Children of the Archbishop (44 page)

“Gu-urlie,” he said. “Gu-urlie.”

But he had reckoned without Ginger's temper. For, at the first insult, Ginger sprang forward. He gave a sort of bound. And, shooting out his fist, he reached Edward's nose. There was a distinguishable crunching sound. Edward stood motionless for a moment thrusting his tongue out over his upper lip. It came away salt, and he knew that his nose was bleeding. Then he got down to business.

“I'm going to give you a hiding,” he said.

By now, all work in the laundry was suspended. And, sensing not merely a fight but a good fight, all the boys gathered round leaving an empty space between the wringers and the airing racks. It was in this open space, this soap and water arena, that Edward let Ginger have it. There was nothing very skilful or scientific in his method. It consisted simply of shoving Ginger away hard with one hand and then hitting quickly before he could recover his balance. By the time they had been once round the ring, Ginger's left eye was closed up and his mouth had been cut.

Even now the fight might have ended more or less peaceably. Ginger was so much smaller that the older boy was getting bored with the whole affair. One further round of shove and jab, and he would have been more than ready to call the whole thing off. But the crowd, in the mysterious manner of crowds which somehow magically acquire a corporate existence, a personality, had suddenly turned against him.

“Hit someone your own size,” it began saying. “Hit someone your own. …”

There were thirty-two boys in all engaged on Practical Instruction at that moment. And they were all saying the same thing. In short, the crowd had turned ugly. And Edward found himself at a disadvantage: he did not know how to withdraw himself. Every time he dropped his hands, Ginger came at him again; and every time he punched back, the class resented it.

What was worse was that the audience was now definitely supporting his opponent, a bad state of affairs, as every boxer knows.

“Come
on
, Ginger,” they were shouting. “Hit him.”

It was, in fact, one of these war-cries that gave Ginger the opening that he needed. The voice that had spoken was Spud's. And it was so sharp, so strident and edgy, that Edward turned his head to see where this sudden yell of defiance had come from. As he did so, Ginger jumped in for the second time. He caught him hard on the point of the chin. So hard, indeed, that he hurt his own knuckles. He felt as though he had the point of the monitor's chin permanently lodged there between the second and third fingers.

After that, there could be no possible question of withdrawing. The crowd was cheering. Cheering Ginger. And some of them were booing as well. Booing Edward. Also, Edward was in pain, considerable pain. So he went right in to finish Ginger. And it was not difficult. The two blows that he landed in Ginger's face were enough to leave him dazed and stupid, an open undefended target for what was coming. Ginger went over on his back, and lay there winded and unmoving.

There was now the sudden and tremendous silence that follows an unpopular knock-out. The crowd had seen injustice done and a feeling of deep moral indignation ran through everyone. Also, there was a subtler, more intangible emotion. The whole classical tradition demanded that it should be the little fellow who was victorious. The booing started up again.

One of the strange things about a fight is the way that news of it spreads, and spreads quickly. Sudden danger to a queen bee in a busy beehive does not produce more excitement than a fight in a big institution. Ginger had hardly got in his first blow, in fact, before Sweetie in the damping and pressing room knew what was happening. And it had nothing to do with the noise that the boys were making: the rumbling of the big wooden mangles in the next room would have suppressed all trace of it if rogue elephants had been fighting next door. No, it was a tremulous psychic message that came vibrating through the brickwork, and announced unmistakably that there was mischief somewhere in the camp.

Sweetie got the signal straight away. “SOS,” “SOS,” “SOS,” the messages came piling in. “SOS,” “SOS,” “SOS.”

So clearly she had to do something about it. And quickly. It was not exactly that she was disobedient. At that moment she merely forgot all about her punishment, all about the Archbishop Bodkin regulations, all about Miss Gurge. She simply concentrated on the distress-call and made straight for it.

She was small, very small, remember, and she got through the crowd round the door like a rabbit running through a briar-bush. And the circle of spectators in the main laundry, the front-row five-guinea ones, didn't hold her up either. Because they were too close together to run through, she scratched her way between them.

