by MARY HOCKING
Only Emma was entirely sympathetic to Daniel. Emma, who had a taste for tragedy, thought there was something of Lear about her father at this time; a great, gaunt figure, he faced the storm with head unbowed, neither resisting nor supplicating, while the gods took their sport with him. She was deeply moved by him. During this period they often went for long walks together. Since his return, Daniel had refrained from trying greedily to make up for the lost years by lavishing love and affection on her, but now he found difficulty in restraining himself He was immensely touched by her, standing on the threshold of life, so ruthless in some ways, so unprepared and vulnerable in others. Her moods were bewilderingly variable. At times, she was eloquent, expostulatory, arrogant, decisive; then, quite suddenly, life would peter out, as though some strange creature had momentarily animated her body and as suddenly abandoned it, leaving her confused and inarticulate. He began to be excessively anxious about her. It appalled him to see so much energy, unharnessed. That she had a good mind, he was sure from his discussions with her, but whether she would nourish it, or whether some destructive force – undisciplined emotion, perhaps – would destroy it, he did not know. The mind and the emotions seemed to him terrifyingly uncoordinated – the brilliant perceptive flashes appeared only to shed light on chaos, the emotional responses to be so quick that they could not be controlled, let alone understood.
‘It’s so necessary,’ she said as they walked by the estuary one Sunday afternoon. ‘I mean, that someone should do what you have done.’ Her face sparkled in the frosty air; there was an awesome clarity of feature and intent, and it seemed for a moment that his own daughter was about to illuminate his action, to make it real for him and relevant to others. And then, she said, ‘It’s so . . . beautiful.’
‘In what way is it beautiful?’ he asked, rather deflated.
‘It’s so . . . complete.’ She rounded the phrase off with a not very meaningful gesture of her hand. He had no idea whether she really knew what she meant.
‘I don’t think one’s own actions ever seem complete,’ he said. ‘Do you?’
She moved her hand up the back of her neck and became preoccupied with winding her hair into a pony tail. ‘Perhaps not,’ she said. Her expression had become vague. Had she lost whatever thread of meaning she was following, or was she withdrawing from him? He had no idea. What would become of her? he wondered. To him, she was a shimmering of great brilliance and beauty, but what would develop from this, whether it would be something fine and poised, wrought with great precision and skill, or something that would fizz out into nothingness, he could not tell. It seemed that chance would decide. As a scientist, chance had been one of his preoccupations: now, as a man, caring for his daughter, he raged against it.
For Emma’s sake, as much as for his own, he redoubled his attempts to find another job. He had already written to a number of people whom he thought might help, but had received replies to the effect that there were not many openings in his particular field at the present time.
‘It’s the close season for microbiologists,’ he said wryly to Dorothy in one of their quieter moments.
‘I thought you would be much in demand.’
‘I thought that myself But as nothing has turned up, I think I had better look for something temporary to tide me over. It is bad for the children to have an out-of-work father.’ He said this with an air of good-humour, because he did not really consider himself unemployed.
‘Harry Clare mentioned to me that you might see Gordon Hunt, the chief education officer. I didn’t pass the suggestion on to you because I thought you were looking for something more high- powered than a teaching post.’ She also did not envisage that employment would present a serious problem. ‘Shall I ask Harry to arrange for you to have a talk to Gordon Hunt? I’m sure any school would be terribly lucky to get someone with your knowledge, even if only temporarily.’
