Children of the Archbishop (32 page)

“Coming, sir,” a voice said.

Because the middle portion of the wall had collapsed, it took Ginger some time to get round to Canon Mallow. And when he arrived Canon Mallow looked at him in astonishment: until he had been again brought face to face with Ginger he had forgotten quite how dirty a small boy could get himself. Not that it would have been difficult this time. The whole place was like a charcoal-burner's. But he looked pleased to see Canon Mallow.

“What are
you
doing here?” Canon Mallow asked.

“Just looking, sir.”

“Why aren't you in the classroom?”

“I'm on the way to the lavatory, sir.”

Canon Mallow shook his head.

“This isn't the way to the lavatory, is it, Ginger?”

Because Ginger didn't answer, Canon Mallow dug him gently in the ribs with his forefinger.

“It isn't, is it, Ginger?”

Ginger grinned.

“No, sir,” he answered.

Canon Mallow looked away from him and stared down into the ruins.

“Most extraordinary,” he said, speaking aloud in the way that had now become a habit with him. “Not even a clue as to what caused it.”

Ginger looked down at his feet. Then he moistened his lips. This was the moment for his big confession.

“Sir.”

“What is it, Ginger?”

“I know what done it,” he said.

“Do you, Ginger?”

“Yes, sir. It was me.”

“Are you sure?”

Ginger nodded.

“Have you told Dr. Trump?”

“No, sir.”

“Then tell me.”

“I took some cinders there.”

“Cinders, Ginger?”

“Yes, sir. Out of the boiler.”

“Did you steal them, Ginger?”

“No, sir. They was old cinders. They'd been thrown away.”

“And what did you do with them?”

“I put ‘em in my tin, sir.”

“What tin?”

“My biscuit tin.”

“What made you do it? Did you want to set fire to the place?”

“No, sir. I just wanted to keep them.”

Canon Mallow put his hands on Ginger's shoulders and moved the boy round so that he was facing him.

“Now look at me and speak the truth. You're quite sure you didn't try to set fire to anything?”

“Quite sure, sir.”

Canon Mallow seemed relieved.

“Then don't you worry any more,” he said. “Because it wasn't your cinders, you see. It was a short-circuit in the wiring. The firemen have said so.”

So that was the end of that. And, while he was speaking, Canon Mallow was searching in his pocket. He liked Ginger and he wanted to give the boy a little present.

“Here's some pocket money for you,” he said.

It was a shilling that he was looking for. He hadn't got a shilling, however. All that he had was half a crown. Half a crown was too much: he couldn't even afford it. But now that he had shown it to the boy, however, he didn't see very well how he could put it away again.

“Don't go and spend it all at once,” he said. “Keep it and buy yourself something useful.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ginger told him.

“And now hurry up and go to the lavatory,” Canon Mallow told him. “You've been waiting a long time.”

As Canon Mallow moved away, he suddenly remembered that there was a rule against the boys having loose cash in their hands. Twopence a week was all that was allowed, and any accumulations had to be paid into individual savings accounts. It was something like that: he couldn't remember the exact details because it was such a long time since he had made the regulation.

It was not until quite late in the evening when Canon Mallow was able to see Dr. Trump. The Warden had been kept busy all day and now looked tired, Canon Mallow thought. In the circumstances, he didn't like to tackle him about Mr. Dawlish. But the poor man was so obviously distressed about having to go that he saw no alternative. And naturally that set them talking.

In the end, Dr. Trump ended the conversation quite abruptly.

“I don't want you to miss your last train,” he said.

Canon Mallow looked at his watch, then at the clock on the Warden's mantelpiece, and then back at his watch again.

“I … I've missed it,” he said.

“Have you anywhere to sleep?” Dr. Trump inquired coldly.

Canon Mallow confessed that he had not.

“Then you had better stay here,” Dr. Trump told him.

