Children of the Archbishop (22 page)

Dr. Trump's eyebrows contracted.

“Come in,” he said.

He had been practising for this moment, and he assumed the rasp that he had in readiness.

Slowly the doorhandle began to turn. And, because it did not turn fast enough to please him, he repeated his invitation.

“Come in,” he repeated, the saw-edges of his voice grating.

It was a rather formal looking Ginger who entered. He was wearing the short black jacket and narrow trousers of the Bodkin uniform. It was a rigid and formal sort of uniform at the best of times and this small boy in particular looked uncomfortable in it. Tight even according to the regulations, the jacket gripped so closely across the chest and shoulders that the short arms stuck out sideways in penguin fashion.

Dr. Trump frowned. He mentally registered the danger signs of overfeeding, and proceeded to examine the boy more closely. Then he breathed more easily. The trouser ends were short of the boot tops by a clear two inches and this was distinctly reassuring. It showed that growth and not excess nourishment might be at the bottom of it all. But the effect was nevertheless displeasing: it made it hard somehow to be proud of the boy.

And then the face—so blunt, so formless, so … so animal. Even the hair was—ah, that was the right word for it—rebellious! The boy, in short, was a goat, a he-goat among his placid flock; a creature requiring all the attention of the shepherd. Dr. Trump paused and glanced out of the window: he felt a sermon coming
on. Then he recovered himself. There was work, serious work, for him to do.

“Shut the door, boy,” he said. “That's what doors are made for.”

There was a pause.

“And come over here,” he added. “I have no wish to shout across the room at you.”

The boy moved slowly forward, his heavy boots dragging. The floor in that part of the room was polished and the hobnails grated like scrapers. At the sound, Dr. Trump winced.

“Are you under the impression that my study is the playground?” he asked, carefully keeping his voice level and unalarming.

“No, sir.”

“Then pick them up properly. Not like that.”

“Pick what up, sir?”

“Your feet, boy. Your feet. Don't grind with them.”

Ginger had now come into position, and was standing obediently to attention.

“I'm not, sir.”

Dr. Trump deliberately did not answer. At all costs he wished to avoid losing his temper. The whole interview had been carefully designed and would, he felt sure, prove very effective. He went over to his desk and began glancing through the papers.

“Have you come to receive a Conduct Star?”

“No, sir.”

“Ora Woodwork Certificate?”

“No, sir.”

“Then perhaps it is a Games Badge, is it?”

“No, sir.”

“Oh, so what is it?”

“I was sent, sir.”

“Of course you were sent. Boys don't walk in here whenever they feel like it. Who sent you?”

“Mr. Dawlish, sir.”

“And why did Mr. Dawlish send you?”

“Because I spoke in prayers.”

Dr. Trump paused. His eyebrows now made a continuous line across his forehead.

“You spoke in prayers! And what did you say, may I ask?”

“I said ‘look,' sir.”

“Indeed. And why did you say ‘look'?”

“I wanted to show someone something.”

“During divine service?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go on. What was this something?”

“It was a cigarette card, sir.”

“Have you still got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then give it to me.”

Ginger hesitated. For a moment, a single challenging moment, Dr. Trump feared that he was going to refuse. But apparently the boy thought better of it. Forcing his hand down into his trouser pocket, he brought out a thin sheaf of cigarette cards secured by a rubber band. Then very carefully he began to select one of them.

But Dr. Trump was too quick for him.

“Give them
all
to me,” he said. “All!”

Only when he finally had them in his hand did he realise what remarkably dirty cigarette cards they were. There was a juvenile sordidness about them that appalled him. Even so, he forced himself to examine them. They appeared to belong exclusively to a Common British Butterflies Series and this at least allayed the worst of the doubts that were in his mind: he had feared film-stars. Holding the cards by his finger-tips he carried them over to the fire.

He was about to speak but the small boy interrupted him.

“It isn't my rubber band, sir,” he said.

“Very soon it won't be anybody's rubber band,” Dr. Trump informed him, and loosening his fingers he dropped the package into the flames.

