by Gwen Moffat
“Not dishonest.”
“No, I didn’t mean that. His attention slips. He’s never with you when he’s talking.”
“But he’s a good chief instructor,” she reiterated, “that’s the crux, isn’t it? I believe your dislike is personal.”
“Do you? You may be right.” He shifted ground again. “But we’d do well to get Hughes inside.”
“Inside? Ah, I see. Yes, Hughes is a different kettle — but harmless. Certainly not dedicated, but not independent either. But we can’t afford to lose him, because we need Sally.”
“I wasn’t talking about losing anyone. Only tightening the bonds. Sally Hughes would be a great asset to any Centre, so long as she stays.”
A small elderly waitress in a frilled cap and apron opened the door.
“Dinner is served, mum,” she said with a little bob, and went out.
“I’ve seen her before,” Beresford remarked.
Miss Pink smiled. “Olwen used to be with the Parrys at Plas Mawr. She’s a worker — one of the old school. Here, she’s chambermaid during the day, waits at night — at least in the off-season. Most informative woman.”
She preceded him to the dining room which was dimly lit, but one lamp made their table a pleasant oasis of light.
“Romantic,” she stated as a matter of fact, then: “Why should Sally leave?”
“She won’t,” he said with certainty, “Sally Hughes is the kind of woman who, if the children don’t come first with her, they come a very close second. They’re both doing well at the local school and the girl’s taking G.C.E. next year.”
“Is there any question of Hughes wanting to leave?”
“He took me aside this morning after breakfast and made no bones about refusing to continue under Martin.”
“I’m surprised the staff didn’t petition you en masse; an alcoholic can be ignored if he keeps out of your way but they have an unfortunate tendency to erupt at crucial moments. What did you say to him?”
“I smoothed him down a little and gave him to understand that he would hear more before the weekend was over. He also hinted rather clumsily that he didn’t get on with Wright.”
“I did warn you.”
“I apologise. At the time I thought you were way out, as they say. And there are many Centres with homosexuals on the staff, as I happen to know, and these can be some of the best instructors, providing they’re not rumbled.”
“Which was your justification for employing Paul Wright. Do you think Hughes has rumbled him?”
“No, he merely dislikes him. Given Hughes’ character there would have been violence if he’d guessed the truth.”
Olwen took away the soup plates and served duck. They ate in silence for some time. The Goat was noted for its food, the chef being a formidable lady called Miss Devereux who subsidised her retirement pension by a substantial (and illegal) income from cooking. She had a cordon bleu. They didn’t touch on the subject of Plas Mawr again until the coffee pot was between them and they were relaxing in the pleasantly intimate atmosphere that follows a good meal. The coffee was strong and black and Miss Pink regarded her Cointreau happily, and gave judgement.
“I think the only person who can damage our interests, I mean the Centre’s interests of course, is Martin. In the circumstances, with young people in his charge, there’s no doubt about that.”
“He’s got much worse recently,” Beresford said, “he seemed to be holding on for a while, then suddenly he lost his grip.”
“His staff wouldn’t suffer fools gladly.” Miss Pink refrained from pointing out that an alcoholic, or even a man who was fond of drink, shouldn’t have been appointed in the first place. She felt that this would have been taking unfair advantage of the fact that she hadn’t been on the selection committee. But she did remark gently that before the next warden was appointed, the directors might do worse than emulate some American firms and interview, or at least see, the potential warden’s wife as well. Beresford agreed and became practical.
“I’ll write a letter to Martin. Although with a well-worded hint —” he looked hopefully at Miss Pink, “— he might be induced to resign.”
“That would be kinder.”
“Would you find it very unpleasant?”
“You’re going home tonight?” she asked pointedly.
“I must. I promised Janet, and Tim and his wife are coming tonight from Geneva.”
His son was with the World Health Organisation. They talked family for a while then Miss Pink promised to do what she could with the warden the following day and to telephone the result to Beresford in the evening.
