§ 10
But the impression of her Daddy, desolate and broken-hearted and in danger, remained with her, terribly vivid. It clung to her. She got up in the morning anxious and depressed by it.
“I am not doing enough for him,” she said. “I am letting days slip by—and for him they must be days of despair.”
“Sure th’ ’Sylums ’nt so ba-s-at,” said Fay. “Sure yr overrating it.”
“But to live among lunatics and be classed as a lunatic!”
“They’ve bans play-them. Foxhill ’Sylum there’s buful ban. ’Ntainments nors-sorts treats,” said Fay.
Christina Alberta refrained from bad language.
“You getting ill ove’ all this,” said Fay. “You doing no good ’n Lun. Youffar be’r come dow’ Shore’m. The’s th’ouse spoilin’. In this las’ bit of fine w’r.”
For the October weather was holding out that year quite wonderfully, a succession of calm golden days, and the Crumbs had been offered the loan of a bungalow on the beach at Shoreham by a friend who had used it throughout the summer. They wanted to go down to it before the weather broke, but going down to it meant leaving Christina Alberta all alone in the studio, and they did not want to do that. But they meant to go to Shoreham. Christina Alberta, now that she had discovered Devizes, could not endure the thought of getting out of telephone range of him. London, she argued, was manifestly her proper centre. She could get down to Cummerdown Hill in an hour; she could keep in touch with everything. The Crumbs might go but she must stay.
Fay would not understand. She pestered.
About eleven o’clock Christina Alberta went to the Post Office telephone booth and rang up Devizes.
“Can’t something be done to hurry things up?” she asked. “I’ve got Daddy on my nerves. I can’t bear to think of him there day after day. I’ve been dreaming of him.”
“Worrying is no good. We—I’ve got some bad news for you. So put all your controls on.”
He paused. Christina Alberta, for all her love of Devizes, had to restrain her violent desire to snap, “Oh! what is it?”
“Visiting day was yesterday. He had one visitor. I suppose that’s the agreeable relation you described—what was his name? Wiggles? Mr. Widgery. But your Daddy can’t be seen again by the outer world for a week. Not until next Tuesday.”
“Oh, damn!” said Christina Alberta.
“Exactly. I’ll do what I can to arrange some sort of special access. I got on to the Medical Superintendent himself. But he’s queer. He’s evidently quite friendly and well disposed, but he fences about. He can’t say either Yes or No. Odd! I’m free to-day in the afternoon, but I’m tied up to-morrow. I was for going down to see him—the superintendent I mean, for a talk after lunch. ‘Better in a day or so,’ he says. Hope there’s nothing wrong that he’s keeping back. Afterwards he promised me to ring me up later, and then abruptly he switched off. So hold yourself ready, there. What’s your telephone number?”
“Haven’t got one. You must telegraph.”
“Or I’ll chase round in a taxi and pick you up. Sorry to hold you up like this, Christina Alberta.”
“I don’t mind anything so long as it’s getting towards Daddy.”
“Right-o,” and the voice was cut off.
The telegram came after an interval of two hours, two hours which had been devoted to a rambling dispute with Fay about the Shoreham difficulty. The message ran as follows: “Has your father turned up he escaped at dawn this morning in slippers and dressing-gown and nothing seen of him since if not appeared meet me Victoria two-seven for Cummerdown telephone Gerrard 0247 if there.”