“There!” he said.

Then he turned towards the boy once more.

“And do you mean to tell me that you wanted somebody to look at those things when you should have been praying?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why!”

“I just remembered them, sir.”

“Weren't you thinking about your prayers?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“I couldn't hear, sir.”

“You couldn't hear!” Dr. Trump's nostrils dilated. “Are you accusing me of mumbling?”

“No, sir.”

“But you are!”

“Yes, sir.”

“So!”

Dr. Trump drew back a little. He had never encountered such insolence before. And polite insolence at that. The boy had actually behaved as though he were trying to agree with him. It was either stark honesty or abominable effrontery. And Dr. Trump could not afford to chodse the wrong alternative. Already the interview had gone along quite different lines from those which he had intended.

“I shall cane you,” he said briefly. “I have caned you before and I intend to cane you again.”

As he went over to the cupboard where the canes were kept, he reflected that caning Ginger was becoming quite a habit with him. He had entirely lost his earlier nervousness.

“Get ready,” he said over his shoulder. “Across that chair.”

By the time Dr. Trump got back, Ginger was certainly ready. Startlingly ready in fact. Dr. Trump averted his eyes in sheer distaste. Ginger was becoming thoroughly professional too.

“Six of the best I think we said,” he remarked lightly.

“You didn't say anything, sir.”

The voice came from lower than knee level. And it disconcerted him. He was sidling round now to get himself into position. Then, when he was satisfied at last, he began rocking on his heels and swishing the cane in the air like a golfer making ready for a drive.

“Now.”

The contours of the target stiffened instinctively, and Dr. Trump swept his arm back with all his force to its farthermost limit. He was a tall man and the big mahogany table was less than three feet away from him. The corner with the edge, bevelled like a sabre, caught him right across the knuckles.

“Ow!” said Dr. Trump, and dropped the cane.

Then he saw something that reminded him that he must recover the cane immediately and get on with the job. For Ginger was watching him. Still in that unspeakable position, he had twisted his head round and was staring open-mouthed at his tormentor. Not that he was grinning or smirking. Dr. Trump would have known how to deal with that. This was worse. Far worse. For so far as a red-haired urchin can display any emotion, Ginger was displaying it now. To his horror, Dr. Trump saw that it was pity that was revealed in that aghast, upturned face.

“Are you all right, sir?” Ginger asked.

It was a Wednesday; one of Bishop Warple's mid-weeks.

“And now,,” he was saying as he looked at his watch, “no doubt the invalid will be ready for us.”

The Bishop's habit of referring to his wife in this way had already conjured up alarming pictures in Dr. Trump's mind. He saw Mrs. Warple as someone—almost something—lying there, emaciated, grey, inert. In pain probably. Voice a mere whisper. Each breath drawn only with difficulty. Strength just sufficient to extend a limp, feeble hand towards her future son-in-law. He was, in fact, dreading the encounter and feared that, at any moment, he might break down under the sheer emotional strain of it. Nor did Bishop Warple's next remark do anything to reassure him.

“Perhaps my little Felicity had better go up first to see if everything's in order,” he suggested. “We don't want to surprise the invalid, do we?”

As he uttered the last words, he gave Dr. Trump's arm a coy, affectionate squeeze and dropped a word of explanation in his ear.

“Her nerves,” he said vaguely. “Any sudden shock, you understand.”

“Just so,” Dr. Trump replied. “I'll be most careful.”

“I'm sure you will,” Bishop Warple answered. “But we can't afford to take risks.”

Dr. Trump shook his head. He was by temperament decisively opposed to risks. And above all he was anxious to avoid them on this occasion.

“You don't think it might be better to postpone it altogether?” he began hopefully. “Perhaps some other day …”

But Bishop Warple would not hear of it. “No, no,” he said. “That would never do. Not after we've told her.”

There was now an awkward strained silence, broken only by the sound of Dr. Trump's breathing. A heavy breather at all times, Dr. Trump in moments of agitation always became louder and more stertorous. And on this occasion he was suffering from a slight cold as well. In consequence, every inhalation was accompanied by a shrill, fluting sound. It was as though he was whistling to himself as he stood there.

