Children of the Archbishop (40 page)

And, thanks to Dr. Trump, the Hospital was no longer the prison that it had been. The new fire-escapes had changed the whole architecture of the place. As they were being erected Ginger had studied them carefully. And appreciatively. Even though he had no very definite scheme in his head, no plan, he could not believe that so many perfect footholds, spanning walls and roofs, could not eventually be put to some useful purpose.

There was one fire-escape in particular that seemed to offer almost limitless opportunities. Starting on the landing just outside his dormitory, it zig-zagged down on to the leads below, a mere twelve feet or so from the pavement of Ryecroft Gardens, just where they led into St. Mark's Avenue. The twelve feet itself was nothing, nothing to a boy of Ginger's size. It wouldn't hurt much even if he fell. But Dr. Trump hadn't let things go at that. He had, apparently deliberately, made matters easier still. For the fire-escape in rudimentary form had been extended downwards by means of three steel rungs let into the stonework. From the bottom of these, Ginger reckoned, his feet would pretty nearly be touching the ground.

Admittedly, getting back wasn't going to be so easy. But he supposed he could manage it somehow. He could leave a piece of rope dangling down, if he could get a piece of rope. Or he could give Spud a whistle and get him to come down the fire-escape
himself and haul him in. Something or other would turn up—he was sure of that. The important thing was to get out.

Even for a short jaunt, a mere half-hour outing, however, it took a bit of planning. And if Spud were to play the part of reserve rescue obviously he would have to be told date, time, route, alarm signal, everything. But this, in itself, presented difficulties. Because the fact had to be faced that Spud was a talker. Devoted as Spud was to Ginger, obedient to his various whims, Ginger was still not entirely sure of him, not absolutely convinced of his hundred per cent reliability. He had once caught him out, passing on to another boy, whose company Ginger had subsequently forbidden him, something that Ginger had told him in confidence. And, though Spud had denied indignantly that it was secret, Ginger had given his arm an extra twist and had made the mental resolution to be more careful in the future.

Because it was so important this time, Ginger took considerable trouble about Spud's conditioning. He began by giving him a piece of coconut toffee that he had been hoarding for weeks. Wrapped in its original paper as it was, the toffee was still misleading. And that was because Ginger had twice removed it and started to lick before some sixth sense had told him that it might be needed. In consequence, it had a bent, worn sort of look but it was still recognisably coconut toffee with straight shreds from the tropics imprisoned in the creamy amber.

As Spud sucked, Ginger unfolded his plan. And, at the end of it, Ginger made Spud swear an oath. It was a ready-made oath, invented specially for the occasion. And as it proceeded it got better. Indeed, by the end, it was on the top level of oaths; memorable, impressive, infinitely binding.

“… and if I ever tell anyone,” Ginger was saying.

“… ever tell anyone,” Spud repeated after him.

“… I hereby give my friend Ginger full permission …”

“… hereby give my friend Ginger full permission …”

“… to cut my throat from ear to ear …”

“… and stab my heart in.”

“… and stab my heart in,”

So that was that. And everything was ready for Ginger's little sally. It was only in the rehearsal of the alarm signal that danger threatened. And that was because Ginger's rehearsal was too loud. Not that it was his fault exactly. He had only just learned how to
make that particular kind of whistle and, until his fingers were actually in his mouth, he never knew quite how shrill the escape of air was going to be. This time it was terrific. There was a peculiar band-saw sharpness to the edges that left the ears tingling. But it was too loud. Definitely too loud. It reached over wall and rooftop to the Warden's study. And after Ginger had emitted it for the second time just to make sure that Spud would be certain to recognise it, Dr. Trump broke off from his sermon and made the note “Playground noises” on his pad.

It was, in fact, this incident that gave Dr. Trump the basic idea for a brilliant new reform—silent breaks. And a fortnight later, after Dr. Trump had pondered, he introduced it. Henceforth, shouting, singing, whistling, cat-calls and so forth—were expressly forbidden in the main playground. The children were free to play, play for all they were worth, he emphasised; but they must in future play
discreetly
.

