Children of the Archbishop (52 page)

As soon as the position had been fully explained to him, Mr. Prevarius patted her hand and told her not to worry: his knee was already pressed up hard against hers as he said it, and there was a pleasantly reassuring feeling of contact and intimacy to the whole encounter. He did not, however, speak again immediately, and that was because he was thinking hard. In his present-day prosperity as Mr. Berkeley Cavendish, the ten guineas was nothing to him: he even had enough notes on him to pay her then and there. But he checked himself. Wouldn't it be rather a waste? he reflected. Wasn't it simply pouring good money after bad? Why, in any case, should he pay the expenses for both sides in that tragic farce that the refined old lady had engineered for him.

Instead, he moved up closer still and, dropping his voice a little, he took Desirée's hand in his.

“It doesn't matter so much about the rent,” he said. “That's only a trifle anyway. But it isn't just a room that a girl like you wants—it's a home, dear; somewhere that you can really call your own. I know that Deirdre Gardens isn't good enough. But it's yours, for the asking, sweety-pie—just so long as I can look in and see you sometimes.”

When Desirée did not reply immediately Mr. Prevarius made no attempt to rush her. He just sat there whistling softly through his teeth; and finally, simply to bridge the gap and save her any
embarrassment, he ordered two more Benedictines from the waiter. Indeed, he rather respected her for her indecision: maiden-innocence at the cross-roads had always seemed to him to be one of the most moving of all human situations, and he would not have missed a moment of it.

It was not, indeed, until Desirée had given him her answer—“Well, we eat to live and I suppose beggars can't be choosers, can they?” were her exact words—that he gave her the invaluable guidance of his advice.

“… and if they've really been so horrid to my little popsy at the old place,” he said, still in that same low, purring kind of voice, “I should think twice before paying up the arrears if I were you. There's Deirdre Gardens waiting for you just as soon as you want it. And you ought to be able to take most of your things out in the small attaché case: you can always iron them out afterwards. It doesn't matter how many journeys you make. It's a free country: they can't stop you going up and down stairs. The one thing you mustn't try to move is the big suitcase. So it all boils down to which costs more—three weeks' rent or another big suitcase. There's a sale on in a little shop in New Oxford Street. …”

The bench seemed harder and sharper than it had done when Ginger had lain down on it the night before. And colder. Even though the morning wasn't exactly cold, there was certainly a pretty bleak sort of draught blowing up between the planking. It came through in long cold slices like streaky ice.

Ginger got up and shook himself. And then he noticed something very interesting. The occupants of the other benches were getting up, too. It was still obviously very early because there was no one about in the streets yet. But already the newspaper bundles and the tin kettles were being gathered together, the soles of shoes were being tied on to the uppers again, and the old ladies, the bearded gentlemen and the younger ones who simply hadn't shaved, were on the move once more. Going heaven-knows-where to what
daytime dust heaps. The string people, in fact, had begun its morning migration.

“Time I was gittin' back,” Ginger told himself. “I mus' have overslep' a bit.”

There wasn't a single important-looking person about in the streets yet. But London was getting a more lived-in appearance every moment. Newspaper sellers were undoing the tarpaulin wrappers of their kiosks, and a small café in Villiers Street was taking the shutters down.

“I'm late,” Ginger told himself. “I've gotta hurry.”

The words were still ringing in his ears as he reached the Strand. And that was where things became difficult. Because by daylight everything looked different. He paused for a moment to take his bearings. He still had a vague, generally right idea that he should be going northwards. But in his anxiety to keep moving, he turned right. And that was fatal. It brought him first into Chandos Street and then through Henrietta Street into Covent Garden.

Here it was all cabbages and potatoes and bunches of bananas, and it just showed how far off his rightful track he really was. Doubling back again, he made his way up Garrick Street and across Seven Dials still looking for St. Paul's Cathedral or Paddington, or wherever it was there had been all those lights and nice people on the previous night. But he could see that he was wrong. And he was getting thoroughly frightened by now.

