Children of the Archbishop (66 page)

One by one, the names of the entire staff were considered, mauled over and dismissed. Miss Bodkin was the cause of some delay. Suddenly catching the name “Prevarius” just as he had
been unanimously rejected, she thought that he was being proposed as Dr. Trump's successor and she opposed him. It took her nearly ten minutes to explain why and, in the end, she sat back wearing the exhausted smile of someone who has successfully carried her point in the teeth of fierce opposition.

After considering the staff, they next turned the searchlight on themselves. Dame Eleanor immediately made it quite clear to them that if it had not been for her other activities—the Unmarried Mothers, and all the rest of it—she would have taken over the vacant Wardenship herself; would indeed, have jumped at it. And so would the others, but for their own peculiar commitments. Canon Larkin, for instance, had just been called in by the Polynesian Mission Officers' Association to advise on staff pensions and was more than fully occupied; Mr. Chitt, the tract publisher, was taking practically full-time treatment for his rheumatism—had, indeed, emerged from a steaming seaweed compress specially for to-day's meeting, and had the tang of kelp and bladder-wrack still clinging to him; Miss Bodkin couldn't even be made to understand why they were all suddenly talking about themselves; and Mr. Chigwell had just got married.

The Board could probably have had Mr. Chigwell if they had really set their hearts on him. For, as soon as he found all eyes turned in his direction, he faltered. After a firm, rather romantic opening about a new bride, he now spoke as though, backed by a sufficiently strong resolution of the Board, he would be ready to break up the marriage to-morrow if it were asked of him. But he need not have upset himself. Nobody really wanted Mr. Chigwell. And after that one dreadful moment in the limelight he was allowed to pass into obscurity again, fading slowly back from crimson into pink and so eventually to his own natural tallow pallidness again.

By then the conversation had turned to possible outside candidates, and even the rival masters of St. Christopher's were contemplated. But nobody got anywhere. The Board, indeed, was still hard at rejecting people when tea time came round and Canon Larkin took out his watch and began shuffling with his papers.

And then it was that Dame Eleanor showed herself at her most masterful, proved once again why she was Chairman and they were only Governors.

“Oh no you don't,” she said, looking hard at Canon Larkin. “We're having tea served in here. We break up when we've found someone, and not before. As we're all busy people we might as well go on talking while we're eating …”

It was sheer kindness to Canon Mallow that he did not know what was happening up in Putney. As it was, he was sitting down to an after-dinner cup of tea in Mrs. Gurnett's private sitting-room, idly stirring round and round with the apostle spoon long after the lump of sugar had melted. Simply sitting stirring, and thinking about nothing in particular.

Mrs. Gurnett was there on the other side of the fireplace. It was her one quiet time of the day, this moment when the doctors had gone, all the meals were finished and the trays had been collected. When the night nurse took over, Mrs. Gurnett usually reckoned to have half an hour or so to herself. Or rather, half an hour or so with Canon Mallow.

It had gradually become a part of the pattern of the day that Canon Mallow should come down at this time. Not that there was anything crude and taken-for-granted about the arrangement. On the contrary, there was a delicately preserved air of refinement and surprise. Every evening at 7.25 the night nurse knocked on Canon Mallow's door with the message that, if he wasn't doing anything particular, Matron wondered if he would care to join her in the private sitting-room. And, because Canon Mallow never was doing anything, he always thanked the night nurse kindly and, after a decent interval or two or three minutes, he followed her down the stairs. What was so nice was that there was always the deeper of the two arm-chairs drawn up to the fire specially for him, and by about 7.29 he would be comfortably seated in it.

It was the cosiness of these moments that counted for so much. And now that he had experienced the real thing, he realised that up to the present there hadn't been very much in the way of cosiness in his life. In a muddled, disorganised, bachelor sort of way he had been too busy to bother about cosiness. But at present, with all the time in the world on his hands, he found himself rather liking it. And nowadays as 7.15 in the evening came round, he felt a kind of restlessness inside him as though all day he had been waiting for the knock on the door and the invitation.

