Children of the Archbishop (43 page)

It was as a matter of fact called twice, simply because he hadn't recognised it the first time.

But he was careful not to appear eager and ill at ease. He felt that he needed all his wits about him for the interview that was coming.

“Probably a dago,” he told himself as he followed the epicene receptionist into the audience chamber. “Only a dirty dago would get mixed up in a job like this.”

He was still prepared to find himself in the presence of something olive-skinned with almond-shaped eyes and long side whiskers, when the door opened and he saw a little old lady seated at a writing-table. She looked up as he entered and smiled at him.

“Pray be seated,” she said. “I heave your faile heare.”

“My God,” thought Mr. Prevarius. “A woman. I hadn't reckoned on that.”

Nor had he reckoned on such refinement of voice and such perfect poise and efficiency. He was still studying the smooth white hair, the shining spectacles, the cairngorm brooch, the black lace choker, when the little old lady spoke again.

“The preliminary fee is faive guineas,” she said. “A further faive for an introduction. And a fainal fifteen for satisfaction.”

“Isn't it rather a lot?” Mr. Prevarius asked cautiously.

But the old lady only smiled.

“Not to our clayents,” she replied. “Our clayents are exclusively of the twenty-faive guinea class.”

“Do you take a ch …” Mr. Prevarius began and stopped himself. He had only just remembered that Captain FitzWinter hadn't got a bank account.

“Aither a cheque or benk notes,” the old lady said. “Whichever is moare convenient.”

Opening his wallet, Mr. Prevarius slowly counted out five one-pound notes and passed them over.

“End faive shillings,” the old lady said. “Faive guineas is our fee.”

Mr. Prevarius put two half-crowns on the table.

Then the old lady smiled again.

“Are you naeval or military?' she inquired.

Mr. Prevarius thought for a moment.

“Military,” he said. “Seventh Rajputana Light Foot. Since disbanded.”

“Then you would perheps laike someone who knows India?” the old lady suggested. “We hev several clayents on our books at the moment.”

“I'm not particular,” Mr. Prevarius answered truthfully.

“Hoew about a Major's widow from Cawnpore,” the old lady persisted. “So much in common. Such links. Such reminiscences.”

“Too old,” said Mr. Prevarius bluntly.

“But I haven't mentioned her age,” the old lady pointed out. “She is only forty-naine. And extremely well presairved. Really quaite remarkable.”

Mr. Prevarius shook his head.

“I am still a boy at heart,” he said simply. “Almost a young man. My life is dancing, the theatre, music …”

“Music in the army?” the old lady asked him.

“Certainly,” Mr. Prevarius told her. “I was … er … a bandmaster.”

“I see,” said the old lady. “Then you wish for a romantic match.”

Mr. Prevarius nodded.

“I do,” he said. “Very.”

But really this was becoming positively embarrassing. It was like discussing sex with his grandmother.

“End haeve you prayvate means?” the old lady asked.

Mr. Prevarius shrugged his shoulders.

“Not riches,” he said. “Not affluence. But a pittance. A thousand a year, shall we say? A round thousand.”

“A thewsand a year,” she said. “That does maeke metters easier.”

“But naeturally,” said Mr. Prevarius simply.

There was a pause.

“And now may I see the young lady I came about?” he asked.

“Bay all means,” the old lady replied sweetly. “I shall be moast heppy to arraenge it.”

“Then where is she?” Mr. Prevarius demanded.

The time for play-acting was over now, and his voice sounded hoarse and desperate.

“Oh, we doan't keep our clayents here,” the old lady reminded him reprovingly. “Not on the premases. I shell hev to wraite to her. That will be a further faive guineas. Faive for the original registration, remember. And a separate faive for the introduction.”

The Sweetie and Ginger correspondence had been continuing only fairly promisingly when it broke down altogether. There were two reasons for its sudden and complete collapse. First, Ginger got sick of it. And secondly, Annie, tired of acting as courier in an affair that was obviously getting nowhere, withdrew any further offers of assistance. By then, there had been six letters in all: the original interchange and four more unanswered ones from Sweetie.

