Children of the Archbishop (20 page)

That was why it was so exciting to be standing at last in the clothes queue, with the pig-girl and the girl with thick curly hair like a sheepdog's and the fat one who looked like a bear. It was the first day of term, and the store room of the junior school had been turned into a shop. The various parts of the uniforms—the scarlet blouses, the skirts, the belts, the lace-up boots, the black stockings were piled up in heaps on the counters.

There were fifteen customers altogether. Fifteen infants from the Kindergarten all standing in a straight row waiting to be bewitched into real Archbishop Bodkin foundlings. Mrs. Meedle was in charge. Sweetie hadn't met her before. But come to that, she hadn't met her assistant, Nurse Savidge, either. They belonged to the other part of the Hospital: they didn't have anything to do with the Kindergarten at all.

Mrs. Meedle was nice: Sweetie could tell that at once. She was so fat that she looked soft all over. Her wrists had creases in them. And because she was so soft she must also be kind. Sweetie wondered whether Mrs. Meedle ever nursed people. She would have liked to be nursed by Mrs. Meedle. But she supposed that Mrs. Meedle would be too busy. Everybody in the Archbishop
Bodkin Hospital was always too busy for things like that. If you really wanted to cuddle on to somebody's lap you had to hurt yourself first, quite badly. A bruise wasn't enough. There had to be blood, as well. In fact, the only person who had ever really cuddled Sweetie was Margaret. And then only on Thursdays.

As for Nurse Savidge, she was quite different. She was hard. Everything about her was hard. She wore steel spectacles and a fountain pen stuck into a hard metal holder. On her chest she carried a small hard-looking brooch. She was straight, too, right from her waist up to her chin; and her legs were so thin that even if she had tried to make you sit on her lap her knees would be too sharp to be comfortable. Not that she ever would want to cuddle anybody. She didn't even look as if she had ever been cuddled herself.

Nevertheless Sweetie admired her. She had never seen anyone so quick with a tape-measure. When the infants first filed into the store room, the tape-measure was hanging over her shoulders like a necklace. Then, as the pig-girl came in front of her, first she whisked off the cotton frock that the pig-girl was wearing and began measuring so rapidly that Sweetie couldn't understand how she could read the figures on the tape.

“Twenty-six,” she began calling out to Mrs. Meedle. “Twelve. Twenty-four.”

And before the pig-girl knew what was happening she had been pushed sharply in the small of the back by Nurse Savidge, and Mrs. Meedle was easing the blue serge skirt on over her head.

Because Sweetie was last in the line she had plenty of time to watch what was happening. She should as a matter of fact have been third in the row, but she had got late on the way. She had stayed to watch a pigeon. The pigeon had been interesting. It had a smooth grey back like polished stone and a purple bib that changed colour as the pigeon turned its head. Its nose was especially interesting. There were white lumps growing on it that made the pigeon look brave and handsome, and its eyes were the colour of red ink. Sweetie would have been ready to stand there all day looking at it, if it hadn't flown away. When at last she caught up with the party, they had all gone inside and she had to stand right at the end of the line behind the others.

Even though Mrs. Meedle was gentle, she was quick, too. The pile of uniforms grew smaller, and the pile of cotton frocks and strap shoes grew beside it. In Canon Mallow's day, Mrs. Meedle used to have her mouth full of pins as she nipped the blouses in over the
shoulders, or marked the place on the side of the skirt with a piece of chalk where the buttons should go. After all, the uniforms weren't new. They weren't even second-hand. They were third, or fourth, or fifth, or sixth-hand. And little girls, even all of the same age, aren't by any means all of them the same size. That was why the workrooms had been kept so busy.

But Dr. Trump had put an end to all that. On his orders, three of the seamstresses had been dismissed and the other two were now engaged solely on necessary repairs. In the result, the uniforms looked more uniform than ever. It was obvious that the blouses and skirts and cloaks were all exactly as they had left the manufacturers and that the occupants had, one by one, been firmly fitted in afterwards.

It was the bear-girl that caused the trouble. Sweetie had always known that she was a very fat little girl. But she had never known quite how fat she was until she had seen her standing there in her vest and knickers while Mrs. Meedle went searching through the pile of skirts and blouses trying to find something that would fit.

