Children of the Archbishop (9 page)

“With adequate supervision, things will no longer disappear,”
he observed. “And the supervision will certainly be adequate, because I intend to provide it myself. In future I shall do
everything
.”

He waited long enough for the meaning of the words to penetrate into this deeply obstinate woman and, as he sat there, he wished again that Dame Eleanor could have been there to hear. And not only Dame Eleanor, Canon Larkin. Yes, certainly Canon Larkin. Even Miss Bodkin. It was, in fact, one of those supreme moments when Dr. Trump wished that everyone could hear, wished that the entire world might know that a new supervising Messiah had been born to them.

But he had been forgetting about Mrs. Gurnett. He was quite shocked to see her still sitting there, regarding him with a fixed and painful hostility.

“Everything,” he repeated pointedly.

“Then you don't need me,” Mrs. Gurnett replied firmly.

Dr. Trump started. This was alarming, most alarming. The very last thing that he wanted was a resignation. One resignation might lead to a spate: there could be no end to it. Ultimately he might even find himself left simply with that dreadful Mr. Prevarius. Besides, to the uninitiated—the Board, for example—it would look as though he couldn't manage people.

“But I do,” he assured her quietly. “Who am I to decide whether … cotton vests are worn out or not?”

Mrs. Gurnett, however, merely grunted. There was no recognition, no response at all, to the generousness—the deliberate over-generousness—and humility that he had just displayed.

“Do you still want to supervise?” was all she asked.

And here Dr. Trump recognised his opportunity. Now that he had shown that he could be magnanimous, the moment had come to demonstrate that he could also be resolute. And firmness, he knew, paid handsome dividends always, none handsomer.

“I do,” he replied. “That is why I have been asked to come here.”

It was presumably because of this last remark that, forty minutes later, there was a knock on the door. It was one of the laundresses—a big, strapping girl almost indelicately over-developed, Dr. Trump could not help noticing—who stood there. She had a large bundle in her arms. Ah, the study antimacassars, Dr. Trump told himself. But he was wrong. They were not antimacassars; they were twelve pairs of girls' vests (large), with a note from Mrs. Gurnett
asking him to put his hand inside any one of them and decide whether they should be thrown away or not.

As he read the note, Dr. Trump instinctively stepped back from so unsavoury a parcel. Thrust his hand into a large girl's vest, indeed. The very idea was odious, utterly odious. But wasn't it also ironical? Wasn't there something of the heartache of the saints, the practical ones, in such a situation? To think that all his reading, his study, his prayer, his contemplation, should have brought him to this, simply because he had turned—administrator.

Spreading out his hands in the manner of someone shooing chickens, he addressed his visitor.

“Take them away, foolish girl,” he said sharply. “What do you suppose I am—a rag-merchant?”

Then, when the over-developed laundress had left him, he sat down to write one of his considered, carefully-worded letters to Mrs. Gurnett. It was a good letter and it looked well, too, on the note-paper with the black gothic-type line, Warden's Office, at the top.

But, best of all, was the last sentence that began: “
I do not ask for an apology because no offence was, I am sure, intended. Nevertheless, if after reflection you yourself without any prompting from me should feel
…”

Yes, Dame Eleanor had been right. More than anything else—more than the new lavatories on the girls' side, the extra lighting in the Great Hall, the re-pointing of the Cranmer block, the moulded hygienic flooring of the nursery wing, the raised pedestal for the Archbishop's statue, or even the re-opening of the Founder's Tower itself—what the Hospital really needed was discipline.

And the more he said the word over to himself, the more beautiful it sounded. There was almost a semi-spiritual ring to it. Discipline—order—beauty—truth: he saw the whole thing at last as a kind of sacred and devout procession.

And like all the great verities there was so much contained within the word. It embraced everything: the laundry accounts, the “Keep off the Grass” notices; the fire precautions; early morning handkerchief drill; silence in corridors; smoking, other than in the masters' common room—Dr. Trump had wondered if later perhaps the principle could not be carried further and the
whole ash-laden nuisance be extirpated for ever; the proper care of fingernails throughout the whole school; the length of the girls' hair; the exact hours for choir practice—Mr. Prevarius, Dr. Trump had noticed, seemed to have a somewhat Chinese sense of time; and, of course, above all behaviour in the classroom—attention during lessons; no note-passing; no decoration on the covers of exercise-books; no paper darts; no blotting-paper pellets that had been soaked in ink-wells; and, certainly, no ragging.

