Children of the Archbishop (27 page)

She even managed to say under her breath: “I didn't write it. It's from Sweetie.”

And this was very thoughtful of her. Because, when he read it, Ginger realised that if she hadn't explained, he wouldn't have had the least idea where it had come from.

Anyhow, Ginger found it an awful bore getting it. It worried him. And he resented it. Why couldn't she leave him alone? Why did she have to climb up on things, hollering at him? And now, why did she have to send him a piece of paper with “FOR GINGER” written on it? At odd moments during the next three days, he pondered on her inexplicable behaviour. Perhaps she was a bit mad, he decided.

And then a little incident occurred that made him see things in a new light. One of the seniors—a big fellow of practically fourteen—was found over in the laundry section talking through the window to one of the junior laundresses. The ironing section was absolutely forbidden territory to the boys of any age and because of this flouting of authority, Dr. Trump caned him immediately. Caned him, despite the fact that the boy was almost as tall as he was.

That made Ginger think. If he had been discovered over in the girls' side and at night too, his punishment might have been anything. Prison, most probably. Or, at any rate, a reformatory. And Sweetie had saved him from that without even so much as a thought for her own reputation. Clearly, he had cause to be grateful.

So, simply because Dr. Trump had caned one of the seniors, Ginger wrote his reply. He did it during Geography, right under Mr. Dawlish's nose. In the circumstances, it wasn't as carefully written as Sweetie's. And, by the time he had got it into Annie's hands, it was pretty dirty-looking because there had been other things in the same pocket. But Sweetie didn't mind about that. It said all that she could have wanted it to say.

In Ginger's bold and manly handwriting, it read: “FOR SWEATY.”

It was Felicity Warple herself who had prompted Dr. Trump; and more than prompted—goaded. For the past fortnight she had spoken of practically nothing else. The Warden's Residence, she declared emphatically, was uninhabitable. And something, she added, would have to be done about it before she could be expected to set up house there.

At first Dr. Trump had assumed that it was mere eagerness and excitement that made her behave in this way. Admittedly, in Canon Mallow's day, The Residence like so much else in The Hospital, had been sadly neglected, simply allowed to go to ruin, in fact. But Dr. Trump had already, he thought, put all that to rights. He could see nothing wrong with it now. There was new brown linoleum right through the ground floor, with a pleasing and artistic change-over to green on the landings; and the dado that he had found as a muddy coffee was now rich, shining chocolate. Even the woodwork on the banisters had been repainted—and properly done, too; the original graining of the oak showed up most plainly. And when the morning sun shone in through the squares of stained glass in the fanlight over the front door, the whole effect was glossy, beautiful, even opulent.

Nevertheless, it did not satisfy Felicity. Everything in white was what she wanted. White and chintzy, with painted parchment shades to all the lights. It made all the difference having the right kind of lamp-shades, Felicity explained: it didn't matter a bit how dark and opaque they were, provided that all the rest of the room was bright and gay and flowery. It rather added to the effect, in fact.

Also, she had once girlishly confided in Dr. Trump, there were her china rabbits. She had a unique collection of them, it seemed. Rabbits of all ages; and of all sizes. With ears erect; and laid back. Asleep; and scratching themselves. Prone; and prancing. Staring piteously upwards; and winking humorously. Realistic; and stylised. Painted in full, natural colours; and in plain
porcelain. In family groups; and solitary specimens. She had been collecting them ever since she had been a child, and they had come from as far away as Bournemouth, Bangor and Rosyth. By now there were thirty-seven of them, and she was simply aching for a home of her own where she could show them properly. She even had some tiny china toadstools to go with them.

With every day that passed, Felicity was thinking more and more about her future home. It was still a good three months before she would be occupying it, because despite his natural eagerness for matrimony, Dr. Trump remained decisively opposed to short engagements. But, from the way Felicity spoke, it might have been to-morrow. And, carried away by her enthusiasm, she insisted on paying frequent visits. Simply to get the feel of the place, she said; so that she could lie awake afterwards planning and deciding where everything should go.

