Fear to Tread

by Michael Gilbert

  In all his experience of her this had only happened once before, when she had scalded her hand helping with the week-end wash, and the chaos during the seven days she had been away was something he liked to forget.

  He sent for Sammy, and found that he was absent too. There was no time to do any more about this. He went into morning school with vague misgivings.

  At eleven thirty Colonel Bond arrived. An air of mystery hung about his shoulders like a cloak.

  Part of the colonel’s technique, as Mr. Wetherall well knew, was to allow the other person to start the conversation. It gave him the sort of tactical advantage which comes from sitting fourth in hand at bridge. It was an innocent gambit which Mr. Wetherall was usually willing to accept, but today he felt obstinate.

  The colonel had suggested the meeting. Let him get on with it and say what it was all about.

  “There are matters,” said the colonel at last, “which I do not find it at all easy to discuss.”

  Mr. Wetherall contented himself with a nod. He was not going to abandon his moral position for a soft shot like that.

  “I’m a liberal-minded man, Wetherall. I think I may say that a lifetime of experience has made me so. Nobody could spend twenty years in the Army and thirty in a profession and on the Bench and remain narrow-minded.”

  “I suppose not,” said Mr. Wetherall.

  What now? Smoking on the way to school? Mixed dancing class? Lavatories?

  “What a man thinks is his own business. This isn’t a police state.” Mr. Wetherall looked up. He fancied he recognised an echo. “Liberty of conscience is a fundamental concept, not a form of words, Wetherall, a fundamental concept. Most of us are in the happy position of being able to go further. We can not only think what we like, we can say what we think. We have no responsibilities. If the man in the street wishes to join—to join—” (the colonel paused for a moment as he let his mind rove over the varied fields of human activity) “the Co-operative movement, then there is nothing to prevent him doing so.”

  Mr. Wetherall felt a very faint premonition of what was coming. He decided to force the pace.

  “You mean,” he said, “that people in positions of responsibility, like yourself, Colonel, or myself, have to be more careful than other people.”

  “Caesar’s wife, Mr. Wetherall, Caesar’s wife.”

  “Good gracious me! I am sorry. I had no idea—”

  “I was using an analogy,” said the colonel crossly. He looked at his watch. He was being manoeuvred in the unthinkable position of being forced to make a definite statement.

  “It has been suggested—” he said, “I know the matter is to be raised in committee – is it true that you are—were—a member of the Communist Party?”

  The cat was out now, claws and all.

  “I was once,” said Mr. Wetherall. “I’m not now.”

  “And you’ve severed all connection with them?”

  “I never had very much connection. I paid two annual subscriptions and attended one or two meetings. Then I decided that they were even more stupid than the other political parties. So I gave them up. That was nearly twenty years ago.”

  “You paid subscriptions?”

  “Two subscriptions, yes.”

  “To the Party funds?”

  “I certainly didn’t intend them as a personal gift to the treasurer, if that’s what you mean. He was a greengrocer’s assistant. A most unpleasant man. Even whilst I was a Party member he seemed to pick me out nothing but maggoty carrots.”

  “But he was official treasurer.”

  “Certainly. What is all this about?”

  “As I told you. Miss Toup has given notice that she intends to raise the matter in committee. As chairman I hardly see how I can stop her.”

  “Short of cutting her tongue out, I doubt if you could,” agreed Mr. Wetherall.

  “It’s very difficult. Of course, the committee would quite understand if you decided not to be present.”

  “I shall certainly be present,” said Mr. Wetherall. He was pleased to find how well he had himself in hand. Two weeks ago such a manoeuvre would have left him speechless with rage. The events of the last fortnight had toughened him.

  “If the matter is going to be discussed,” he said, “though I have yet to be convinced that it is a proper matter for this or any other committee – I should certainly prefer that it was not done behind my back.”

  “Oh, quite, quite,” said the colonel.

  II

  “Well,” said Colonel Bond. “That disposes of the midday milk question.” He looked at a list of items on the agenda before him, all neatly ticked off. “Unless any member of the committee—?”