Indeed, if it had not been for Dr. Trump's Vocational Training, it is hard to see how Sweetie and Ginger would ever have managed to meet again. As it was, for a period of nearly three months they simply had to get along without seeing or hearing from each other. And then they were suddenly brought face to face. It was over on the laundry side that the encounter took place. In the damping and pressing room to be exact.

Naturally everything was under the strictest possible supervision. The girls had the room entirely to themselves, and it was only when the hampers had to be dragged in and out that the boys ever came into the room at all. And Sweetie had not got so much as a single thought of Ginger anywhere in her mind. She was thinking instead of any number of other things, important things like how she was going to grow her hair until it was right down to her waist; how it was that soap never tasted as nice as it smelt; how Nurse Stedge had a sort of little moustache almost like a man's; how nice it would be to run a tea and serve only cakes and biscuits instead of scones and bread and butter; how Tuesday was pale blue in colour while Wednesday was chocolate brown; and why bathwater always started turning round like a corkscrew just before it ran out.

Also, in her way, she was concentrating. She liked Vocational Training. It meant that she had to dip her fingers into a bowl of water and sprinkle a few drops on to each of the garments that were in the basket beside her so that they would come out smooth
when the iron went over them. She wouldn't have minded going on doing it all day. Every day, in fact.

As it was, she had just sprinkled the first one when the swing-door that led through into the main laundry was shot open from the far side. In the doorway there appeared the hind-quarters of a small boy. It was a familiar posture, this bending-down one, because the delivery-hampers were too large to be carried; and the boys, particularly the smaller ones, always dragged them backwards using their rear-parts as a kind of gentle battering ram when they reached the swing-door.

And as all hind-quarters look very much alike, and as the door was banging open and shut every few minutes, Sweetie did not even pause to wonder who it was who was concealed behind the tight seat of the trousers. It was not, indeed, until the trousers had slacked off a bit and the small boy had got himself again into an upright position that Sweetie saw that it was Ginger. And, as she did so, her heart gave a sudden thump inside her. It was the first time her heart had ever done such a thing and its behaviour surprised her. She quickly recovered herself, however.

“Hallo,” she said.

“Oh hallo,” said Ginger.

There was a casual, almost deliberately disinterested note in his voice. Not a trace of embarrassment, she noticed; no hint of shame at his unfaithfulness.

“I didn't know you were here.”

“Well, you can see I am, can't you?”

This was better, definitely better: he was beginning to sound defensive now. Even so, she thought that he might have said something more, something about being glad to see her.

“I wrote you a letter,” she said.

“I know,” Ginger answered. “I got it.”

“Well, why didn't you reply?”

“I did.”

“You didn't.”

“I did.”

“Well, only to the first one.”

“They were all the same.”

“But you could have answered them, couldn't you?”

Ginger shook his head.

“Couldn't be bothered.”

At the reply, Sweetie was so angry that she forgot herself.
Putting her entire hand into the water-bowl beside her she shook a whole fistful of drops full into Ginger's face.

“You stop that,” Ginger said. “I haven't done nothing to you. I didn't start writing those potty letters.”

Sweetie drew herself up.

“I think you're a very rude little boy,” she told him. “I hate you.”

That was as far as their conversation ever got because it was the moment for Miss Gurge, the laundry supervisor, to come round. A red-faced, heavily-breathing woman with a mouthful of small, sharp teeth, Miss Gurge had the air of a large hot bulldog. Only the grey hair that strayed across her forehead from underneath the white uniform cap, suggested something different—a sheep-dog possibly. Whatever it was, there was the distinctive air of canine fierceness; a hint of brass studs encircling a stout leather collar. On their first meeting Dr. Trump had taken one look at her, and had not even troubled to ask whether she experienced any troubles about discipline.

The
woof-woof
of her voice had started up already.

“I can't 'ear talking,” she said. “'Oo is it?”