“As for the rest of the staff,” she said, “I don’t think the problems are worse than they are with any outdoor activities centres. If anything I would say we’re lucky. We have five instructors and two wives. The wives are running the place most efficiently between them and of the instructors: one you say is too independent — but he’s full of energy and he’s the chief instructor and he needs initiative; another isn’t getting on with the warden and one of the juniors. A new warden will solve the one problem and I’m rather inclined to put my trust in Sally to see that any dislike of Paul Wright doesn’t develop into open hostility. Sally’s clever and knows which side her bread is buttered, whereas Hughes, whatever his capabilities as an instructor (and they’re not much; it’s his wife we need most) isn’t distinguished for intelligence. But Sally can handle him. As for Wright himself: he’s an able instructor and has a remarkable way with the more backward children. I don’t think we’ve any cause for worry — once we’ve found a suitable warden. You can’t have any fault to find with Nell Harvey, and as for Slade,” she smiled, “he’s the typical non-commissioned officer, which I believe he was —”
“In the Commandos: a corporal.”
“He’s the kind of material that will obey orders without question and see that they’re obeyed. On the hill today I felt that they were a good team: he and that girl. I believe they climbed in the Alps together this summer.”
“They did some great routes.”
“I’m not surprised.” She didn’t mention the possibility of their marrying and the need for a third cottage. It seemed curiously out of context.
“I hope you’re right,” Beresford finished his brandy. “I hope you’re right,” he repeated doubtfully, “but I’d be very grateful, since you’re staying on for a time, if you’d keep your eyes open, and if you feel that things aren’t running smoothly, you might investigate. And do watch out for any unrest over the explosives situation.”
She sighed. To balance his innate conservatism, he indulged a taste for melodrama — and he was an expert at delegation.
“I’m on holiday,” she repeated.
“You can’t help but run into them: on the hill, along the coast. They drink here too; they’re probably in the bar now.”
He left soon afterwards to return to his house near Shrewsbury. Miss Pink, on the way to her room, glanced through the open door of the cocktail bar and saw that it was almost empty. The wet night was keeping people in front of their television sets. However, over the shoulder of a burly farmer she saw the auburn curls of Paul Wright. She continued upstairs thoughtfully, not relishing the prospect of tomorrow although there was no doubt about it: the warden would have to go. We shall have trouble with the woman, she thought, if she wants to stay, then she felt a little guilty that she should be concerned only with the fact that the warden drank heavily, and the effects of this, but no one had reflected on the cause.
Chapter Three
Sunday dawned grey and wet. Olwen brought her tea just before eight and Miss Pink drank it while she listened to the news on her transistor. The Goat didn’t run to radio in the bedrooms. Israel had shot down a MIG fighter and claimed that the dead pilot was Russian; another famine was feared in India, and heavy rain had caused a landslide in Yugoslavia, sweeping a bus into a gorge where all the occupants were drowned. On the home front a large cache of explosives ha
d been found near the Irish border and a bomb had been removed from the ground floor of a tower block of flats in Belfast before it exploded.
An enquiry into the exposure tragedy on the northern Pennines had resulted in strong criticism of the warden of the Centre who had sent the party out in bad weather under the leadership of a man of twenty.
Miss Pink switched off, knowing that the responsibility didn’t rest there. As in war, it came to roost with the men and women who had selected the staff originally and then held a watching brief. Perhaps every Centre should have its staff and routine periodically reviewed — but that was one of the functions of Board meetings: held on the premises and, in the case of Plas Mawr, with the directors accompanying students and staff in the field. Then how had Martin’s deterioration been missed? He must have pulled himself together for the last Board meeting three months ago; now he no longer cared. She had thought the same of his wife yesterday afternoon. The woman’s lack of response had been insolent, nor had she spoken to any of the directors unless they approached her themselves. It was Sally Hughes who had substituted as hostess.