  He allowed his gaze to rest on each of them in turn; on Mr. Hazel, small and sharp looking; on Mrs. Griller, who spent all her money on clothes and still managed to look like a badly tied parcel; on Miss Toup, who was thin and rigid and was always unselfishly willing to express her views on subjects however difficult.

  It was Miss Toup who responded.

  “I gave notice, chairman, of an additional subject I wished introduced for preliminary discussion.”

  “Yes, Miss Toup.”

  “Then perhaps you would kindly introduce it.”

  Put on the spot in this cowardly way the colonel cleared his throat, rearranged his papers, and said: “Miss Toup wished the committee to consider the subject of political affiliations so far as they may affect heads of state schools.

  Mr. Hazel looked surprised.

  “Is it proposed,” he said, “that we discuss the subject theoretically?”

  “Certainly not,” snapped Miss Toup. Her nose was a little pink, and she so steadily avoided looking at Mr. Wetherall that the rest of the committee at once stared in his direction.

  “Perhaps, then, Miss Toup, you would outline the nature of the discussion you propose,” said the colonel, playing the ball neatly back into her court.

  “Certain allegations,” said Miss Toup, “have been made, and I consider that the committee should discuss them and, if it thinks fit, make a minute of its conclusions.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Mrs. Griller, suddenly. She had a deep, comedian’s voice.

  “I thought I had made myself quite plain,” said Miss Toup.

  “You haven’t said anything yet,” said Mrs. Griller. “Allegations. Political affiliations. What does it all mean? I’m a Liberal myself.”

  “The suggestion,” said Miss Toup, “was that it was undesirable for the headmaster of a school – a state school – to hold extreme or openly avowed political views.”

  “Oh, you’re talking about Mr. Wetherall. What’s he done now? I thought you were a Conservative, Mr. Wetherall.”

  “I should like to put it on record,” said Miss Toup, “that I did suggest that Mr. Wetherall should not attend this meeting. Apparently, however, he feels—”

  “Please don’t mind me,” said Mr. Wetherall. “Just imagine I’m not here.”

  “That’s all right, then,” said Mrs. Griller. “Now tell us what he’s done.”

  “May I ask you a question,” said Miss Toup. “Are you a member of the Communist Party?”

  “No,” said Mr. Wetherall.

  “Have you ever been a member of that Party?”

  “Yes. I was once. I think it was eighteen years ago.”

  “Have you entirely severed your connection with it?”

  “Entirely.”

  “And your political convictions?”

  Now Mr. Wetherall had only got to say “yes.” He realised it clearly. The matter could then hardly be taken further. There was a limit to the lengths which even Miss Toup could go; and, though not the most sensitive of women, she must have realised that the rest of the committee were not with her.

  Unfortunately he had become suddenly and unaccountably so angry that none of these cool arguments carried any weight with him at all.

  “I refuse to answer the question,” he said.

  �
��Ah,” said Miss Toup, exactly like a bullying barrister who has at last extracted an admission.

  “And I shall ask the chairman to rule that it is a most improper question.”

  “I—well—ah,” said the colonel.

  “I must say I agree with Mr. Wetherall,” said Mr. Hazel. “This is a school committee, not an inquisition of consciences.”

  “Well, if that’s your view—” The colonel turned to Mrs. Griller, in the evident hope that he could protect himself behind a majority opinion. But Mrs. Griller was out of her depth.

  “If Mr. Wetherall will assure us,” said Miss Toup smoothly, “that he is no longer an advocate of Communism, I, for one, should be quite satisfied.”

  “I thought I had already made it plain that I left the Communist Party a very long time ago.”

  “You ceased to subscribe to its funds,” agreed Miss Toup. “What I, for one, would be interested to hear is whether you ceased to subscribe to its opinions.”

  “Well, that’s a plain question,” said Mrs. Griller. “What do you say?”