It was arranged that Daniel should see Gordon Hunt, the chief education officer, on the Friday of that week. The appointment was for the late afternoon, and Daniel decided the he would spend the day making inquiries about work in the area. He went first to the offices of the Department of Employment and Productivity. As he entered the building, he experienced a sense of separation, as though he was looking down the wrong end of a telescope at a miniature world unrelated to himself There was a long hall and down one side there was a counter with hatches; behind the hatches were officials, some staring bleakly through their cages, others playing with little problems which had been thrust at them through holes in the wire-netting, one or two eating buns. Daniel went up to an official who seemed particularly unhappy; his head was slightly inclined and he apparently had difficulty in raising it-perhaps due to his long period in captivity-whatever the reason, he kept his head inclined for a full minute before reluctantly acknowledging Daniel’s presence. His eyes told Daniel what an agony it was to be constantly tormented by visitors. There was something about Daniel in particular that was a torment to him, he looked him up and down, and little lines of pain set in at either side of his mouth. Daniel said that he wanted to make inquiries about employment. The man looked at Daniel’s finger-nails and spoke to them. ‘You want to claim unemployment benefit?’
‘Is that necessary? I wanted to talk to someone.’
The man frowned, his range was obviously limited, his next door neighbour was a more volatile performer; but Daniel did not like to desert his official, so he said encouragingly, ‘Perhaps I could talk to you?’
The man repeated, ‘You want to claim unemployment benefit?’
‘I am not actually unemployed yet,’ Daniel explained. ‘The period of notice has still to expire.’
The man raised eyes that were full of suffering and repeated, ‘Do you wish to claim unemployment benefit?’
‘No.’ Daniel decided it would be better to clear this out of the way. ‘No, I don’t . . .’
‘Then you have come to the wrong place, haven’t you?’ The bitterness of not being wanted was so great that the man turned away from Daniel and flicked his hand out from his cage to grasp a card in the hand of the man waiting behind Daniel. Daniel stood to one side. The newcomer was not so forthcoming as Daniel; he did not appear to want to part with his card, and he looked down at his feet while he spoke. The official said, ‘I can’t hear a word you are saying. Let me look at this card.’ He looked at it for a long time, then he said, ‘Not stamped . . .’ He drew in his breath as though a spasm of pain had caught him. ‘I see.’ The man on Daniel’s side of the counter muttered, ‘There’s a letter.’ He thrust the letter at the official who at first refused to play with it, but finally turned it over and read it with his head slightly to one side as though to correct an astigmatism. As proof he could read, he said, ‘The Governor wants you to have an interview with Mr. Smailes, does he? Well, I can’t see what good that would do, but if that’s what the Governor wants, you had better sit over there. Mr. Smailes won’t be back for some time.’
When the man had turned away, the official said to Daniel, with more warmth than he had so far shown, ‘Get themselves a three- months’ sentence and then think we’re going to fall over ourselves to find them a job. Now. What can I do for you? Come to the wrong place, hadn’t you? What kind of work are you looking for?’
‘I’m a scientist.’
‘Are you? Well, you’ve certainly come to the wrong place! You want our Professional and Executive Register. If you had read the notices outside the building, you would have seen that it’s the third entrance on your left.’ He turned away, his brief moment of communication with the world outside his cage over; he picked up what was obviously a favourite toy, a large rubber stamp, and brought it thudding down on a buff form.
There was by now a queue behind Daniel. Resentful eyes watched him as he turned away; the last man in the queue, a perky individual, suddenly nipped over to the door as Daniel approached it. ‘That was a terrible mistake you made, sir. Allow me to open the door for you, sir.’
‘I am sorry to have kept you all waiting,’ Daniel said.
‘You’re just too sensitive, aren’t you, mate?’
Daniel walked towards the next entrance where there was indeed a small plaque on the wall on which was inscribed the words Professional and Executive Register. He stood for a moment in the street, looking up and down, breathing in the sharp January air, feeling it sting his cheeks. He still had the sensation there was a gap separating him from his surroundings, that life was going on in some other place to which he had been denied entry. A milk van made its way down a side-road and the cheerful cacophony of milk bottles seemed to come from a long way off He frowned, annoyed with himself, and went through the door and up a steep flight of stairs. The room at the top was about the same size as the one he had just left, but the floor space had been used differently; on one side it was divided into cubicles and he was led into one of these by a girl who appeared to be directing operations from a central desk. ‘Someone will be with you in a moment,’ she assured him. She sounded like a nurse in a casualty ward. There was a small table, two chairs and a stack of magazines on a shelf. Daniel picked up a copy of The Financial Times and studied it until the door opened and a woman with blue hair and blue shaded glasses came into the cubicle.