It was at this point that Mrs. Gurnett came in. She had just met Dr. Trump as she crossed the playground and he had smiled at her as he said good-morning. There was nothing actually wrong with that, she supposed; nothing that she could reasonably flare up about. But she didn't like it all the same, didn't like being the recipient of a smile that said as plainly as if the words had been actually spoken: “You are an elderly, obstinate and rebellious woman but, by sheer unrelenting firmness and politeness, I will tame you.” It was because his fixed and concentrated smile had hit her full in the eye like a pellet that Mrs. Gurnett was out of sorts as she came in.

She caught sight of the bear-girl straight away.

“Why is that child standing there with nothing on?” she demanded. “She'll catch her death of cold.”

“She's so enormous,” Mrs. Meedle replied. “There's nothing to fit her.”

“Then get something from Grade II,” Mrs. Gurnett retorted. “She can't go about naked just because she's fat.”

“But anything that goes round her'll be too long,” Mrs. Meedle pointed out.

“If Dr. Trump wants to have the children falling over their hems, that's his affair, not mine,” Mrs. Gurnett retorted.

“Then we'll have another go with this one,” Mrs. Meedle said hopefully. “Perhaps there's a pleat we could let out.”

She turned to Sweetie as she was speaking.

“And just you wait there,” she said. “You aren't going to be any trouble, I can see that. You're just a little slip of a thing.”

It was Nurse Savidge who supplied the scissors. They were something else in steel that she carried about on her. Hitched to a black silk ribbon, they were worn stowed away inside the waistband. And with them she began to open the box-pleat that ran down the back of the scarlet blouse. Then she stopped.

“It's no use,” she said. “It'll have to be a Grade II.”

She turned to the bear-girl.

“Stay where you are,” she said firmly. “I'm coming back.”

The bear-girl stood there without moving. She was not a particularly bright child. But, at least, she was obedient. She was ready to stand anywhere for hours if she was told to do so. Behind her, however, was Sweetie. And Sweetie was impatient. She wanted to get into her uniform. Also because she liked Mrs. Meedle, she wanted to be helpful. She wanted to save her all the trouble that she could. So she took up the scissors herself. They were very sensible scissors with long sharp points. If she really got to work with them she was sure that she could make the bear-girl's blouse so that it fitted perfectly. Then everybody would be pleased—Nurse Savidge, Mrs. Meedle, Mrs. Gurnett, Dr. Trump; and, of course, the bear-girl.

“Stand still,” Sweetie said to the bear-girl. “I'm going to do something.”

“What?” asked the bear-girl.

“Make your blouse so that it fits,” Sweetie told her.

“How?” asked the bear-girl.

“With my scissors,” Sweetie told her.

“Oh,” said the bear-girl.

She was surprised that Sweetie should have any scissors. But she didn't care to argue. Sweetie was such a masterful little girl. And there was always trouble if anyone tried to stop her doing anything.

All the same she gave a shudder as Sweetie pushed the scissors up inside her blouse from the bottom. And she nearly cried out because the point pricked her. But Sweetie was very firm and decided about it all.

“Don't wriggle,” she whispered, “or I'll hurt you. Then Mrs. Meedle'll be cross.”

It is difficult cutting things from the inside. Very difficult. But it was the only way in which Sweetie could do it if other people weren't to see what she was doing. And Sweetie wanted it all to
be a surprise. She wanted Mrs. Meedle to come back and find that all her work had been done for her. That was why she went on cutting, slowly, carefully, putting her tongue out a little because she was concentrating so hard. Then she reached the top. And as she made the last snick, the bear-girl's blouse fell apart over her shoulders and Sweetie found herself looking at the bear-girl's naked back. She must have made a mistake somewhere: Sweetie realised that. And she saw that she had cut clear through the bear-girl's vest as well. Now Mrs. Meedle wouldn't be at all pleased. She might be very angry, in fact.

That was why Sweetie put the scissors down again on the table.

Even so, Mrs. Meedle might have been ready to forgive her. But what Mrs. Gurnett couldn't forgive, however, was that Sweetie wouldn't own up. But how could she? “Who's the naughty little girl who's done this? Is it you?” Mrs. Meedle demanded, staring straight at Sweetie. And Sweetie could only shake her head. She was trying to explain that she wasn't naughty. Just helpful.

Then everyone got cross at once. And, because they were cross, Sweetie started to cry. And worse. She got cross, too. She hit the bear-girl for getting her into so much trouble.

