Children of the Archbishop (41 page)

By the time she got back to that top bedroom of hers she was tired, so tired that she could only throw herself down on the bed aching all over—aching back, aching arms, and legs aching from the stairs. But she was not unhappy. Far from being unhappy, in fact. It was not the tiredness that worried her. It was simply that she hadn't been able to do enough. “What those children need is a mother,” she kept telling herself. “They want someone to look after them. It's not simply Sweetie, it's every single one of them.”

But here she was lying to herself. It
was
simply Sweetie that she was thinking of. And because she was thinking of Sweetie she made excuses to see her. Clumsy, awkward excuses. And they
were not enough, these brief intermittent glimpses. Sweetie in class, her head bent over the exercise book; Sweetie in the playground talking solemnly about something that Margaret was too far away to hear; Sweetie on her knees weeding in Dr. Trump's garden. It was for something more than this that Margaret was asking. And sometimes the words formed themselves inside her.

“I want her for myself,” she kept saying. “I want her. There's no other way for it. I want her. I want her for myself.”

Nurse Stedge, however, knew nothing of this unprofessional silliness. So far as she was concerned, she was fully satisfied. And more than satisfied. Margaret, in her opinion, was a treasure, a downright treasure. It wasn't simply that she liked children. She apparently liked doing things for them, and liked going on doing those things endlessly, hour after hour, and day after day. Nurse Stedge had never seen her cross or put out or ruffled about anything. She was the real stuff that nurses are made of, the kind that you can't get in the hospitals nowadays. And every time she saw Margaret in the ward she had the same feeling. “If only she had the training,” she told herself. “If only she'd got her diploma.” But training or no training, Margaret was the best infirmary nurse that Nurse Stedge could remember. And the all important thing was that they had got her. While Dr. Trump was still inserting advertisements for ward-maids and investigating the testimonials that came in, Margaret was getting on with the job.

And what testimonials. As Dr. Trump flicked the papers over with his forefinger, he could feel himself recoiling. There was Hilda Venn—a tendency to spasticity rendered her unsuitable for intimate association with young children; Doris Long—kleptomania was her trouble; Kathleen Grimes—he could hardly bring Kathleen back after what had happened in her East Grinstead post; Janet Thomson—out of the question: it didn't even say whether her baby had been born yet; Olive Green …

Dr. Trump sat back in despair.

“We must indeed count ourselves fortunate in having Margaret,” he reflected. “I only wish that Dame Eleanor wouldn't look at me as if I had tried to lure her here.”

Tired as she was in her first week at the Hospital, Margaret wrote another of those mysterious letters of hers, a letter that
showed how her life was divided down the very middle, and that there was a part of it that failed entirely to fit into the regular pattern.

One half was all simple and straightforward: it was the sunny half that contained everything that was pleasant and comforting about her—the way she had cared for Dame Eleanor, her love of children in general, her special devotion for little Sweetie. The other half, the midnight half, was the one that contained the mystery.

And those letters of hers certainly stirred it all up again. “
… when I don't hear from you I get worried. You know I do, so you ought to write just so that I can be sure that nothing's happened
…” That is what the last few lines on the first page happened to say. You can't see the opening because her hand is across it. And that's strange too, when you come to think of it. There's something secretive about it, as though she's afraid that someone may come up and peep across her shoulder while she's writing. A whole history of furtiveness is revealed in that single gesture.

And, when she turns the page over, it's the same thing all over again. She shields the paper with her left hand while she writes down the words. She is a slow writer and it takes her some time to get to the bottom of the sheet. Then she blots it, rubbing the ball of her thumb vigorously across the blotting-paper in the way a school child does.

It is the envelope next, and there is the same deliberate caution about that too, the same shrouding with one hand while the other one is writing. Nor is that all. For as soon as she has blotted it—again that heavy-handed scrubbing on the blotting-paper—she turns it face downwards on the dressing-table. No chance of seeing anything there. Not even so much as a hint of the address.