The streets, too, were filling up remarkably. Every time a bus stopped, a little crowd of people got off it. And not just workmen, either. The bosses as well, with their little attaché cases and their rolled-up umbrellas and their morning newspapers. And there were girls, swarms and swarms of them, getting thicker every moment. All dresssed the same with their bobbed hair showing under their hat-brims, and not looking a bit as though they had got up specially early. That could only mean one thing: it was late. Really late. So late that by now the Archbishop Bodkin Hospital would be stirring too, and he wouldn't be able to climb back unnoticed.

“Cor, bet I'll get copped,” Ginger told himself. “Bet old Frump won't half beat me. Bet he'll be ratty.”

Because the nearer that Ginger got to the Euston Road the less did it look like the part of London for which he was searching, he decided to ask someone. And he chose a crossing-sweeper. The man was a bit of a swell in his own line of business. You could tell
that at a glance. His little three-wheel handcart, painted bright yellow and with the stiff-bristled broom and the long-handled shovel resting on top of it, might just have turned out of a livery yard.

But he was friendly all right and he knew all that there was to know about getting across London. He might even have made a special study of the Euston Road to Putney problem, he was so certain. Take a 14 bus, he said; a 14 bus was what was wanted. It was as simple as that: just take a 14 bus and it would put you down on your own doorstep. A 14 bus was the answer.

It was about this time that a rather awkward interview was beginning inside the Archbishop Bodkin Hospital. Mr. Dawlish had just been shown into Dr. Trump's study, and was clearing his throat in readiness:

“One of my boys seems to be missing …” he had begun.

Ginger thanked the crossing-sweeper very politely. He didn't stay long however, because his luck had changed suddenly. There was a 14 bus drawing up nearly opposite. And nipping round the back of a taxi, he caught it just as it was moving away. But this time he wasn't going to risk any funny stuff from the conductor. He just held out his money—all that he had left of it—and said: “a fi'penny one.”

Then he sat back and wondered. The No. 14 bus went chugging on endlessly through the streets. But it was all right, Ginger reckoned: the crossing sweeper had been so absolutely convinced of it. And it stood to reason that there must be more than one road leading to Putney. Perhaps it was simply that the driver was taking the other one.

Then finally the bus stopped and the conductor came up on top again to change the board in front. He seemed surprised to find Ginger still sitting there.

“This is as far as we go, son,” he said.

“But this isn't Putney,” Ginger told him.

He was suddenly cautious and wary again.

“Nobody said it was, son,” the conductor answered. “You come the wrong way, that's what you done. You stay where you are, and we'll take you back again.”

But Ginger's nerves were all on edge and he broke out suddenly.

“Gimme my money back,” he said fiercely. “Just you gimme my money back.”

The conductor, however, had met boys like Ginger before. He was a Hornsey man himself, and he knew the sort of tricks that they got up to down Hornsey way. He didn't even lose his temper.

“Like my mate to fetch a policeman?” he asked. “I'll wait here with you, sonnie.”

That put Ginger in a difficult position. Getting a policeman was the one thing that he wanted to avoid. But he wasn't going to let the conductor know.

“I'll git 'im meself,” Ginger said. “See if I don't,” he replied.

It was only when he had actually set foot on the pavement, thereby surrendering his last claim to all possibility of a free return journey, that he said something that just for a moment made the conductor wonder whether perhaps Ginger was telling the truth after all.

“Where is this, please?” Ginger asked.

“It's Hornsey, my lad,” the conductor answered, taken unawares. “And you know it is,” he added, as he recovered himself.

But Ginger was too much confused by now to be listening. This was disaster. Sheer, irreparable disaster! Breakfast time over with no breakfast inside him, and with all his money gone, he was now marooned somewhere on the other side of London in a place he'd never even heard of.

Because there was nowhere else to go where he could think quietly, Ginger went across to the Public Lavatory that stood opposite. And he had just reached the conclusion that there was only one thing to do, and that was to give himself up and
ask
to be arrested, when he became aware of the sound of running feet. They were peculiarly noisy feet. And, amid the echoing tiles of the Public Lavatory, they sounded like nothing less than a cavalry charge.