It was obvious that the big boy had killed Ginger. But even so she remained a woman. A man in such circumstances would have waded straight in, using his fists. But a woman is different. A woman always requires a weapon. And Sweetie immediately started looking round for something sharp. As there was nothing—no daggers or scissors, not even a fork left lying about—she chose the next best thing. Something heavy. It was a tailor's iron which stood on the raised pedestal of its own little gas ring. And when Sweetie picked it up, it had not even occurred to her that it might be hot. At any rate, it was a weapon. And snatching it off the gas-ring she rushed over with it and thrust it into Edward's back.

The effect was terrific. Simply terrific. It was like nothing that she could possibly have anticipated. Instead of a mere thud as the iron landed there was first an angry fizzing sound like a
freshly opened ginger-beer bottle. And, at the next moment, a great cloud of steam went sizzling upwards. Then Edward let out the loudest yell that Sweetie had ever heard.

It was that yell that Mr. Dawlish heard as he made his way slowly back towards the laundry. He extinguished his pipe, thrust the day's newspaper quickly into his pocket, and hurried.

When he got there he thought at first that it was Sweetie who had hurt herself. For over by the window, Miss Gurge was bandaging Sweetie's hand where the handle of the hot iron had burnt it. And it was only then that he saw that Ginger had a black eye and Edward, his monitor, had a great scorched hole in the middle of his jacket.

Because of the enormity of what Sweetie had done—and branding a fellow inmate with a practically red-hot iron was not something that could be overlooked—Dr. Trump reflected carefully on her due punishment.

For the time being everything was at least under control. The victim, Edward, was in the Infirmary, lying face downwards with a pad of collodion on the afflicted part. And Sweetie herself was confined to the dormitory. She had been there for two hours already and Dr. Trump had expressly forbidden anyone to approach. But he couldn't leave her there for ever because she would starve. Or throw herself from the window. Or scream for help. Or set fire to the bedclothes. Anything in fact, to attract attention and create confusion. Because it had to be recognised, he told himself, that she was that kind of child.

And so, pacing up and down his room, Dr. Trump considered the problem. Expulsion? That was naturally the first thought. But on reflection he saw clearly that it was impossible: orphans are as secure as judges: there is no getting rid of them, no matter how appalling they may be. Or call in the police and have her sent to an Approved School? But the scandal, the publicity, the notoriety. He could just imagine the glee that such an action
would cause in St. Christopher's, and he winced at the mere idea of it. A good, sharp caning? No, for some reason, the deceased Archbishop had refused to countenance corporal punishment for female orphans: either his saintliness or his bachelorhood had made him most emphatic on that point. Dr. Trump bit his lip in irritation. And then he had a happy thought. Solitary confinement! He would sentence Sweetie to three days' silence and imprisonment. He would be perfectly humane, of course. Meals, plain ones, would be served regularly and there would be the necessary personal supervision. But, beyond that, nothing. No company. No conversation: he would instruct the maid not to utter a single syllable, when bringing the food in to her. No books. No toys. Nothing.

There was a small room on the ground floor of the Matron's own block. It had a high barred window, and was used for storing things. With the addition of a bed it might have been expressly designed for the incarceration of children.

Above all things, it was set in the very centre of the Hospital buildings. And there in the silence of her little cell, with no interruption from the outside world, Sweetie could ponder and repent. When she emerged, he had no doubt that she would be chastened. And if she wasn't, if pride and wickedness were still raging inside her, then she could go back inside again. On that Dr. Trump was determined. He was not going to allow a little thing like a child's obstinacy to stand in his way when the good name of the Hospital was at stake.

And now that his mind was made up, Dr. Trump rang for Miss Britt.

“… and if three days is not enough, we will repeat the treatment,” he concluded. “There is no need to make a secret of it. The more the other girls know about it, the more powerful the example. And, above all things, remember: no talking. It is in silence that the child's conscience will begin pricking.”