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” Canon Mallow answered. “You are most kind. And do you think that possibly you could find me some pyjamas? You see when I left this morning I didn't know that I should be staying. And if I might use the phone. Otherwise, they'll be worrying about me.” Canon Mallow paused. “It's lovely being back here again,” he said at last. “As I am stopping, perhaps you wouldn't mind if I came into prayers in the morning. I could stand right at the back where they wouldn't notice me.”

The morning of Dr. Trump's wedding dawned clear and cold; and, though the weather forecast predicted fog and low temperatures, by the time the happy couple were ready to depart, it was fine and sunny with a hint of real summer in the air.

Fine and sunny; the hired car a Rolls, and his bride a bishop's daughter. But, even so, Dr. Trump was not happy in his heart. And that was because there had been so many little things to upset him. Ridiculous, undignified, distasteful things.

On the previous afternoon he had made one of his customary
tours of inspection. Only this had been an unusually thorough one. He had wanted to make sure that everything would tick over smoothly during his … his absence: “honeymoon” was a word that somehow he simply couldn't bring himself to use. And when he had reached the kindergarten playroom he had found Margaret there. The children were all gathered round her and she was showing them something. And really it was remarkable, quite remarkable, how pleasing she looked. There was that placid Madonna-like quality that he had noticed the first time he had set eyes on her. Not beauty exactly. Sheer womanliness rather. Motherliness, even. And everything that went with it—gentleness, affection, purity. With her dark shining hair and the pale oval of her face, she might have stepped straight out of the Old Testament. It might be Ruth herself, for example, that he was looking at. “She's … she's good enough for a stained-glass window,” he told himself. And then, shocked at the course his thoughts were taking, he had stopped abruptly. Really it was too dreadful the way the old Adam kept breaking through. There he was on the eve of his own wedding-day gloating over the physical attractions of another woman. He was disgusted at himself. And when Margaret saw him there and smiled at him, his emotions were entirely under control again. He merely gave her a curt nod and reminded her that the fire-guard needed fixing.

Then, on his own marriage morning, with the bride practically setting forth, he was forced suddenly to cast off the spirit of a bridegroom and become a schoolmaster again. In short, he was forced to cane Ginger again. Fairly paste him, this time, for what was nothing less than a savage and unprovoked assault.

And it had all been so unexpected. Up to that moment, indeed, Dr. Trump had been in a singularly benign and jubilant frame of mind. A little nervous, perhaps; but still jubilant and still benign. As he fitted his new black moiré dickey around his neck he had caught his own eye in the mirror. And it was with profound respect that he took notice of himself. Not that he was exactly handsome—he was ready to concede that much; not handsome in a vulgar, actorish way, that is. But there was something in the bone structure of his forehead that was more than handsome: it was truly
fine
. And his eyebrows gave a kind of dignity and nobility to the whole. Altogether, it was the sort of face that essentially looked down from places—from public platforms, from pulpits, from magistrates' benches, from gilt frames in the Royal Academy, from distinguished strangers' galleries.

When he had wriggled himself into his clerical frock-coat and inserted in his buttonhole the white carnation that had been standing ready in the tooth-glass on the dressing-table, he stood back for a moment to take stock of the entire effect. It was distinctly gratifying. Considering that he was forty-three, his figure was certainly a credit to him. It was something that he should be able to wear the same frock-coat that he had worn twenty-one years previously when he had gone back to St. Asaph's to receive his doctorate. Admittedly, he had not worn it often in the meantime. Doctorates are not picked up every day, and social fashions had declined rather than improved in the interim. Indeed, after two clerical occasions when Dr. Trump had found that he was the only person present in a frock-coat, he had wistfully hung the garment up in his wardrobe and given instructions that it should be sprayed for moth every springtime. At this moment, except for three small holes ingeniously repaired by the invisible menders, the suit was as it had left the tailors. And, if Dr. Trump did not attempt to button it, there was nothing even to hint at the passing of the years.