Tuesday was the night set aside for Ginger's experiment. Tuesday at twenty-two hundred hours. And, by the time the moment of departure came, the whole dormitory knew all about it. This was not Spud's fault, however, so much as Ginger's. And that was because of the thick streak of the actor in Ginger's nature. It was one thing to pull on a blue jersey and a pair of dirty flannels that nobody knew anything about. That was good: there was the authentic charm of midnight plot and secrecy about it. But what was ten times as good was to get ready in full view of everyone so that curiosity was roused to fever pitch, and then dismiss the whole affair as though it were nothing.

“You shut up,” he said one by one to the other boys as they questioned him. “You keep your nose out of other people's business.”

It was the ability to be able to say that, to feel the aura of mystery growing and expanding round him, that added the real flavour, the exquisiteness, to his adventure. Moreover, there was even an extra spice for which Ginger had not been prepared. Just as he clambered over the parapet he happened to look up at the dormitory. There were four windows to it. And at every one of the windows were faces, white, smudgy, goggle-eyed, admiring faces.

It was, indeed, the excitement of seeing them that made him lose his grip. And, viewed from above as Spud saw it, the effect was distinctly dramatic. At one moment he was there, suspended over space, and at the next he had disappeared. Only the slightly squeaky thump of gym shoes on hard pavement indicated that he had landed and not simply vanished.

And the pavement was certainly hard all right. It came up and hit Ginger like a hammer. The sheer pain of the blow—it felt as though his left ankle had been snapped sideways—brought him back to his senses. Up to that moment he had been too eager and excited to consider the consequences. But now as he leant up against the Hospital wall and massaged his leg from the shin right down to his foot he suddenly wondered why he had done it, why he had ever come down at all. If he were discovered he would probably get the worst caning that Dr. Trump had ever given him.

In the meantime, he decided, the best thing would be to clear off quickly in case anyone were looking. That was where his gym shoes helped. Even though his ankle was hurting, he could still run. And on soft padding feet he set off down Ryecroft Gardens towards the High Street. There weren't many people in Ryecroft Gardens at the time but, even so, he was careful. Running was conspicuous, it drew attention to you. And if people became too curious they might run after you. So now that he was out of the direct view of the Hospital windows he sauntered. Putting his hands in his trouser pockets he strolled along as though he were taking a late evening breather before turning into bed.

It all seemed so easy and natural, in fact, that he nearly headed straight into disaster as he reached the corner. He and Mr. Dawlish arrived there simultaneously. And it was only Ginger's scaling clothes that saved him. Mr. Dawlish looked straight at him. Or rather he looked at and
through
him, and passed straight on. But it taught Ginger a lesson. After that he was careful.

Not that it was easy to be careful in the High Street. There was so much light about. After the gas-lamps of Ryecroft Gardens with their incandescent mantles bubbling away inside their small glass boxes, it was like stepping into the beam of a searchlight to reach the High Street. There was light everywhere, a sort of hard brilliant daytime. And the shops. Ginger stood entranced before them. One of them had nothing but ladies' hats in it, dozens and dozens of ladies' hats, each one stuck up on a thin chromium stalk. And the shop next door was even better. It was a blaze with cheap
jewellery, rings, brooches, bangles and watches, all glittering and shining there. Ginger spent some time looking at that. He even held out his own wrist to see how one of the men's watches would appear on it.

He would have liked to spend more time looking at the watches but there was a policeman on the other corner, and the last thing that Ginger wanted was for the policeman to begin getting interested in him. So with a final wink from the diamond engagement rings, he left Aladdin's Cave behind him and went on past a grocer's that made him feel hungry with its window full of biscuits and pots of jam and tins of cocoa, past a men's tailor's with nothing but lengths of cloth showing (very dull), past a chemist's with tooth-brushes and combs and feeding-cups and bath sponges (mildly interesting) until he came to a public house.