The Bishop eyed him. He simply could not make out how the man did not realise what an irritating sound he was making. It would be like having an oboe for a son-in-law. Then, when the Bishop could stand it no longer, he changed the subject.

“Getting the house all done up in readiness?” he asked.

Dr. Trump's breathing abruptly changed. He unclasped his hands and relaxed.

“Felicity was choosing wall-paper patterns this morning,” he replied. “I mean … we were choosing together.”

“Same thing,” the Bishop assured him. “You'll find that out soon enough.”

He gave a little chuckle as he said it and squeezed Dr. Trump's arm a second time. Dr. Trump smiled back obediently. But inwardly he shuddered. Why, he asked himself, did the Bishop have to be so … so worldly? All Bishop Warple's remarks about marriage had the same lightheartedness, even facetiousness. There was a comic postcard quality about them.

But any further thoughts of resentment were interrupted. The Bishop was looking at the clock.

“Might as well go up now,” he said. “But we mustn't stay too long. We don't want to overtire her.”

There was a screen inside the bedroom door and Dr. Trump tip-toed gingerly round it. As he did so, he was conscious of two things: the overpowering heat of the room—a large gas-fire was burning fiercely though it was still only early September—and the richly medicated atmosphere. It was like stepping into a chemist's warehouse. Immediately, he was enveloped in an odour of eau-de-Cologne, lavender water, menthol, friar's balsam, camphor, hot-water bottles, disinfectant, toothpaste. It was the very attar of sickrooms. And, as he raised his eyes, he found himself confronting the invalid—a large spongy-looking woman in a brightly flowered bed-jacket. There was a soft, almost transparent waxiness to her complexion that he found oddly disturbing. If the temperature of the room went up by even two or three degrees it seemed to him that she might start melting before his eyes into the bedclothes.

“Come in, Dr. Trump,” she said.

As she said it, she thrust out her hand. Dr. Trump took it timidly. And immediately he regretted having done so. For he found himself being pulled irresistibly forward. But it was too late. With a sudden jerk Mrs. Warple had kissed him.

“How-do-you-do,” Dr. Trump asked awkwardly.

He was still attempting to withdraw his hand. But Mrs. Warple had no intention of letting go.

“We're going to be great friends, I can see that,” she went on. “You must come and sit with me.”

“Indeed, yes,” he replied faintly. “Many, many times.”

Considering her delicate state of health, the strength of Mrs. Warple's grip was really most surprising. But so also was her whole appearance. It was evident that, unlike most chronic invalids, she had not let herself go. It was unmistakably lip-stick that she had on. And she was wearing jewellery. Large imitation pearl ear-rings were fixed to each ear, and she had a string of the little objects round her throat. From the close range at which he was inspecting her, Dr. Trump decided that she must be brave, very brave. Obviously undefeatable, in fact. But somehow not spiritual.

He drew back and found Felicity whispering in his ear.

“She likes you,” she said simply.

Dr. Trump did not know what to say. He only wished that the note of relief, of surprise even, in Felicity's voice had not been quite so pronounced. But he was not paying attention to Felicity any longer. He was staring instead at Mrs. Warple. For instead of reaching out for her smelling-salts, or even for her Bible, Mrs. Warple had taken a cigarette from a common cardboard packet that lay among the bedclothes. And, when she had lit it, she blew out a thick cloud of smoke and sank back among the pillows.

This time it was Bishop Warple who whispered. He had anxiously been observing Dr. Trump's face. And, when he caught his eye, he spoke.

“The doctors advised it,” he said in a strained half-voice. “For its soothing qualities. Nerves you know. She takes no pleasure in it.”

“Quite so,” Dr. Trump agreed.

Mrs. Warple, however, appeared to be making the best of it. She blew out another cloud and half closed her eyes.

“You don't know what it means taking my Felicity away from me,” she said in a deep melancholy-sounding voice. “She's all I have now.”