To-night in particular the warmth of the little room enfolded him. It had the same quality as hot baths and fleecy bedroom slippers. He was a trifle on the tired side already because he had been at it pretty nearly all day sending off more of those innumerable replies to Old Bodkinians who kept writing to him. And it was pleasant, very pleasant, to sit there, with the heat of the fire on his knees and the standard lamp placed exactly in the right position—on the left hand side and about six inches to the rear.

The cup of tea was something else that he had been looking forward to. Mrs. Gurnett always insisted on making the tea herself, and there was a freshness to it as though the stuff had only just been discovered. And, come to think of it, it was funny that he and Mrs. Gurnett should have known each other for more than twenty years and, only within the past six months, have discovered that they both preferred China to Indian.

Then there was the evening paper. The night sister made a point of bringing it in with her when she came on duty. And this was peculiar because apparently neither she nor Mrs. Gurnett really cared very much for what was going on in the outside world—both too busy probably. At any rate there it always was, ready on the occasional table beside the arm-chair when he got down there, as uncreased and new-looking as though it had just come off the press.

Mrs. Gurnett never seemed to mind either that it was to the evening paper rather than to her that Canons Mallow alway turned. On the contrary, she encouraged it. A wise woman, she preserved her own silence. She was content to sit there, doing nothing mostly but brood over the small white-haired figure in the arm-chair opposite, watching for the moment when his cup was empty and he was ready for another one—just half a cup this time. And conversation, such as it was, never started until the cup had been put down for a second time and Mrs. Gurnett had rung for the maid to take away the tray.

To-night the silence was longer even than usual. Canon Mallow was drumming idly with his fingers on the arm of the chair, and Mrs. Gurnett was staring vacantly into the red honeycomb of the gas-fire.

Then, with her face flushed a little from the heat of the room and from her own proximity to the fireplace, she spoke.

“I've been thinking,” she said.

And, having uttered as much, she stopped herself.

Canon Mallow looked up. There was a little half-smile upon
his face; a mixture of friendliness and surprise as though even to be spoken to at all had taken him unawares.

“Yes?” he asked.

“It's about that room of yours,” Mrs. Gurnett went on.

The smile left Canon Mallow's face.

“You mean you want it?” he asked.

Mrs. Gurnett's flush deepened.

“Bless the man,” she answered, and flushed more deeply still realising that she had never spoken to him in that way before. “I don't mean anything of the kind.”

“Then what do you mean?”

Canon Mallow's face was puckered into a frown now as he faced her. He wished that he could see Mrs. Gurnett more plainly, but with his reading-glasses on it was impossible. All that he could discern in the arm-chair opposite was a large square figure with what appeared to be an unusually bright pink face.

But already Mrs. Gurnett was speaking again.

“It's not healthy being cooped up in that one room all day.”

“Oh, but I'm very comfortable there, I assure you,” Canon Mallow replied. “I am really.”

“If only things were different you could have this for a study,” Mrs. Gurnett explained. “I need only be in here in the evenings.”

The frown on Canon Mallow's face deepened.

“But … but how could they be different?” he asked at last. “I'm perfectly well content with everything just as it is. On the other hand, if you've got anything in mind you've only to mention it. I'm quite sure that I'll be able to fit in with whatever you suggest.”

He paused, wondering what it was that had made Mrs. Gurnett quite so extraordinarily mystifying. In all the time during which they had been together he had never known her be other than straightforward and direct before. And her next remark was even more bewildering still.

“Well, if you can't see it, I'd better tell you,” she said. “Really I had. And I don't care what you think of me.”

At that Canon Mallow saw that he would have to take things seriously. He sat up very straight and folded his hands neatly in his lap.

“Whatever it is, I'm sure that I shall always think very highly of you,” he replied. “Very highly indeed. I always have.”

“You're not making it any easier for me,” Mrs. Gurnett told him.