But at least something more of the letter is now left showing. And what appears is even more puzzling than the first part. The emphasis now is all on money. There is more than a hint of something unwelcome, of compulsion possibly; but it clearly isn't blackmail. The tone is all wrong for that. There is more the suggestion of an indigent relative, someone who keeps going only by means of loans and allowances and a little bit extra at Christmas. And you may remember that this is exactly how Dame Eleanor diagnosed the trouble. So perhaps the old lady was right after all.

Because this is what the letter says: “…
so don't rely on getting something every month in future. I'm not at The Cedars any more. I'm only getting a pound a week now and it may be less when they get someone
again. Don't ask me why because I can't tell you and don't write to The Cedars whatever happens. I still hope
…”

That is all that is visible because Margaret's arm covers up the rest of it. And she makes no move to fold the letter up and stuff it into the envelope. Just sits there, staring into nothing the way she always does when she has been writing to the mysterious someone who is draining her money away from her shilling by shilling.

And there is clearly something more than the sheer bitter expense of it that is disturbing her. She is crying now. Her eyes are quite wet as she goes on staring into nothingness—at a face probably. And she does not move until a tear runs right down her cheek. When the tear reaches the corner of her mouth she puts out the tip of her tongue. Then hurriedly, as though ashamed of herself, she folds the letter abruptly and thrusts it out of sight into the envelope. But she isn't finished with it yet. Because now she does the most extraordinary thing of all. She picks up the envelope and kisses it.

The strain of being Mrs. Gordon had proved too much for Desirée. Ever since the evening when she had sat in the front room of No. 23a Deirdre Gardens talking to Miss Lewis, while Mr. Prevarius had been pretending to go to King's Cross, she had been less forthcoming. All that he was allowed nowadays was to see her home. And it was because of the unforthcomingness—almost, in fact, the holdingbackness—of Desirée, that Mr. Prevarius took his bold and purposeful step: he put his affairs, his personal and heart-rending affairs, into the hands of a marriage bureau.

Not that he proceeded rashly and unguardedly. Indeed, from the moment when the idea had first occurred to him, he took every possible precaution. For a start, he selected his marriage bureau carefully and with circumspection. This, as it turned out, had been a longer process than he had expected simply because, once he really got down to a study of the subject, he found that London
was positively bristling with marriage bureaux. On the face of it, everyone else in London was at least as lonely and unwanted as he was. Across the vast empty spaces of the human heart came their miscellaneous cries, their call-signs, their throbbings. There were even entire newspapers, periodicals, monthly magazines, devoted to this particular form of yearning. And Mr. Prevarius bought the whole lot. Dropping casually into a small newsagent's in Fulham that seemed to specialise in adult misery and its remedies, he emerged with a large sheaf of the publications.

Even getting it back into Deirdre Gardens without either of the Miss Lewises asking what it was—the trouble with the confounded thing was that in a sordid way the bundle looked vaguely eatable—was difficult enough.

Naturally, he turned to the Female Wants Sections first. And really it seemed as though his problems magically were at an end. There was no need even to compare the rival claims of the prospective clients. The pages were full of optional fascinations. They were so orderly and well-edited that a Maharajah could confidently have ordered an entire columnful. As for Mr. Prevarius with his more modest needs, he might just as well pick his charmer with a pin.

A pin! The idea seemed entirely excellent. “To think,” he reflected, as he removed the pearl tie-pin from the black silk stock that he was now affecting, “that with one wave of the hand it is a human heart that is imprisoned. But which heart? What is it that guides the dart? An inch, half an inch, to left or right and the true measurement of distance is between misery and bliss. A fraction up or down, and it may be a harridan or a wood nymph who is chosen. Such indeed is life with all its rich and glorious uncertainty.”

And smoothing out the paper upon his knee, he began making circling movements with the fatal and decisive pin.