‘Have you an appointment?’ she asked.
‘I’m afraid not. I wanted to make a few preliminary inquiries.’
‘It is better to make an appointment.’
‘Perhaps I could make a few inquiries and then you could give me an appointment?’
She said, rather doubtfully, ‘If you wish.’
They sat down, one on either side of the table. The blue woman’s glasses reflected the stack of magazines on the shelf. She asked him what kind of post he was interested in and he shouted at her that he was a microbiologist. She said:
‘I am not deaf.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘Would you mind taking off your glasses?’
‘My glasses!’
‘I don’t seem able to adjust myself to them.’
She sat still for a moment, then she put up her hand and unhooked the glasses, being careful not to disarrange the neat flicks of hair over each ear.
‘Is that better?’ she asked, quite kindly.
It was now more difficult than ever to make contact because she appeared to have no eyes at all. Daniel muttered, ‘It’s very kind of you.’
‘Have you been looking for a post for long?’ Her voice had become quite gentle.
‘Not long.’ Daniel tried to sound cheerful; he had, in fact, imagined himself to be cheerful in a rather distant way until this moment when it suddenly became an effort. ‘I shall find something, I’m sure.’
‘Yes, indeed. I am afraid I’m not the person you should see. Mr. Peters is our science chap and he’s out at the moment. But if you would like to give me a few particulars . . .’ She was very tentative, she did not want to take anything from him that he was reluctant to give; she asked him his name with the greatest consideration.
‘Daniel Kerr.’
‘Kerr . . . Daniel . . .’ She wrote it down and looked at it. There was a pause and then she said in a different tone, ‘Would you excuse me a moment, Mr. Kerr.’ When he was a child a newspaper had run a competition; a man toured the seaside resorts and if you recognised him, you had to go up to him and say ‘You are Mr. Lobby Lud: I claim the News Chronicle prize.’ He felt that the blue lady was about to dash away to make sure she had the right form of words. She picked up her glasses and put them on with rather less consideration for her hair than hitherto. After a few moments, she returned with the right form of words. ‘Perhaps we could write to you about this?’
‘You’ll need my address,’ he pointed out.
‘Oh yes.’ He gave her the address and she wrote it down hurriedly. Just as he was going towards the outer door, she suddenly appeared beside him and laid a hand on his arm. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.’ She was as sad about it as if he had contracted an incurable disease.
Daniel ate a sandwich lunch and then went to the public library to study the situations vacant columns. There was a number of other people studying the columns with an air of nonchalant unconcern. It seemed that, given the right qualifications, life was full of opportunity: so long as you had initiative, enterprise, willingness to accept an exciting challenge, were prepared to travel to any part of the world at a moment’s notice, the future was yours - provided you were under twenty-six. Daniel glanced at his companions who ranged, he would have guessed, from thirty to fifty-five; they went over the columns several times to see whether there was anything worthy of their notice, only a few made notes.
He looked out of the window at the spare winter trees and the dun-coloured clouds. He could not remember a time when he had played so passive a role. He felt surprised that this should be happening to him, that he should be sitting in this dingy room with these men whose buttoned-up faces spoke bleakly of the loss of hope. Indeed, for a moment, he felt more than surprised, he felt a twinge of panic. ‘I am experiencing what the unemployed feel!’ he thought. He sat back and tried to become detached, so that he could watch himself experiencing it. A nightmare: in the morning one would wake and find one was in control again. But in control of what? How much did one’s positive attitude, the energy and dedication one brought to each day, depend on one’s work? It had never occurred to him to ask this before; his work had seemed an integral part of himself. He examined the question with interest. What was Daniel Kerr without his work, how well could he cope with life? He had to break off his examination at this stage as it was time to set out for his interview with Gordon Hunt. The experience, however, had humbled him. As he went up the steps of the town hall, he told himself that he must be prepared to consider anything that was offered to him. ‘As long as it’s not in a junior school,’ he thought, as he rang for the lift. He had heard that science was now taught in the junior school, but did not feel he could be effective at that level. And there were limits to humility!