From the far-away look in her eyes, Dr. Trump guessed that she was planning something at this very moment. There were just the three of them—Felicity, the Bishop and himself—all seated round the fireside in the Bishop's study. It was a singularly bleak February day outside, and Dr. Trump had allowed himself to be pressed to a third cup of tea and the second half of a toasted tea-cake. Because it was a Saturday afternoon, the Bishop was momentarily a man of leisure, and he was certainly at his most affable. Dr. Trump had already heard two delightfully intimate stories about his late Archbishop—the kind of stories that he would be able to repeat as though he, too, had been a frequent visitor to Lambeth—and a quite astonishing anecdote about a visiting American divine and his behaviour in a London club.

As he sat there, Dr. Trump was conscious of a most delicious warmth; a dual warmth, both physical and spiritual. The fire was toasting his ankles and spreading up his legs, and his mind was filling with pictures of eventual advancement when he, too, would be able to drop into his club on his way back from Church House to drink a glass of sherry and gossip casually with his brethren from the other Sees. Altogether, it was exactly the sort of afternoon that Dr. Trump would have liked to have go on for ever.

But apparently his Felicity was restless already. Indeed, during her father's last story about a minor and otherwise forgotten Archdeacon who when nervous had always developed a highly comical impediment in his speech, Dr. Trump noticed that she was not listening at all. And as soon as Bishop Warple had finished
laughing over his own impersonation of the tonguetied Archdeacon, Felicity turned accusingly to Dr. Trump.

“You haven't forgotten, have you?” she asked.

“Forgotten, my dear,” Dr. Trump inquired. “Forgotten what?”

An expression of pain or irritation—Dr. Trump feared that it might be the latter—crossed Felicity's face.

“That means you have,” she said tersely.

“But I don't understand, my love …” Dr. Trump began. “Was it something I promised?”

“It was something we'd arranged to do together,” she told him with a gulp in her voice. “That's all it was. But it doesn't matter, if you don't remember.”

“Was it … was it something to do with the house?” Dr. Trump asked cautiously.

“We were going to measure for curtains,” Felicity replied.

She gave a little sniff as she said it and Dr. Trump was afraid that she was about to cry. And her next remark did nothing to reassure him.

“Not that I mind,” she said, staring hard into the fire. “If you don't care how the place looks I'm sure I don't.”

Bishop Warple rose hurriedly and caught Dr. Trump's eye.

“Well, I must leave you now,” he said “I have my correspondence to attend to.”

On the way round to the Hospital, Felicity was a different girl altogether. She almost apologised. But her father's stories, she explained, sometimes drove her almost to distraction. And, if she ever had to hear the story about the stuttering Archdeacon again she really thought she'd scream or smash something.

For a moment Dr. Trump was too stunned to be able to say anything. He had never imagined that anyone, least of all the Bishop's daughter, could think of it in that way. Besides, he had thought the impersonation of the Archdeacon very funny and clever; and all the more subtle somehow because it was a Bishop who was doing the impersonation. Really, women were the most puzzling of creatures.

Felicity, however, had entirely failed to notice how deeply she had shocked him. She was prattling on again already about the curtains.

“… with a deep valance,” she was saying, “and proper draw-cords they ought to be lovely. The real trouble with chintzes is that people don't line them properly.”

She spoke as though this were a deep secret known only to herself, and a small inner circle of chintz-lovers; and Dr. Trump did not feel entitled to make any comment.

“And another thing,” she went on. “We must have proper runners. Ordinary rings are quite hopeless.”

There was a pause. A brief one.

“… and central heating,” Felicity was saying. “The house is like an ice-well. They'd better put a hot towel rail, too, in the bathroom while they're at it. We can't be expected to use the bathroom as it is. It hasn't even got a built-in bath.”

Dr. Trump drew in a deep breath.

“Everything shall be exactly as you want it,” he said.

Felicity smiled up at him gratefully.