He had examined the masters specifically on this kind of point, deliberately not mincing his words. Could they or could they not keep order? he had bluntly asked. Did they or did they not experience trouble as soon as their backs were turned? And he was bound to admit that the answers that he had received had not been entirely reassuring.

Admittedly Mr. Prevarius's reply—“Oh, no trouble at all, my dear sir. A boy who is truly occupied, mentally and physically, is never any trouble”—had been all that he could have hoped for. But, unfortunately, he did not believe Mr. Prevarius.

And as for the rest of them, they were such a wretched lot. Mr. Dawlish, for instance, had created a most unfavourable impression. Dr. Trump had been compelled to ask him to remove what appeared to be egg-stains from his waistcoat. Also, though it was really too absurd to have to correct a grown man in this way, he had been forced to ask him to clean the lenses of his spectacles and make himself look generally more energetic, more sprightly, more commanding.

It was then that the truth had come out just as Dr. Trump had always thought it would. Mr. Dawlish
did
have trouble. And there was one small boy, Ginger—the boy whom Canon Mallow had mentioned—who apparently gave most of it. Dr. Trump resolutely made a note of him while he allowed Mr. Dawlish—dirty, smeary Mr. Dawlish—to continue. Then as Mr. Dawlish paused for breath—he was naturally a wheezing, disjointed kind of speaker—Dr. Trump interrupted.

“Keep your eye on him,” he said sternly. “If there is anything further of this kind, I am quite ready to make an example of Master Woods if necessary.”

The conversation came back to him at this moment as he sat in his study soaking his ginger-nuts in his tea before eating them. There was nothing actually wrong with any of his teeth. He was quite satisfied in his own mind that, if he wanted to, he could bite cleanly and incisively through any ginger-nut that the manufacturers
might set before him. It was simply a sensible precaution, this softening process. Besides, it slowed up the meal and assisted thought. At this moment, for instance, while he soaked and sucked, he saw the future most plainly. Saw a chastened and reformed Master Woods after what would obviously have to be the inevitable caning.

He had never caned anyone before and he, somehow, wasn't looking forward to it. To lash with the tongue until the victim quailed and whimpered—that was one thing. But to flog with a flexible stick—that was somehow too much like admitting intellectual defeat. Nevertheless, if discipline demanded it of him, he would tan the hide off every boy that he had under him.

He had finished the last of the ginger-nuts by now and, carefully stacking up the tea things, he went over to the corner cupboard that was also his armoury. There in the corner stood the cane. After a moment's hesitation he took hold of it and proceeded to examine it. It was both thicker and more springy than he had imagined. Altogether, in fact, it looked a brutally effective sort of instrument.

Then, idly at first, he began swishing with it. But that taught him nothing—except perhaps to avoid the dangerous backlash, the recoil. If he really wanted to experiment, he would have to hit
something
. A cushion possibly.

And why not a cushion? There was one, a red velvet one, on the settee in the corner. And, crossing the room with the cane tucked smartly under his arm, he picked it up and arranged the cushion carefully across the seat of one of the chairs. Then he removed his coat and rolled his sleeves up. He was engrossed, utterly engrossed, in this piece of practice by now. And he spat on his hand before attempting to get his grip right.

“Six of the best, I think we said,” he observed to the empty air above the chair. “And if the treatment is not effective it can be repeated.”

“Six of the best!”

There was a classic ring about it, and he repeated the words, louder and more menacingly.

Then he began.

“One!”

Pause.

“Two!”

Pause.

“Three!”

He was breathing more heavily by now. And the veins in his forehead were beginning to pulsate. But he persisted.

“Four!”

It was just as he was about to deliver the fifth blow—the cane was raised and his teeth were clenched fast in readiness—when he heard somebody address him. And it was not merely the sound of his name that had startled him: it was the voice that had spoken it. It was Mr. Prevarius's.

And Dr. Trump remembered now. He had been so grossly dissatisfied with the look of Mr. Prevarius's register that he had told the obnoxious man to bring it over to his study for inspection.

