of his evening paper was so close to the ash-tray. But with the waitress's help he got it out before the lamp-shade caught …

The delivery of the piano must, he realised, have created considerable excitement in the quietness of Deirdre Gardens. Things like that cannot very frequently have happened there. The Miss Lewises were very nice about it. They merely asked if next time he was going to order something that meant the whole window
frame had to be removed in order to get it in, they should be warned first.