There was something special about this because it was still open. Night-time, but still open. It hadn't got a window exactly. Just a big sheet of frosted glass. But there were designs cut in the glass. Flowers and bunches of grapes and true-lovers' knots. And there were the shadows of people's heads inside. There must have been some kind of a ledge inside the window because Ginger could see the shadows of glasses as well, a whole row of them. But the best thing of all was the music. Inside, someone was playing a piano. Playing it very fast; faster than Ginger had ever heard a piano played before. And louder. Whenever the door—which was of glass, too, with the same design of flowers and grapes and love-knots—swung open, the noise of the piano burst all over him like a silver-and-gilt waterfall.

And with the music came another sound as well, a roar of voices as though everyone inside was shouting at the top of his voice—not quarrelling, just shouting. And above the shouts, the sharp clink of glass, and the rattle of the cash register.

Altogether, it was easily the noisiest place Ginger had ever found, and the jolliest. When he got a glimpse of the inside, he saw that it was also the brightest. There were lights everywhere arranged in festoons with little paper shades on them, and the whole of the wall was of mirror with shelves of coloured bottles in front of it. It was easily the most beautiful interior that he had ever come upon, and the only thing that he didn't like was the smell, a hot, stagnant, used-up kind of smell that made him wonder how all these noisy, jolly people could stand it. But the sheer beauty of the place was staggering.

The words, “Time, gentlemen, please,” came to him suddenly
through those tantalising swing-doors. And, at the same instant, the little clusters and festoons of lights were extinguished. People poured past him as he stood in the passageway under the “No betting,” “No Children Admitted,” “No drinking on the footpath” notices. There was a finality to the whole incident that left Ginger saddened and at a loss. The curtain had come down and the magic was no longer there. But the moral of the moment was lost to him. He should have recognised it for the signal that it was time for all decent people to be getting to their beds. And, instead of that, there he was still looking for adventure.

Then a remark dropped casually over the shoulder disturbed him. He was standing doing nothing in particular when he saw a woman nudge her companion as she was going out with him.

“Just look at the clothes that boy is wearing,” she said. “He might be an orphan.”

An orphan! This set Ginger's nerves tingling. It was everything that he had wanted to avoid: he was conspicuous again. So he decided that it was time to be moving on. And quickly, too. Determined to put as much distance as possible between himself and the woman, he crossed the road to the railway station. And then a stroke of sheer genius came to him. Going over to the paper stand outside, he bought an
Evening Standard
. Admittedly, it was expensive: when he had paid for it he had only got two pence halfpenny left. But it should have allayed all suspicion. The one thing that orphans don't do it is to buy expensive evening papers.

If Mr. Dawlish had been more thorough in his invigilation, he might have come upon an unusual group in the lavatory at break the next morning. At the far end of the water closets, five boys were assembled with Ginger in their centre. He had a copy of last night's
Evening Standard
in his hands, and the other boys were looking admiringly from it to him and back at the newspaper again. Then the bell sounded. Ginger folded up the paper and restored it to his pocket.

“Givicher for a ha'penny when I've finished it,” he volunteered. “I can get er nuvver one whenever I want it.”

Sweetie was better by now. Recovered completely, so far as anyone could tell. She was out of the Infirmary again, and playing with the others as though the fear of death had never troubled her.

What is more, she did not appear to have any particular need of Margaret. And Margaret hadn't really got much time left for Sweetie either. She was living just the kind of life that Dame Eleanor had predicted: up at 6.30 in a little bleak cubicle of a room with only a straw mat between her feet and the chill of the bare oilcloth, and in the ward shortly after seven because there was no night-sister at the moment and Nurse Stedge, who was sleeping up there for the time being, wanted to get on with her own job.

It was then that Margaret's day really began—sheets to be changed, faces and bodies washed, bed-pans carried, temperatures taken, meals collected. And there were all the things that Nurse Stedge needed when she came round again at about ten-thirty—little bowls of hot water, lint, bandages, enemas, syringes. Sometimes, if one of the children was really ill, Margaret did not get proper meals at all—just a cup of tea and a couple of thick slices of bread and butter taken up there in the ward with the children.