Children of the Archbishop (55 page)

And it was at about seven-thirty one rainy Sunday morning in this very bedroom, with the pink curtains still drawn and Desirée's silk and swansdown dressing-gown draped negligently across the bed on top of Mr. Prevarius's blue-spotted one, that the incident occurred.

Mr. Prevarius declared afterwards that he had heard the fatal ring at the doorbell. But he had, he admitted, been far too sleepy to take any notice of it; in fact, had merely snatched an armful of the eiderdown back from Desirée and snuggled down again. A moment later, however, all thought of sleep was clearly impossible. There were trampling feet on the landing outside the bedroom and the sound of Miss Lewis's voice raised in shrilly protest. Then, without even a knock upon the panel, the bedroom door was flung open and a little man like a damp musk-rat, in a shabby bowler hat and brown overcoat stood there.

It occurred later to Mr. Prevarius that he had seen the man somewhere before; and he remembered dimly that he had once or twice drunk beside him in the public house at the corner where he and Desirée used to drop in occasionally when drinking alone had become tedious. The man, he now recalled, had been noticeable for a kind of sideways stare that he had kept trained on them.

But this time there was nothing in the least sideways about the stare. It was one of the most straightforward stares in London, and it was directed full on to the bed. But not it seemed on to Mr. Prevarius himself. The trained, professional eye under the shabby bowler had already taken in the figure with the tousled hair and saffron and magenta pyjamas who was sitting up on one elbow goggling at him.

It was at the cluster of daffodil-coloured curls on the adjacent pillow that he was now looking. And when roused suddenly by Mr. Prevarius's indignant “What the blue blazes!” the daffodil-coloured head appeared above the bedclothes and Desirée showed herself, the man in the bowler and the brown overcoat appeared satisfied.

“Thank you both very much,” he said. “I've got all I need. Sorry to disturb.”

And before Mr. Prevarius could reply the man in the brown overcoat had closed the door in their faces.

But by then Mr. Prevarius had sprung out of bed: he was at the keyhole, listening. And what he heard appalled him. Above the noise of the heavy, clumsy feet descending the staircase he caught the words: “… my card … needed as witness … apologise for any unpleasantness …”

And after that, the whole Sunday morning was one of shame and turmoil. Mr. Prevarius had made his arrangements carefully and at 9 o'clock Miss Lewis was to have served a real party breakfast for the two of them—porridge, kippers, toast and marmalade, everything.

Now, instead of that, Miss Lewis still in an awful old dressing-gown was telling Mr. Prevarius that she had detected him to be a humbug from the very start and would have known Desirée for what she was even if she had washed the paint off. The revelation of so much coarseness in Miss Lewis's mind sickened him and in the end he was forced to lock the door on her simply so that he could explain matters to Desirée.

And it was then, and not until then, that Mr. Prevarius suffered the greatest disillusionment of his life. His faith in the whole of human nature was rudely, callously shattered, leaving him alone and defenceless in a deceitful and dishonest world.

For Desirée spoke first.

“Oh, well,” she said, smearing some fresh lip-stick on to her face while she was still speaking, “if it had to happen, it's better to have got it over with.”

“Then … then you expected it?” Mr. Prevarius demanded.

“I'm only surprised he still bothers about me,” Desirée went on: she had put down the lip-stick by now and was busy on her nails with a polisher. “He must have been up to something himself or he'd never have forked up for it.”

“
He
,” Mr. Prevarius repeated in a trembling, sickly sort of voice. “You mean …”

“Oh, forget it,” said Desirée. “It's ancient history. We haven't seen each other for donkeys' years. I suppose a girl's entitled to some secrets isn't she?” She paused. “We were only married for a month or so. But it's nice to know he's being so sensible about it. When I left him he always threatened he'd murder me if …”

But Mr. Prevarius was no longer listening. Face downwards upon the bed, his face cradled upon his forearm, he was crying like a child.

To think … to think that with more than a million other girls of the right age to choose from he should have selected—and,
more than selected, pursued and hounded down—one who had turned out to be every bit as deceitful and contemptible as he was himself.