That was why Sweetie was sent to Dr. Trump.

It was serious, deeply serious, when anyone was sent to see Dr. Trump. And for an infant who had only that day gone into the junior school, it was unheard of. There was a gasp from Mrs. Meedle when Mrs. Gurnett threatened it. The other children, the pig-girl, the girl with the sheepdog hair, the bear-girl, stood round silent, fascinated, appalled.

“I mean it,” Mrs. Gurnett went on. “Over to Dr. Trump you go.”

It was Mrs. Meedle who was the first to speak. She came forward and put her hand on Sweetie's shoulder.

“I'm sure she didn't mean to do it,” she said. “She's just a very silly little girl who didn't think. You can't send her to Dr. Trump for being silly.”

Mrs. Gurnett faced Mrs. Meedle angrily.

“I'm not sending her. I'm taking her,” she replied. “If you want to be responsible for a size one vest that can't be worn again, I don't.”

There was a pause, and no one spoke again.

“Come along,” said Mrs. Gurnett.

It was quite a long way from the Junior Girls to Dr. Trump's study. The route led, first across the bare asphalt of the playground, then through a doorway into the vegetable garden and along a gravelled path, next through the doorway into the main block, past the Senior Girls' sewing-rooms and finally into the kept enclosure of the Warden.

Throughout the walk Mrs. Gurnett stumped along hard, her face flushed and indignant, her eyes fixed unblinkingly ahead, her lips drawn down into their uncompromising crescent. Because she was going so fast, Sweetie had to run to keep up with her. But it was not Mrs. Gurnett's intention that Sweetie should keep up. Mrs. Gurnett intended that Sweetie should follow: it would make the important fact of her disgrace more apparent. But Sweetie understood nothing of this. The faster Mrs. Gurnett went, the faster Sweetie followed. Soon they were both nearly running. And when it became obvious that she would have to break into a sprint if she was going to avoid the child, she slackened. It was for just this moment that Sweetie had been waiting. With a final spurt she caught up with her and took her by the hand.

“Leave go,” ordered Mrs. Gurnett.

“I'm sorry,” Sweetie answered.

“Not half so sorry as you're going to be when Dr. Trump hears what you've done,” Mrs. Gurnett told her.

“Will he be angry?” Sweetie inquired.

“Very,” Mrs. Gurnett replied.

“Oh,” said Sweetie.

It seemed that the whole hospital was angry this morning. People were living just to be cross with her. The unfairness of it made her miserable.

And because she was miserable she tried to take Mrs. Gurnett's hand again.

They had reached the Warden's corridor by now. Dr. Trump's study stood at the far end of it. Down the corridor they went, Mrs. Gurnett still leading. Then at the door she stopped.

“Wait here,” she said.

She raised her hand to knock on the door. But before her knuckles had touched the panel, the door opened. Dr. Trump stood there with a small red-headed boy beside him. The small boy was rubbing his eyes with his fist.

“Let that be a lesson to you,” Dr. Trump was saying, swishing the air with his cane as he was speaking. “Let us see who gets tired of this treatment first.”

The small red-headed boy looked up and saw Sweetie standing there. And he resented her. He didn't like to be seen crying. Then he recognised something about her. It was her eyes. They seemed so much larger than the eyes of other little girls. For the moment, he forgot all about Dr. Trump.

“Hallo,” he said.

Sweetie's eyes opened still wider.

“Oh hallo,” she answered.

That was Sweetie's and Ginger's second meeting. It was the 7th September, 1928, on which it took place. Sweetie was six, and Ginger seven. As friendships go, you couldn't exactly call it a ripe one. Only just beginning, in fact. And with five hundred children in the Hospital and a high brick wall dividing the sexes there was no guarantee that it would ever get any farther.

For five hundred is an awful lot of children.

The kitchens of the Archbishop Bodkin Hospital were long, low and rounded like converted railway tunnels.

At first glance they seemed to have been carved laboriously out of the still living rock. It was only closer inspection that revealed that they had been merely scooped out of London clay and then enthusiastically bricked in to exclude all but the last remnants of the sunlight. The windows, six in number and set high so that no one should be able to see out of them, had first been reduced practically to the size of port-holes, and then heavily barred across with metal strips that any prison governor could have pointed to with pride.