Hunt was a small man who would have liked to be tall and aesthetic-looking but had made the most of the material at his disposal. He was meticulously groomed; his fair hair, now brushed forward in his one concession to modernity, was plastered to his head so that not one strand was out of place. His grey suit had a slight tinge of pearl and he wore a red carnation in his buttonhole. He seemed to Daniel, as he danced forward with outstretched hand, to be quite the most unreal thing in an unreal day. He made Daniel feel like Alice during one of her more unfortunate transformations; but at least the other characters had noticed that Alice was larger than them. Gordon Hunt appeared to find nothing odd about Daniel, structurally at least.
‘How is Harry?’ Hunt asked as they seated themselves.
Daniel said that as far as he knew, Harry was well.
‘I am so fond of the dear fellow. A splendid person. So civilised.’
Daniel, who was not in the habit of expressing himself in such glowing terms, and was not sure of Hunt’s definition of civilised, refrained from comment.
‘And how is young Giles? Your wife was telling me that he has become a revolutionary.’ He went on before Daniel could answer, ‘Don’t worry about it. I had the same trouble with my son. They grow out of it. Once they get down to finding a job, these young firebrands soon come to terms with the capitalist system.’ He paused, having come to the question of employment a little earlier than he had intended.
‘Now, let me see. I want to be as helpful as I possibly can.’ He examined his small, neat hands, laying them on the desk in front of him and beating a gentle tattoo with the eight fingers while the thumbs held still, silent concourse. ‘There is absolutely no point in holding out false hopes, don’t you agree?’ He raised his eyes and smiled at Daniel with bland insincerity. ‘So let me give you a brief picture of the staffing position. It’s a seasonal demand, you might say. We make a tremendous effort during the summer to fill our vacancies for the coming educational year. At the be
ginning of the autumn term we would be in a very bad way if we hadn’t fully staffed our schools. And being situated in a fair land, we don’t have much difficulty; people want to come to us. If we were one of the twilight zones, no doubt the position would be different. But people want to come to us.’ He paused, and said, ‘You do see what I mean?’
‘Yes,’ Daniel said. ‘I do see.’
‘Good, good.’ Hunt smiled again. Behind the exquisite facade, Daniel was aware of a steely strength which showed itself in the pale grey eyes which were very sure of their purpose. Hunt went on, ‘So that is the position regarding vacancies. Then there is the question of qualifications. It may seem absurd to talk about qualifications to a person such as yourself; but it is becoming more and more accepted that anyone who teaches in a school must know how to teach – specialist knowledge and the ability to impart it don’t necessarily go hand in hand. This is the view of the teacher organisations, you understand. For myself, I sometimes feel that we are getting to the stage where too much emphasis is placed on teaching qualifications and not enough on actual knowledge of the subject. And this is particularly true in the sciences. I should like to see us recruiting a few people like yourself and not worrying too much about previous teaching experience. But the unions would be awkward about that. We are in the hands of the unions, I am afraid. You do understand that?’
‘I understand you,’ Daniel told him. This man was defending his territory against an enemy whom he intended to withstand with all the resources at his command: and those forces were not inconsiderable. Hunt’s methods were devious, because this was the way in which he had to wage the war to preserve values which he regarded as important; he manoeuvred his committees and manipulated his chairmen without compunction, he had learnt above all else the art of saying one thing while doing another and would by now have regarded direct statements as naïve and quite unsuited to the intricacies of twentieth-century life. He was a master of his kind of warfare, ruthless, unscrupulous, and in his own way completely dedicated. In his view Daniel Kerr was one of those men who, perhaps innocently – and therefore all the more dangerously—undermine the structure of a civilised society. He had no intention of letting him loose in any of the establishments for which he was responsible.