“But … but what do you want me to say?” Canon Mallow
demanded. “I've told you, I'm ready to agree to anything if … if it suits your convenience.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Gurnett, bracing herself. “It's for you to decide, not me. But when two people who've known each other as long as we have don't seem to be able to get along without each other, and when there are no ties on either side, and when neither of them is getting any younger, and when there's a house and staff all ready and waiting …”

But she never reached the end of that sentence. For at that moment there was a knock at the door and the maid came in with a telegram. It lay there, orange-coloured and menacing-looking on the small electro-plated tray which Mrs. Gurnett insisted should be used for delivering all messages.

“For the Canon, ma'am,” she said.

For a moment Canon Mallow said nothing. He was still too much confused and embarrassed to speak. It was only towards the end of Mrs. Gurnett's speech that he had realised the direction in which it was all leading, and he had no idea what reply to make. Mrs. Gurnett was such a thoroughly sensible woman that if she wanted to marry him he had no doubt that it would be for the best all round. Indeed, now that he came to think of it he began to wonder why he had never suggested it himself. But even if it had occurred to him, he knew that he wouldn't have carried it any farther. He never had been the proposing kind, and seventy-four was a little too late in life to begin starting anything of the kind.

So, instead of attempting any kind of reply, he picked up the telegram from the tray that the girl was holding out to him.

“If you'll forgive me,” he said. “Perhaps I'd better just see what it says.”

Mrs. Gurnett noticed that, when he had seen it, he went so white that for a moment she thought he was going to faint. But, in the circumstances, perhaps even that would have been excusable. For the telegram was certainly a sensational one. It was from Dame Eleanor and it said everything that in silly, dreaming moments when he was just dropping off to sleep, he had imagined a telegram saying to him.

“IF HEALTH PERMITS CAN YOU RETURN IMMEDIATELY BODKIN HOSPITAL TAKE UP TEMPORARY WARDENSHIP DURING SUDDEN ILLNESS DR. TRUMP,” it ran. “BOARD UNANIMOUSLY HOPES YOU ACCEPT. IMPORTANT REPLY BY RETURN.”

When he had read to the end of it, he remained silent. Then, still without a word, he passed the telegram over to her.

Their eyes met.

“If there's a train, I really ought to go to-night,” he said. “Perhaps we could discuss the … the other matter later. I … I do so appreciate what you were just saying.”

It was poor Mr. Jeffcote's room that Canon Mallow chose for his own apartment.

There were two good reasons for this. In the first place, it was empty. And, secondly, after so many years spent right on top of himself in the twelve-by-ten of a bed-sitter, the Warden's Lodging seemed so vast, so ridiculously roomy. Indeed, now that he came to reflect upon it he could not imagine how he had ever contrived to occupy even half the space.

Besides, there was all Dr. Trump's furniture still there. And, even though Felicity had been charming, absolutely charming, about the whole thing—inviting him,
begging
him to make himself at home there—he somehow didn't fancy it. He was afraid all the time that in any manner of ways—like putting a cushion under his feet in the evenings and propping his pipe up on the glass shelf in the bathroom—he would be doing exactly the sort of thing that Felicity and Dr. Trump would have most disliked. And, after all, it was only a temporary arrangement. The last postcard with a Broadstairs post-mark on it had said that Doctor Trump was getting on every bit as well as could be expected. In another month or two he would have taken up residence again.

But, in the meantime, there was far too much to be done for Canon Mallow even to think about being retired once more. And it wasn't ordinary sort of work, either. Not like going through account books and checking registers. All that side of things seemed to work perfectly without him, and Canon Mallow could only admire Dr. Trump for all the splendid organisation that he had introduced into the place.

No, it was on another plane altogether that Canon Mallow felt the need to do something. Vocational Training, for instance. Try as he could, he could not persuade himself that the girls really liked doing all that scrubbing and cooking; and, if they didn't like it, it seemed wrong to make them go on with it. Then there were the silent breaks and the no-playing-on-the-grass notices. Both of these seemed wrong, entirely wrong, to him no matter how
he looked at them. And the overtime that was being worked by the ironers! Good gracious, it was enough to tire the poor girls simply to push those heavy irons about even for ten minutes.