  “It’s a question that the committee has no right to ask,” said Mr. Wetherall, “and which I have no intention of answering. And I demand the protection of the chairman.”

  The colonel looked unhappy.

  “Then I move,” said Miss Toup, “that the best method of dealing with the matter would be to minute the discussion without arriving at any conclusion.”

  “A minute—yes—perhaps the secretary—”

  Mr. Wetherall, being himself secretary of the committee, obediently took up his pen.

  “In what form would you like the minute,” he enquired.

  “I should suggest,” said Mr. Hazel. “A most improper question as to his personal political beliefs having been put to Mr. Wetherall, he very rightly refused to answer it.”

  “This is hardly the occasion for flippancy,” said Miss Toup.

  “I am perfectly serious,” said Mr. Hazel. “I regard the matter as unpleasant, uncalled for, and out of order.”

  “Come, come,” said the colonel hastily (and, in the circumstances, rather belatedly). “We don’t want any unpleasantness.”

  III

  During the lunch break Mr. Wetherall telephoned his wife.

  “It was the craziest meeting I’ve ever attended,” he said, “and when you consider our committee, that’s no mean record.”

  “You don’t think they were serious?”

  “Serious about what? What do they think happens next? That’s what made it so stupid.”

  “You say Miss Toup started it?”

  “Yes. But Colonel Bond knew all about it. He was in it too.”

  “Supposing they report you?”

  “For goodness’ sake,” said Mr. Wetherall. “Who to?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If they were trying to goad me into handing in my resignation – or assaulting Miss Toup – it was mismanaged. They oughtn’t to have warned me beforehand. If it had been sprung on me, I might have gone off the deep end.”

  “Well, I don’t like it,” said Mrs. Wetherall.

  Mr. Wetherall didn’t like it either. There were one or two things worrying him. Not the least was the absence of the Donovans. There was nothing he could do about that. They had no telephone and he was tied to the school all day.

  At half-past six that evening, when he was reaching for his hat and coat, he heard footsteps along the corridor and the red head of Sammy Donovan appeared in the gloom.

  He was glistening with excitement.

  “Oh, Mr. Wetherall.”

  “Where have you been all day? And where is Peggy?”

  “She’s home.”

  “What’s wrong with you all.”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” said Sammy. He sounded important, complacent and excited. “We can’t move out till after dark. Even after dark’s not easy.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “It’s Patsy. You heard what he did?”

  “I heard something.”

  “You know you tipped him off about Jock’s Cafe and Pop Maunder.”

  “Jock’s Pull-In for Carmen,” said Mr. Wetherall slowly. “Yes, I believe I did say something. What about it?”

  “Patsy went round and busted Pop up – to make him sing.”

  “Sing?”

  “Talk. He bounced him up and down on his head till he talked. He can get very mean, these days, Patsy.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Wetherall. He thought of Sergeant Donovan as he had last seen him. “Yes, but why?”

  “He got slung out of the police for it. Well, he’s not actually slung yet, but he’s going to be.”

  “What has all this got to do with not being able to go out?”

  “The boys’d do him if he went out, Mr. Wetherall.”

  “Then why don’t they come in and get him?”

  “They couldn’t do that. There’s a lot of Irish in our street and they like Patsy, see.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Wetherall. He tried to think dispassionately. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Patsy wants you to come and see him.”

  Mr. Wetherall hesitated.

  “It’s quite safe,” added Sammy tactlessly. “I’ll show you the way.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about that,” said Mr. Wetherall. “If the truth were known I expect there’s nothing to prevent us walking up to the front door – or Patsy walking out, for that matter.”

  “He tried it yesterday. Got fed up with sitting in the house and slipped out for a drink. There was three of them waiting for him at the end of the road.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He ran,” said Sammy, with a gap-toothed grin. “Patsy don’t often run, but he did this time.”

  “All right,” said Mr. Wetherall. “If he really wants me, I’ll come.”