He was, in fact, feeling at his best, his absolute best, as he strolled out into the cloisters on that fine April morning. He had just acknowledged with a polite, though distant, half bow the rather self-conscious smile that Mrs. Gurnett gave him as she passed, when he noticed a crowd of boys huddled in the far corner. This in itself was unusual, since talking was prohibited within the cloisters, and small boys in number are usually unable to remain silent for any length of time. Dr. Trump therefore expectantly cocked his head to one side to listen. And it was exactly as he had anticipated. There was a low buzz of conversation that reached him right across the width of the courtyard.

This was defiance of the Archbishop Bodkin rules. Dr. Trump therefore walked over in their direction. He did not hurry. And he was still inclined to be indulgent. A frown here, a cuff over the ears there—and so far as this morning was concerned the incident would be over. But, as he drew nearer, he was horrified to hear the distinctive chink of a coin, and his blood ran cold. Gambling? Was it possible? Here in the open cloisters!

He was just about to address them, to call them sharply to their senses, when trouble broke out somewhere inside the group. The coin chinked again and immediately he heard Ginger say: “Gimme back, or I'll pay you.” This in turn was answered by a defiant sound like “Garn,” and the next moment Dr. Trump winced as he heard the distinctive whack of a well-delivered blow.

Then he spoke.

“Every boy to remain where he is,” he commanded. “No one is to move.”

And within the little circle of stone figures Dr. Trump found what he had expected. Ginger, with his collar burst open, was standing opposite a boy with white face and a brightly bleeding nose.

“I see!” said Dr. Trump. “Fighting!”

There was a pause.

“Whose penny did I hear fall?” he asked.

Because no one answered and because Dr. Trump knew that any moment his bride would be arriving at the church, he could contain his temper no longer. Reaching out, he gripped Ginger by the ear.

“Was it your penny?” he demanded. “Was it, boy?”

“No, sir,” Ginger answered.

Because the reply irritated him still further, Dr. Trump gave Ginger's ear a sharp tug. For an instant Ginger was caught off balance and, as he moved, he revealed the coin that he had been concealing with his foot. Dr. Trump detected it instantly.

“Is that yours?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Ah,” said Dr. Trump gloatingly. “So you lied to me.”

By then, Dr. Trump had already decided to cane Ginger. For lying, there was only one punishment, six crisp ones with his middle-sized cane. But Dr. Trump was still unprepared for it when Ginger answered back.

“I didn't lie, sir. It isn't a penny.”

“Then what is it?”

“It's half a crown, sir.”

“Half a crown,” Dr. Trump repeated, in an aghast tone of voice as though half-crowns were blasphemous. “Half a crown! And where did
you
get a half a crown, pray?”

“Canon Mallow gave it to me, sir.”

“Canon Mallow!”

Dr. Trump could not attempt to conceal the irritation in his voice. He would write to Canon Mallow protesting. And, in the meantime, there was Ginger to be attended to.

Dr. Trump turned on him.

“You know you're not allowed to have any money,” he said sternly.

There was a pause.

“Pick it up,” Dr. Trump ordered.

Ginger picked it up.

“Now give it to me.”

“It's mine, sir.”

“Give it to me, I say.”

He screwed Ginger's ear as he said it and Ginger painfully handed over the half-crown.

“Come with me,” said Dr. Trump, still not letting go of Ginger's ear.

The walk to the front gate was not a long one and Dr. Trump walked rapidly. Once there, he paused triumphantly before an iron-bound collecting-box mounted on the wall. On the side of the box, the words “For the Hospital” were lettered. And twisting round Ginger's head so that he could see exactly what was occurring, Dr. Trump dropped the coin noisily into the box.

As it fell, Ginger kicked him.

In consequence, Dr. Trump caned Ginger harder than he had ever caned any boy before. Or rather, he caned Ginger harder than he had ever caned Ginger before—after the last caning Dr. Trump had noticed wryly that the corporal punishment book was practically dedicated to Ginger. Only three other boys, in fact, had been caned in the whole time Dr. Trump had been there. And it was because he caned Ginger so hard—fairly lamming at him, in fact—that he split the seam on his right shoulder. Tight at the outset, it suddenly ripped open like a banana, revealing the soft white interior. And, as it tore apart, the bronze clock on the mantelpiece struck 10.45.