She knew perfectly well already, of course. Knew without even looking that it would be Sweetie. For Sweetie was always talking, always saying something or other. The child seemed incapable of ever remaining silent for more than two or three minutes on end. If there was no one else to talk to she spent whole periods talking quietly to herself about nothing.

“An' you,” she went on. “You with the red 'air.”

This was too much for Ginger. He stood where he was and stuck his underlip out. He had been quietly getting on with the job that he had been given and now Sweetie had got him into this mess. He had messes enough of his own in any case, without Sweetie's stepping in to help him.

“'Oo's in charge of you?” she continued.

“Mr. Dawlish, mam,” Ginger answered.

“Well, go straight back an' tell ‘im you've been caught talking to one of the girls,” she said. “If you don't tell ‘im yourself, I will. I'll be dealing with Sweetie myself.”

With that Miss Gurge took hold of Sweetie by the shoulders and stood her up against the wall. Right up against it, too. So close that her toes were touching the skirting-board. If she put her tongue out she could lick the distemper. She did try it once or twice simply to test the experience. But it was an unpleasant one.
The wall was wet, slightly greasy and flavoured very strongly with soap.

“An' no talking,” Miss Gurge had said over her shoulder as she departed. “No talking an' no moving. Just you stay there till the end of the lesson. There's half an hour, so you'd better get used to it.”

It was on the other side of the swing-door that the trouble started. Ginger went straight back to Mr. Dawlish and reported himself. By now, he displayed a natural grace in such matters, a kind of easy charm that came from sheer experience in the situation.

“… so she told me to come and tell you,” he finished up.

“Who's ‘she?'”

“Miss Gurge, sir,” Ginger answered, wondering whether it was possible that Mr. Dawlish hadn't been listening and really didn't know.

“Well, don't do it again,” Mr. Dawlish told him.

That was the end of the matter so far as Mr. Dawlish was concerned. He was prepared for anything when Ginger came up to him, and it was a relief to find that on this occasion it was merely a trifling affair of talking. Also, Mr. Dawlish wasn't feeling well; it was the heat of the laundry, probably. He disliked the whole idea of Vocational Training. It was a nuisance. A damn nuisance. And if making better citizens depended on dragging dirty clothes baskets about a laundry floor, he wished that Dr. Trump would come down in person to show them all how to set about it.

But if Mr. Dawlish was casual and disinterested, there was someone who wasn't. And this was Edward, the fourteen-year-old, who had once been
caned
for talking to a junior laundress. He was somewhat of a hero, in consequence, and he listened carefully to the whole conversation. Then he turned to the boy next to him.

“Ginger's got a girl,” he said. “Pass it on.”

It took about five minutes for the message to go right round the room. But, as the word spread, Ginger became aware that people were looking at him. There were nudges, glances, titterings and giggles. And after a while, Ginger could stand it no longer. He turned to the boy next to him.

“Wosermatter wiv you?” he asked.

There was no answer. His neighbour was a small timid boy who was not in the least anxious to get drawn into an affair with Ginger.

“Dunnowodjermean,” he said simply, and continued to apply
himself to folding up wet blankets as though the whole operation fascinated him.

Then, seeing that his revelation was in danger of falling flat, Edward started it up again.

“Ginger's got a girl,” he began chanting softly between his teeth. “Ginger's got a girl. Ginger's got a girl …”

At that moment Mr. Dawlish had to step outside for his own purposes. He took the precaution of appointing a monitor before he went but unfortunately he chose Edward. And, as soon as Mr. Dawlish had left, the tall boy took up the refrain louder and more clearly.

“Ginger's got a girl,” he declaimed. “Ginger's got a girl. Ginger's got a girl.”

It was an annoying kind of voice that he possessed, and the intonation was offensive, too. He made two syllables out of the last word, “Gu-url,” every time he said it, and Ginger flushed.

“You shut up,” he said.

“And suppose I don't?”

“I'll come and bash you.”

“All right, come and do it,” Edward replied. He felt confident and contemptuous. With his height, his weight and his reach he saw nothing to be alarmed about in Ginger. And just to show his feeling of superiority he taunted Ginger as he advanced towards him.