  It was a curious journey. Immediately after crossing the Walworth Road they turned into the forecourt of a big block of council flats, and walked across it, to the blind end, where one of the iron railings was missing. After squeezing through, they crossed what looked like a builder’s yard, climbed a low wall, crossed another yard and came up against a further row of spiked railings. Again, one of these proved to be loose. Mr. Wetherall got the impression that he was moving along a well-used highway.

  The next obstacle was a line of back garden walls which ran up to, but did not quite meet, a higher blank wall behind them.

  “We gotter squeeze here,” whispered Sammy apologetically.

  They squeezed for about fifty yards. The gap grew narrower and narrower. Mr. Wetherall was about to protest when he found himself out in the open again.

  “We gotter climb here.”

  The first step was a dustbin top, the next a ledge, and then the guttering along the top of a row of garages. Mr. Wetherall was beyond caring.

  They creaked across a flat garage roof, lowered themselves onto the corresponding ledge on the other side, and dropped to earth.

  “Our back garden,” said Sammy. “Mind the chrysanthemums.”

  In the kitchen the Donovans were assembled.

  Mrs. Donovan was a smaller, plumper version of Peggy. Her hair was grey, but she had the same steady eyes. When she spoke Mr. Wetherall realised that, like all the best families, the Donovan family was a matriarchy. And whilst the younger Donovans spoke pure cockney, there still lingered, at the rear of Mrs. Donovan’s speech, a faint, lilting tone. It was nothing that could be expressed in phonetics. It was as indefinite as an echo and it was a reminder that she had not always belonged to those dark streets, but had been born within sound of the surf on the west coast of Ireland.

  “I’m pleased to see you, Mr. Wetherall,” she said. “I hope the boy has not been too rough with you. Go and brush your trousers, now, Sammy.” Sammy muttered but obeyed. “It was my idea you should come here. I told Patsy he ought to speak before anything happens.”

  “Before anything else happens,” said Peggy.

&nbs
p; The person who had not spoken so far was Sergeant Dcnovan. He was sitting at the head of the table, in the same disquieting attitude of repose. Now he looked up and said: “You heard I got into trouble.”

  “Sam started to tell me.”

  “It was Maunder. He gave me some back-talk, see. Mentioned Doris. Then I hit him.”

  “Did you hurt him?”

  “Yes.” Sergeant Donovan looked surprised. “Yes. I hurt the little bastard right enough.”

  “Tell Mr. Wetherall what he said to you afterwards.”

  “When I’d finished with him he started talking. He hadn’t got no more tick left in him than a busted clock. So he told me things – about his end of the racket. He didn’t know a lot, but he told me all he did know.”

  “And have you passed it on.”

  “No one’s asked me yet. Next thing I know old Clark was round here, telling me I’d been suspended. You could’ve knocked me down.”

  It was the speed of the thing that had surprised Mr. Wetherall too. He was not surprised that Patsy should have got into trouble. Sooner or later, in any police force, a policeman who bounced suspects on their heads would be likely to be looking for another job. It was the speed with which Sergeant Donovan’s mouth had been shut that he found astonishing. Then, remembering the letter to the newspaper he began to have a faint idea of how it had been handled.

  “Tell Mr. Wetherall what Pop told you,” commanded Mrs. Donovan.

  “You know he runs a cafe, Mr. Wetherall, for rail men and transport drivers.”

  “Yes. I’ve been there.”

  “There’s a yard at the back for parking lorries. You seen that? All right. Now say you’re a railway worker who’s got a van load of hot stuff. Two or three cases of tinned butter or ham, or a crate of poultry, or whatever you like. You drive into Pop’s parking place – better, perhaps, to wait till it’s dark, but you could do it by day if you had to – and you park your lorry with its back up against Pop’s back door, and you go in and sit down at one of the tables Pop serves himself. When he comes to take your order you tell him what you got for sale and fix a price. Two cases of butter, say, at five pounds a case. No one’s to tell what’s happening. You might be arguing over the prices on the menu or the result of the three-thirty. And that’s all there is to it.”