The riding lessons had given Dr. Trump more trouble than he had expected. For a start, he saw now that he should have specified
private
lessons. But was he to have been expected to think of that? How was he to have known that every Wednesday the residents of Richmond would witness the spectacle of a grim-faced clergyman in pince-nez riding out in company with six little sprites in jodhpurs, and held on a leading rein by a big, glowing young woman like a kind of lustrous land-girl?

But he had persevered. He could not merely trot: he could canter. Once, on a large animal with the yellow and discoloured teeth of a chain smoker, he had even galloped. And he had persevered with other things as well. Detail by detail, he had gone over the various affairs of the Pageant—the final seating arrangements, the order of the triumphal procession, the size of the pieces of cake for tea, the discreet notices indicating the nearest route to the lavatories. In less than a week the tickets would be ready to go out.

As it happened, however, larger events intervened. And Dr. Trump, surrounded by little packets of pink and white and blue cardboard marked a shilling, half a crown and three and sixpence respectively, could do nothing but stare disconsolately out of the window at the spot where the marquees should have been. For, in view of what had occurred, the Board by a unanimous decision decided to postpone the Pageant. And by the time the episode was over, the entire course of Hospital history had been changed and the Archbishop's birthday was callously forgotten.

This time it was not Ginger's fault so much as Sweetie's. But what made it so much worse was that it was the fault of the two of them together. It came, indeed, as the first open declaration of their joint lawlessness. And it was no consolation to Dr. Trump to know that in a sense he had precipitated it.

It was one of his little tours of inspection that had started it all.
It was evening, and he had got as far as the laundry block when he thought he heard voices. Low voices. Secretive voices. A girl's voice. And a boy's. This surprised him. Because, until that moment, he had imagined that he was alone. A sense of suspicion that expressed itself in stealth crept over him. He tiptoed up to the despatch counter and peered in through one of the windows.

And what he saw appalled him. There, seated on one of the baskets that contained to-morrow's deliveries, was Ginger. And beside him, so close that she was almost snuggling, was Sweetie. Ginger was holding her hand. No, now that he looked more closely he could see that it was Sweetie who had hold of Ginger's. She had Ginger's hand clasped firmly in one of her own and she was stroking it slowly, lovingly.

For a moment, Dr. Trump was on the point of shattering the window-pane, and tearing those two loving hands apart with his fingernails. But, with an effort, he restrained himself. Evidence, complete and damning evidence, was what he now demanded. And that he knew could be obtained only by waiting.

“Why don't you like me?” Sweetie was asking.

“I do,” Ginger answered.

And Dr. Trump was glad, positively glad, to see that the wretched boy was endeavouring to remove his hand from the smaller, fondling one that encircled it.

“Then why don't you ever answer any of my letters?”

Letters! A clandestine correspondence! Was it possible?

But already Ginger was speaking again.

“I got too much to do,” he replied.

Also a good attitude, Dr. Trump decided. Really Ginger was showing up astonishingly well in the face of such temptation. Perhaps all those canings had done something to him.

“If you really liked me you'd find time,” Sweetie persisted. “That is, if you
really
did.”

“Wouldn't be any good,” Ginger told her. “They'd only be stopped.”

“Well, I seem to find a way, don't I?” Sweetie pointed out to him. “And you could if you wanted to. You could bring them to me at night. You did come once remember …”

But Dr. Trump had heard enough. And already he had decided. Because he could not trust himself to confront them face to face, he would take other measures. Sweetie and Ginger were both approximately fourteen by now. And in the morning he would send them both packing. As their spiritual as well as
physical guardian, he saw clearly that it was his plain duty to put the greatest possible distance between the two of them.

Dr. Trump wasted no time: he told them that same night of his decision. Normally, he said, they would have remained at the Archbishop Bodkin Hospital until the end of term; as it was, however, he was making arrangements for them to leave immediately—to begin life's business upon the morrow, in fact.