“
Bzzz—bzzz!
” he murmured half playfully as he kept the pin suspended in its gyrations over the eager, awaiting columns. But there was, indeed, more than mere playfulness. There was also an ecstasy of suspense. “
Bzz-bzz, bzzz-bzzz-bzzz
,” he went on like an air-liner arrived too early at its airport. Then suddenly the note changed. “
Zzzz!
” he said as he desperately plunged the pearl tie-pin into fate.

The buzzing sound had been so low that the Miss Lewises were not quite sure whether they could hear anything or not. They were merely aware of a faint, insidious vibration as though in
another room a bee had been trapped behind lace curtains. But the note changed suddenly. “
Ouch!
” was the sound that reached them from the front bed-sitter, as the pearl tie-pin driven impetuously downwards penetrated the folded sheets of newspaper and went into Mr. Prevarius's knee.

The sudden sharpness of the pain brought him to his senses, and a spasm of a different kind of pain crossed his face as he remembered something. So far he hadn't said a word to Desirée about his researches into ditching her. How could he? She wouldn't have understood. There would have been a scene. Probably an ugly one. She might even have put her head into a gas-oven, with his name mentioned in an open letter to the Coroner. Besides, he didn't yet know that he was going to get what he wanted. For the present, it was much better that they should just tag along as they were until he had checked up more thoroughly on the state of the market. Only when he had other arms to fly to as the storm broke round him, would he convey the news to her.

The matrimonial paper itself had been trampled underfoot as he sprang from his chair in sudden pain. And when he came to examine the page he could find nothing. Not even the trace of a puncture. The Jethal pin had been vertical in its descent and had been jerked back again too quickly to have left even the slightest mark.

But Mr. Prevarius was not so easily defeated in the pursuit of love. He was both curious and resourceful. And as soon as he held the paper up to the lamp he could see the tiny hole of light immediately. The only trouble was that the type from the other side showed through and he might as well have been reading gibberish. So, carefully keeping the tips of his fingers over the pinpoint, he brought the paper back on to his knees again and began to read.

Then he fairly bubbled over with excitement. His stroke, blind and unguided, had come down plumb centre in the middle of a four-line insertion, that he might almost have inserted himself in the “FEMALE COMPANIONSHIP WANTED” columns.

Young lady, good figure, early twenties, genteel, attractive natural blonde
, it ran,
musical and artistic tastes, fond of dancing and the theatre but “Homey,” wishes meet refined gentleman ample means age no object similar tastes view matrimony
.

But really it was amazing! He had harpooned his dream-girl at first stab. And phrase by phrase he kept re-reading the description, running his tongue across his lips as he did so. “Good figure … early twenties … attractive natural blonde … fond of dancing”… similar tastes … Phew! It was almost too good to be true. His head was reeling. Sitting back in the chair, he closed his eyes, trying to visualise the elusive but obviously willing creature.

It was while he was sitting there that vague misgivings began to come seeping in. Did genteel young ladies really advertise themselves and their attractions in this way? Looked at coldly, it seemed rather mercenary. And how could he be sure that if he sent his reply rocketing back to the box number he would not eventually find himself face to face in a dreadful waiting-room somewhere with a shameless baggage, a hoyden, even possibly a trollop?

Margaret had been in the Hospital for nearly three months before Dr. Trump found a new matron to replace Mrs. Gurnett.

But when he found her, she was perfect. The post had been advertised in all the right places—
The Nursing Times, The Charitable Institutions Gazette, The Homes and Settlements Record
.” But though there were plenty of other candidates, they were all passed over when Miss Britt appeared.

Robust, reliable women who had nursed hundreds and whose first glance at a chest rash was worth a three-guinea Harley Street consultation, were turned down in favour of this highly-qualified ice-queen from North Staffordshire who had been successively Assistant Matron of a Home for Backward Girls in Stoke-on-Trent, a Hostel for Deficient Children in Nottingham, a Settlement for Problem Cases in Burnley, and lastly a Farm Community for Delinquents near King's Lynn.