The next moment he was being borne down upon. At the double came a horde of ruffians, all more or less about his own age and all dressed in rather dirty-looking flannel trousers. But unlike him they weren't in the least despondent. Most of them had sandwiches and oranges, and some had squeakers and paper teasers as well. And it was obvious that they were cheerfully and gloriously
out of all control. Behind them, some twenty-five yard in the rear but travelling fast, came a young, sporting-looking curate in sports coat and flannels. There was a slightly breathless and apprehensive look on his face as he rounded the corner. And no wonder. It was the St. Botolph's Hornsey Annual Outing that had just arrived. And the curate was supposed to be in charge of it.

The idea of visiting the lavatory—of crowding every possible pleasurable sensation into a day that promised to be all too brief—had evidently occurred to all of them at once. The lavatory was now packed solid. And a moment later the breathless curate appeared in the doorway.

“Come along, boys,” he said pleadingly. “Come along. We're just off. Button up! No loiterers.”

Even then Ginger had not reckoned on the organising energy of the young curate. Before Ginger knew what was happening to him he was being hustled out of the lavatory and into a bus, marked “Private” that was standing just outside. He tried to explain the mistake. Tried twice, in fact. The first time was on the step just as he was getting in, but the curate simply pushed him sharply up the stairs and told him that he would see about it later. And the second was when he had actually taken his place—but, on that occasion, a shrill and piercing sort of toy-siren was being enthusiastically blown in the next seat, and the curate could not hear what Ginger was saying. He thought, indeed, that he was apologising for having kept the outing waiting. The curate, therefore, merely patted Ginger on the head, and went back inside again. He was new to St. Botolph's. this curate. It was his first annual outing, and he was anxious to make the best possible impression all round.

After his second attempt at explanation, Ginger reckoned that there was nothing for it, but to go through with the whole thing. In any case, this was not like an ordinary bus. It was a “Private” one: and it was a sight-seeing tour. Even if he had wanted to get off he could not have done so. So he just sat on while all round him the paper bags and the cardboard attaché cases were opened, and the first serious eating of the jaunt began.

In the matter of the taking of light snacks there is a strict protocol among boys. No one eats unless everyone is eating. The convention is respected everywhere; and in nowhere more than in Poplar. As soon as the boy next to him found that Ginger hadn't brought anything, he shared. Searching through his own picnic provisions, he selected what he liked least—a banana—and passed
it over. The boy behind him observing this did the same. By the time the bus had reached the Bank of England, Ginger had breakfasted off a banana, a sardine sandwich, a piece of cheese, a jam tart and a fruit drop. He had also drunk half a bottle of Cherry Ciderette. And he felt better for it; quite himself again, in fact.

Meanwhile the curate, who had chosen the seat nearest the door, was checking up on the numbers. At the third attempt he gave it up and put the list away.

“It says thirty-seven and I make it thirty-eight,” he told himself. “But what matter? Better than losing one of the little beasts.”

He broke off.

“Now, chaps!” he said in a voice that he hoped would combine authority with good-fellowship. “Go easy there. No ragging. Penknives away! Remember we're St. Botolph's. …”

But in any case Ginger was fully occupied. He and the boy next to him—the one who had given him a banana—were playing leg-locks, and he had got his benefactor gripped in a vice just below his left knee. Slowly but irresistibly he was forcing him off the seat and on to the floor of the bus.

With brief intervals for rest, the game continued fiercely and delightfully all along Newgate Street, across High Holborn and down the whole length of Gray's Inn Road. It was, indeed, only the arrival of the curate on the top deck with the announcement that they were nearly there and should begin getting their things together, that interrupted them.

There was a policeman standing outside the gates of the Zoo.

By now, the news of Ginger's disappearance was known to the Force. And the policeman outside the Zoo had all the particulars. He was, in fact, on the look out. What is more, he was a young man, anxious for promotion and ready to pounce at sight.