She dressed rapidly, reaching a decision. Holiday or no holiday, her first duty was to the Centre. Charles Martin must be dealt with, but at the same time she ought to try to discover if there were any basis for Beresford’s nebulous fears of trouble. The chairman tended to irritate her. Now that she was alone she admitted to herself that there was certainly a curious atmosphere at the Centre, one which she had attributed to insecurity. It was an organisation without a leader. Now she had second thoughts. She remembered Linda’s sudden vehemence yesterday afternoon. Was that genuine or had she some motive for hostility other than her arraignment of Plas Mawr’s policies?
Towards nine o’clock she telephoned Martin at the Centre. He answered after an interval: a blurred, incoherent voice. He summoned enough energy to agree to come to the Goat at two o’clock and she rang off. Then, in breeches and boots and waterproof anorak, she left the village and started along a muddy track which led eastwards towards the Lithgow cottage. There was a road from the village but Miss Pink was not the kind of woman who walked on tarmac when there was an alternative that was closed to traffic.
As she strode along the sodden hedgerows she reflected that she had been wrong when she had said that Jim Lithgow could reach the Centre in a few minutes if he possessed a car. The cottage was only a mile from Plas Mawr but in that direction the route was an unsurfaced track across fields. With a car he would have to drive to Bethel and then up the valley: more than twice as far.
The cottage was a lonely place, isolated at the side of the mouth of the broad valley and surrounded by trees. These climbed the slopes behind and on either side and were intersected by a steep grass-grown ramp running straight as an arrow to a black hole high in the hill. This was one of the old mine entrances and on each side of the ramp wet spoil heaps gleamed through the thinning leaves.
There were distant shouts and Miss Pink saw that there were climbers on an outcrop of rock above the tree-line. She assumed that they came from an Army encampment which was a field’s width to her right, the tops of lorries showing above the hedge. She stopped in the shelter of a sycamore and took the binoculars from her rucksack.
One climber was on the hard move of a route she remembered with affection from many years ago. She watched with deep interest and approval — and unaccountably suddenly her vision darkened.
Startled, she lowered the glasses to find herself listening to the embarrassed apology of a young man who had approached silently and was now standing in front of her. Never impervious to good manners and a pleasant face she studied him with interest. He was dressed in climbing clothes that were vaguely military in origin. For a while they discussed climbing and she learned that the Army unit came from Cheshire. This man was a lieutenant and, it appeared, an expert climber. When she moved on towards the Lithgows’ cottage he accompanied her for a short distance, talking of Alpine routes, then he sketched a salute and took his leave. She noticed that the little finger of his right hand was abnormally short, as if he had lost the top joint, a not uncommon hazard for alpinists who have to run the gauntlet of falling stones. He made his way towards the slope, evidently going to join the climbing party. She looked back after a few moments but he had disappeared.
*
The Lithgows’ cottage was small, one storey high with tiny windows, and overhung by huge sycamores. Linda opened the door. She was wearing a dirty fisherman’s jersey and old slacks. She had been crying and she stared at Miss Pink as if the other woman were a stranger. The girl said nothing and in the face of that vacuous stare Miss Pink forgot her fact-finding mission but neither could she turn her back and go away.
“Can I be of any help?” she asked.
Linda sighed deeply and without affectation.
“No,” she said. She sounded utterly exhausted.
“Where’s Jim?”
“He said he was going to the Centre.”
“On duty?”
“Preparing the next course. He said.”
“Wouldn’t you like a coffee?” Miss Pink asked. The girl studied this innocuous question. “I suppose so,” she said at last and turned. The movement appeared to start her functioning again and, leaving Miss Pink in the living room, she could be heard filling a kettle in the back kitchen.
The room was dim. There was no electricity. A table stood in the window with a dirty mug, a greasy plate and a bottle of milk. There was no fire. There were dimly discernible climbing photographs on the walls, and two shabby bookcases on either side of the grate were filled with books. Miss Pink recognised the climbing books by their spines and she bent to examine the paperbacks. They were on sociology, psychology, anthropology.