“It
was
nine-thirty, you said, wasn't it, Doctor?” Mr. Prevarius was asking, his eye upon the study clock which now showed nine thirty-one. “I trust that I am not interrupting you.”

The episode of the caning had pleased Mr. Prevarius. All the week he had felt better because of it. And now he felt best of all. That was because it was Wednesday: and Wednesday was Mr. Prevarius's half-day.

From 11.30 when he had finished with the Mixed Juniors—boys one side, girls the other, with Mr. Prevarius himself at the piano in the middle—the rest of the day was his own. There was, therefore, really no reason why at 11.35 or so he should not have shot off down the asphalt walk towards the front entrance. He was a free man, until 10.30 p.m. when the gates closed. But was he? The last time he tried to slip away before lunch he had run full into Dr. Trump. And Dr. Trump had raised his eyebrows. Merely that. But they were remarkably expressive eyebrows, and Mr. Prevarius had understood.

Therefore, he now stayed, sullen and unnecessary, and ate his Wednesday lunch at the high table in the Great Hall with Dr. Trump seated idol-like at the head. But Wednesday was more than Mr. Prevarius's half-day: it was also the cook's. In consequence, it was cold corned beef and tapioca pudding that was
always served. And, as he ate it, Mr. Prevarius thought longingly of the dainties that he would be eating before the night was out.

To-day in particular the tapioca seemed more nauseating than usual. It oozed. It gleamed at him. It adhered. At this very moment his teeth, his tongue, the entire roof of his mouth were all glued solidly together with the stuff. Then, accidentally, he caught Dr. Trump's eye at the far end of the table. Removing the spoon, which came away from his mouth with a tell-tale kiss-like sound, he smiled obediently at his Warden. The smile was not returned.

“To-morrow. And to-morrow. And to-morrow,” Mr. Prevarius remarked cryptically to himself. “But not necessarily, thank God, the day after that. Then just watch the balloon go up.”

And, dutifully scraping his plate, he sat there with head bent, waiting for Dr. Trump to say the closing grace.

But he was free now all right. And, as the iron gate clanged behind him he allowed himself a little two-step of sheer delight. For a moment he became young again. His life still had a future. Then he remembered: he had no future. The elderberry wine had seen to that. No future and Dr. Trump had asked to see him to-morrow about extra choir-practice. His pace slackened. He slouched rather than walked and his music case—it was a large, limp leather one of the kind carried by mistresses in select girls' schools—swung despondently at the end of his long thin arm.

He did not recover his spirits, in fact, until he had got to the bottom of St. Mark's Avenue. That marked the 74 bus route. In one direction it led merely to the river and places where people went for walks. There was nothing there for Mr. Prevarius. But in the other direction it led to London, the real London, the London of the West End and the Marble Arch; the London of decent restaurants and obscure, snug cafés; the London of mysterious women in shadowy doorways and little snatches of overheard, fascinating conversations; the London where he wasn't known and could move freely; the London of pleasures and obscurity; the London of Mr. Prevarius's accommodation address.

It was to this address that he was going now and he could hardly wait to get there. There would be something for him—he felt sure of that. But what? Perhaps …

“Fares, please.”

It was Mr. Musk's voice that had spoken in his ear and Mr. Prevarius started.

“Oh, a fivepenny, please,” he said. “From the … er Clock Tower.”

Then as the ticket was punched and handed to him, Mr. Prevarius relaxed. It was not strictly true that bit about the Clock Tower. From where Mr. Prevarius had got on was really a six-penny. But on an income like his, he had to be careful. Not that Mr. Musk noticed. Mrs. Musk had, if anything, been rather worse lately. There were now her delusions as well as her pains to contend with.

By the time the bus had reached Oxford Street, Mr. Prevarius's spirit was riding high. But it was an anxious spirit, nevertheless. There was a keyed-up, highly-strung sort of feeling inside him as though at any moment something would snap. And when the bus drew up near Bourne and Hollingsworth, he was biting his nails from sheer excitement. He was within a couple of hundred yards of his destination by now and in five minutes he would know. As he hurried down Berners Street, the slouch developed into a lope.