THE CLIMBING FRAME

by MARY HOCKING

‘All right.’

  ‘Try to get to sleep, then.’

  It was a windy night and the moon was full, shadows moved on the long wall. He wondered whether this disturbed Daniel, who was a nervous child; he twitched the thin curtains closer together and turned to go. Daniel said in a panicky voice, ‘Stay with me, Daddy!’

  Mylor sat on the edge of the boy’s bed. ‘All right, but calm down.’ He pressed his forefinger lightly on the boy’s nose and Daniel, who liked this, wriggled beneath the bedclothes. In the adjacent bed, Clare snuffled and thrashed about in protest.

  ‘I hate her,’ Daniel hissed, afraid that she would wake and claim his father’s attention. He raised himself on his elbows and gave her a look that indicated all too clearly that he meant what he said.

  ‘If you keep throwing yourself about like that, you’ll really wake her,’ Mylor said, not much moved by this display.

  Daniel seemed to accept the sense of this and settled down. Mylor straightened the bedclothes and waited, looking down at his son who was frowning fiercely; everything was a labour for Daniel, even sleep. Poor little toad! It was some time before he felt that he could leave the boy with safety and by that time Jemima was in their bedroom, he could see the light under the door. He went downstairs.

  The exercise book was on the table by the window; he hoped that Jemima had not seen it. He opened the window and stood by it, glad of the cool night air on his face. He felt very sad for Jemima. You had to be selective to survive in their sort of situation; you had to select the things you could live with and ignore the rest. Jemima seemed unable to do this. He had not expected to be able to do it himself; it had been a struggle and he had felt that he was deliberately maiming himself. He rested his head against the window frame and closed his eyes. At least he was free now, Jemima would not ask him when he was coming to bed; he had an hour, two hours, all night if he chose to be ruthless. He could walk from here to Canterbury and back; he had done that once after a particularly bad row when he felt that only long physical exercise would release the tension in him. Jemima had thought that he had done it to frighten her. But he must not go out tonight. It would be bad for Daniel if he woke and his father was not there.

  He would go back to Maggie. She had written a poem about childhood sometime ago, he recalled. He turned away from the window and picked up the exercise book; after a moment or two he found the poem and settled down to read it.

  Windows at the top of houses

  Small bright eyes

  Under the thick forelock

  Of the sloping roofs:

  Windows of rooms where children lie

  Wide awake

  In the scented stillness

  Of summer evenings

  Waiting the moment when the world

  Turns over

  And the first stars arise

  Blinking diamond eyes;

  Watching the night trees take their place,

  Not so nice

  As their daytime brethren

  But more exciting;

  Smelling the unseen dew-giver

  As he lays

  Benedictory hands on

  Leaf and blade of grass;

  Hearing the night bird’s canticle

  Soar over

  Field and hill and beyond

  The rim of the world;

  Praying the lord of enchantment

  To hasten

  The day when they enter

  His realm of delight:

  With never a thought that his spell

  Has no power

  Beyond the childhood side

  Of the window pane.

  Dear Maggie! He turned to the latest poem and began to read it again.

  The immaculate wimple frames a face that Rembrandt might

  have painted:

  Each line part in a statement of all that life has given and taken

  away—

  A tapestry of experience—

  While the transparent flesh reveals a summary in bone.

  The body, long disciplined by the anonymity of habit,

  Adopts the conventional pose, tranquil, unassertive, save only

  that

  The strong hands quietly folded

  Indicate an acceptance not easily arrived at.

  A retreat from the human predicament, this dedicated denial of

  the flesh?

  Before condemning, consider the eyes, faded by a lifetime spent

  In the laboratory of the spirit

  Distilling in the crucible the essence of love.

  He sat for some minutes staring at the page on which the poem was written. Then he made a note that he did not much like ‘dedicated denial’. Then he read the poem through again. There was an economy here and a mastery of emotion that he would not have expected of Maggie; the poem seemed to have an existence of its own. A time will come when she won’t need me, he thought; and immediately he had a vision of a future when he no longer knew her.