Linda brought two cups of coffee and put them on the table. Without speaking she took the dirty crockery and the milk bottle away. She sat at the table and Miss Pink drew up a chair. It was the only spot in the room that was light.
“This place would depress anyone,” the older woman said with the emphasis on the last word as if she were continuing a conversation.
“Anyone,” Linda repeated tonelessly.
She was, thought Miss Pink, in shock. It was pointless to go to the Centre for Lithgow who must know of her condition if he’d been home last night and had left this morning. Was he responsible?
“I didn’t see the instructors at the Goat last night,” she said, “only Paul.”
The girl looked at her. “They weren’t in the Goat?” she said with a rising inflexion which made it a question.
“Where were they?” Miss Pink asked, feeling her way.
“I don’t know.”
She seemed totally divorced from normal social etiquette and Miss Pink drank her coffee in silence for a few moments while she wondered what was to be done, then she remembered where she could find help.
“I’ll send Sally along,” she said and stood up.
“She’s got her own troubles,” Linda said tonelessly. She stared out of the window at the rain. Miss Pink sat down again.
“Can I help?” she repeated.
“How?”
“I don’t know unless you tell me.”
The girl stared at her dully. Miss Pink appeared to relax.
“There’s so much of it,” Linda said with a spark of impatience or resentment, “it’s so complicated. Besides, you’re his employer really —” She looked at the other woman hopefully.
“It needn’t lose him his job,” Miss Pink assured her, hoping that this was true.
“You know? No, you’re guessing — but you don’t have to be inspired, do you?” Without a change in tone, conversationally, she went on: “She appears to behave herself in public but her eyes look right through you — insolent. She looks at men the same way: coldly, without expression, like men look at girls’ legs when they’re drunk. She uses people. She’s using Jim. I told him so; I tried to make him see. She’s foul. She’s ruined everyone in that Centre — except Sally
— and Paul.”
Her face crumpled and she tore off her glasses.
“Oh God,” she sobbed from behind her hands, “you must have seen it — all of you. Why did you let it go on?”
“The Board meetings are every three months. I didn’t come to the last one. All the same,” Miss Pink said firmly, “now we know, the situation will be — remedied —”
“They’ll all be fired,” Linda said, not without satisfaction, “and in his position too! I mean, he was in authority!”
“Not conduct becoming to a chief instructor,” Miss Pink said but her eyes were kind and she smiled. Whatever had happened, this one appeared to be getting the worst of it.
Linda tried to respond. “Conduct unbecoming to a gentleman,” she said in a faltering Blimpish voice. She went on more naturally: “He was a fisherman though, off a Stornoway boat. I met him when I was youth hostelling in the north-west.”
“Where exactly did you meet him?”
“At Lochinver. One night in a hotel bar. So I stayed up there. I got a job in the hotel. I’d been reading Social Sciences at Birmingham but I lost interest. I was very young then. It was Sutherland was responsible: glorious country, d’you know it?” Miss Pink nodded. “He loved it too. So when he came back to Lochinver again he signed off the boat and we took a croft north of Kinlochbervie where the road gives out and all the people have left.”
“What did you live on?”
“He had some money. But it cost almost nothing to live. Ten pounds for the cottage for six months and we lived on bread and fish. We burned driftwood and peat.”
“Why did you leave?”
“The money gave out. We quarrelled. It was my fault. I felt I was wasting myself up there. We moved south and he worked in a garage in Fort William for one winter. He loved that and we were happy again although I still wasn’t making any contribution to society. He had Ben Nevis at the best time of year (he’s a great ice man, did you know?) but when summer came and there was no more ice climbing, he wasn’t so keen and he just cleared off. I thought he’d gone for good and I got a job as ward maid in the local hospital but he came back in the end as if nothing had happened. He’d been in the Alps all that time. Then we saw the advert for this place and I thought he might settle down. I wanted a baby, you see.”