It was in the bit about telling the other girls, however, that Dr. Trump made his great error. Because in no large institution is there ever such a thing as the truth. Passing from lip to lip, it becomes distorted. At second remove, even the simplest and most elementary fact is scarcely recognisable. Somewhere round about this stage, elaboration and improvement begin. Next, invention comes in. And from then onwards sheer fantasy takes over.

In this instance, confusion was aided guilelessly and without effort by the slow-witted Annie. It was not that she consciously
falsified. She simply misunderstood. Deep in the recesses of her mind, where the wheels turned slowly and some of the cogs were entirely missing—she got hold of the notion that Sweetie was being shut away
for ever
. And putting two and two together, and remembering some of the more dreadful stories that she had heard of medieval convents, she became convinced that they were bricking Sweetie in. Not caring, however, to repeat so grisly a story at the top of her voice she went round the Hospital whispering it. And this gave colour and a kind of awful authenticity to the myth.

Within half an hour of the sad little procession that had been seen crossing over towards the Latymer Block—Miss Britt leading, Sweetie in the middle and Nurse Stedge bringing up the rear with a pillow case—the ghastly rumour was all over the ironing and pressing room. From there, borne like a spark, it reached the kitchens. Then back to starching and despatch. And finally on to the big hall where the other girls were having supper.

It was 4.45 precisely when Sweetie heard the key turn in the lock behind her, and not more than five-thirty before the entire female side of the Hospital was discussing the outrage in awed whispers. Only the closing accident of night prevented the news from spreading over into the boys' side until the following day.

Everyone seemed to be talking about it, however. And there was one little incident to upset Dr. Trump considerably. Quite changed the course of things, in fact.

He was standing quietly in the corner of the Cloisters, having just made his evening inspection, when he heard voices—the voices of Mr. Dawlish and Mr. Prevarius. It was Mr. Prevarius who was speaking as they approached.

“… anyhow, if she's shut up there, she'll probably hang herself, or something,” Mr. Prevarius was saying in an off-hand, casual sort of tone as though it didn't really matter. “And then there'll be a beautiful big inquest and we shall all have our names in the papers.”

Because the unpleasant little incident had upset him, Dr. Trump was quite unable to sleep. In the cream and lilac bedroom, with Felicity's pet china rabbits ranged along the mantelpiece,
he tossed anxiously. He counted sheep, he prayed, he recited narrative poems, he went through Old Testament characters in alphabetical order, he did cube roots. But always into his unquiet mind the unpleasantness kept returning. And doubts, too. Perhaps then he
had
blundered. Perhaps Sweetie's punishment was just a shade too austere, too reminiscent of the Spanish Inquisition.

But, confound it, the child had got to be punished somehow, hadn't she? He couldn't let her off altogether. With this thin layer of consolation in his mind, Dr. Trump was at last drifting into slumber when suddenly he sat up again, bolt upright. Suppose something
were
to happen to Sweetie while she was shut away there? Suppose she cried herself to sleep face downwards on the pillow and was smothered? Suppose … no it was too dreadful to put into words. At all costs, further mischief must be prevented. So, springing out of bed, Dr. Trump began dressing hurriedly.

Hurriedly but not silently. Before he had reached the door, Felicity spoke to him.

“Now you've woken me up too,” she told him. “You'll ruin your digestion if you go on pouring cocoa inside you whenever you can't sleep. You know it only gives you heartburn.”

Heartburn, indeed! It was the good name of the whole Hospital that was at stake. And as he slipped out of the front door, his Boy Scout inspection lamp in his hand, he began praying again; really praying this time.

“Oh God, don't let anything happen,” he kept saying. “Don't let me be too late.”

It was rather eerie crossing the big courtyard by Latymer. The Hospital was silent except for the sound of the wind in the ornamental weathervanes, and Dr. Trump shivered. Compared with the chill in the night air, his bed seemed unusually warm and inviting. He felt that if only he were back there now he would be asleep inside two minutes. But things were too urgent for regrets about his bed. And as he drew near the Matron's block he saw something that banished all thoughts of sleep. Over in the shadows, right up against the wall and immediately under Sweetie's window, was a figure. A figure strained to its uppermost so that its fingers could rest upon the sill.