“As you want it, too, Samuel,” she told him.

The afternoon had, if anything, grown colder. The sun had been shining brightly earlier in the day. But it was now lost behind low grey clouds that looked as though they might be concealing snow. Dr. Trump made a mental note to make sure that Sergeant Chiswick had closed all the windows. He didn't want the man simply to be shovelling coals into the boiler unnecessarily.

He and Felicity had reached the corner of St. Mark's Avenue and were walking alongside the wall of the boys' playground. The bricks themselves seemed to be radiating a hard, bitter cold. And when Felicity suddenly shivered and Dr. Trump looked down at her, he noticed that the tip of her nose—her thin, distinctive Warple nose—was a bright shell pink.

“Oh dear,” thought Dr. Trump, “poor circulation.”

The discovery annoyed him. He still felt a trifle self-conscious when he went anywhere with Felicity in public. And in particular, he was anxious that she should always look her best. The thought that other people—enemies like Mrs. Gurnett and Mr. Prevarius—might make disparaging remarks behind his back was quite unbearable.

Not that any improvement in Felicity's complexion would entirely have removed his embarrassment. The real cause lay deeper. It lay in her very presence. There was, he was bound to admit, something essentially frivolous in the very sound of the word
fiancée
.

It pleased him still less that she should have chosen that moment to take his arm. But, worst of all, she snuggled. Dr. Trump was afraid that such a gesture might be misconstrued. But it was all right: there was no one about, and all that she wanted to do was to keep warm.

Not that the Hospital was any more sheltered than the street outside. The arch of the gate-house led straight into the open cloisters, and there was bare playground on either side. Even the green-painted door with the brass plate, “Warden's Residence,” did not conceal anything better. There was merely a narrow gravel path with a strip of grey-looking grass on either side of it. But cold as she was, Felicity's spirits rose. She began planning again.

“And as soon as we've got settled,” she started off, “we shall have to do something about this garden.”

“Do something?” Dr. Trump asked in surprise.

“Flowers,” Felicity told him. “It all needs digging and then planting.”

“I see,” said Dr. Trump.

“You don't sound very excited,” Felicity said to him.

“Oh, but I am,” Dr. Trump assured her.

Then a happy thought crossed his mind.

“The older boys shall do the digging,” he volunteered magnanimously. “And the little girls may plant the flowers.”

They had reached the Residence by now and Dr. Trump with his free arm contrived to get the front door open. It was a relief to shut the wind out, and he was just about to remove his overcoat when Felicity suddenly threw her arms around him.

“I loved what you said just now,” she told him.

“About what, my love?” he asked.

There was a note of caution in his voice as he addressed her because he had detected a tenseness, a sudden ardour, that alarmed him.

“About the garden,” she said simply.

“And why about the garden?”

“Because we want it to be all pretty and flowery,” she confided. “We want the garden to be one big nursery.”

Dr. Trump shuddered involuntarily. Now that he was actually about to embark on marriage, those four children that he had made her promise him seemed somehow excessive. Three would possibly be suitable. Or even two.

But he concealed his feelings.

“One big nursery,” he repeated, and kissed her ice-cold face.

Ginger was sitting at a desk in the front row of the empty schoolroom, writing. He had already finished two pages. And the rest of the paper—eight pages more of it—lay by his right hand in readiness.

Eight pages is a lot. Writing as fast as he could, one page in ten minutes was as much as he could manage. Because writing had never been one of his good subjects. He didn't hold the pen properly or something. And it wasn't interesting either. Not what he was writing. Simply “I must not spit,” “I must not spit,” line after line, all down the page.

What was more, he didn't even want to spit. Not in the slightest. The sudden, uncontrollable desire for spitting, the inexplicable impulse to prove that he was the longest, straightest, wettest spitter in the whole Hospital had passed away completely. No trace of the spitter remained anywhere in his whole make-up. At this moment, spitting seemed entirely valueless and without merit: it was potty, barmy, kids'-stuff. He couldn't imagine why he had ever cared for it.