And because of the admirable card-index system that he had instituted it was all wonderfully simple. Everything was down there in black and white: it was a butcher's in Hoxton to which Ginger was going, as for Sweetie, she had been very satisfactorily fixed up in a Finchley rectory with four children, an invalid wife and no other help. The rector had been delighted—yes, positively delighted, he told her—when he had heard that Sweetie could come at once.

When Ginger learnt that he was to leave to-morrow he was surprised. But not upset. He had been looking forward to the moment when he would leave. It was only that he was not prepared for the suddenness of it all. And for the fierceness with which Dr. Trump spoke to him.

“It is for your own good that I am sending you away,” Dr. Trump told him. “Right away. Out of reach of temptation.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ginger answered, not knowing what Dr. Trump was talking about.

But the answer did not seem to satisfy Dr. Trump. He turned sharply and, gripping Ginger above the elbow, glared down at him.

“Beware,” he said. “Beware of girls. Beware of young women. Above all, beware of yourself.”

Even that did not worry Ginger. Remembering Sweetie, it seemed entirely sensible advice. Nearly all the trouble that he had got into at the Archbishop Bodkin Hospital had been because of Sweetie. So his answer was simple and direct.

“I will, sir,” he said.

And immediately Dr. Trump began talking again.

“You will leave in the morning,” he said. “Immediately
after breakfast. And you will go out by the back way. I will be there myself to say good-bye. It is a butcher in Hoxton to whom you are going. An … er Christian butcher. You will become an apprentice. If you work hard you may become a butcher yourself one day. Avoid drink. Avoid gambling. And, above all, avoid women.” Dr. Trump paused. “If you don't avoid women,” he added, “you won't be able to avoid the police.”

“I see, sir,” said Ginger.

“And now go to bed,” Dr. Trump told him. “And not a word to anyone. To-morrow will be time enough for that.”

When Ginger left Dr. Trump he was fed up. All that stuff about women was barmy. And the job he was going to sounded rotten. He didn't want to chop up bits of meat for people. He wanted to do something with cars. Wanted to drive cars and tend them and cherish them. If it had been a garage that he was being sent to, he would have volunteered to go off that same evening. It was his new enthusiasm, cars; and it was all-embracing.

And he was still wondering whether he had got to go on being a butcher for ever, or whether the police, or whoever it was who decided, would let him work in a garage if he wanted to, when he saw Annie approaching. She was wearing the stupidest of all her expressions, the one that showed that she had secret and important news. And she made straight for Ginger.

“Sweetie wants you,” she said. “She's down at the end of the kitchen garden. If you get on to the wall she can talk to you.”

Get on to the wall! It was all right for Annie to talk like that. Getting on to the wall in broad daylight was madness. He'd be caught and caned for it. And then he remembered. He couldn't be caned any longer. At least not after to-morrow, he couldn't.

“Wot's she want?” he asked.

“It's something bad,” Annie told him. “She's crying.”

“Oh, orl right,” Ginger answered, forgetting all about Dr. Trump's advice. “I'll go and see.”

Mr. Dawlish blew his whistle for “all indoors,” just as Ginger was setting out. But he didn't take any notice. He kept straight on, past the woodwork shop, past the boiler-room and on towards the gardener's shed. His favourite plane tree stood there. And, even though the lower branch, the useful one, had been sawn off on Dr. Trump's orders, he could still manage the climb. That was where the leather belt of the Hospital uniform came in so handy: it could always be used for pulling yourself up in an emergency.

When he reached the top of the wall, Sweetie was waiting there sure enough. And he could see at once that she had been crying.
Her upturned face showed up plainly enough. And it was all tear-stained and blotchy.

“Wozzermatter with you?” he asked.

“I'm glad you've come,” Sweetie answered.

“Yus, but wozzermatter?” he persisted.

“I wanted to say good-bye,” she told him.

“How d'yer know I was going?” he demanded.

“It's not you. It's me,” Sweetie said with a break in her voice. “I'm being sent away to-morrow.”