  He would come back to England after a long time away. A grey day with a mean wind whipping across the bleak foyer of a main line station, litter scurrying about the feet of the hurrying passengers. So many people in such a hurry but with faces that indicated that their journeys were of no real importance. Something needed to wall him off from those empty faces. Out in the street, a bookshop, a drab oasis in a concrete desert, but enough for present needs. And there, to one side of a table display, a thin volume with an austere jacket which simply announced ‘Poems by Maggie Hester’. The train rumbled over the bridge, St. Paul’s on the one hand and the Houses of Parliament on the other. A man said ‘That clock’s wrong’ and a girl giggled. On the inside of the jacket, a picture of a middle-aged woman with a homely, rather anxious face and eyes which searched for something outside the range of the camera. He turned the pages without reading because tears blurred the words and he was torn by regret and longing past belief. The train went faster and faster and the wheels sang their own refrain, you can’t go back, you can’t go back, you can’t ever go back . . .

  He broke free of the terrible rhythm and jerked himself back to the present. The exercise book was open on his knees and he could see it because his eyes were dry. His eyes were dry and his throat was dry and something inside him was very cold and dry because he knew that he had seen into the future. Sometime, somewhere, this was going to happen to him. And with this knowledge came an overwhelming desire for Maggie.

  Chapter Six

  ‘I’m not at all happy about the way internal communications are dealt with,’ Tim Thatcher said to Mr. Crocker. Tim Thatcher was as bright and untried as a newly minted half-crown and, in the opinion of many of the staff, just as redundant. He had recently been appointed as personal assistant to the Deputy, his duties being somewhat loosely defined as ‘internal liaison’. This had given rise to some speculation and a good deal of mirth, but Thatcher himself took it very seriously; he was anxious to justify the new post and worked very hard at creating work.

  ‘I don’t mean inter-departmental communications,’ he went on, blandly ignoring the darkening hue of Mr. Crocker’s face. ‘I’m concerned with inter-section communications. This person-to-person approach . . .’

  ‘I’m trying to get some statistics out for the C.E.O. for the meeting on reorganization tonight,’ Mr. Crocker interrupted brusquely.

  Tim Thatcher momentarily closed his eyes as though experiencing a slight twinge of pain and continued:

  ‘This person-to-person approach is far too prevalent. It means that people quite low down the scale . . .’

  ‘Mr. Thatcher, among other things, County Councillor Wicks wants to have details, before the meeting, of the number of children who got their first choice of secondary school at the 11+ stage over the last five years!’

  ‘You can still spare a minute to do what I ask.’ Mr. Thatcher was amused but inflexible: the iron man. ‘Now, when you write to General Services Section, for example, do you address your memorandum to that section or to a particular me
mber of it?’

  Mr. Crocker’s mouth trembled and his false teeth slipped. He adjusted them and said, ‘Get out, you silly young puppy.’

  Rupert Ellis, the Deputy, paid a visit to Crocker early that afternoon. He sank down in the visitor’s chair and chatted with apparent amiability for a time. Ellis was not by nature convivial, but he worked at it. He had many attributes to help him; a big, strong body, full, fresh-complexioned face, a thatch of flaxen hair, bright blue eyes, even white teeth, it only needed humour and a warm smile and he could have swept all before him. But humour had been left out of his make-up. He was aware of this and remedied the deficiency by laughing heartily whenever he judged it to be necessary. He was also aware of the need to be sociable, but was somewhat hampered in his social activities by the fact that he was not married. Women did not interest him. One of the office wits had explained that this lack of interest was due to the fact that he was the progeny of a computer and an adding machine. Ellis, nevertheless, worked hard at being sociable and at school functions he was careful to circulate and exchange a few remarks with as many people as possible. In all the social arts, he had learnt to recognize the signs without in the least understanding the feelings which motivated them. Now, his excellent memory coming to his aid, he recalled that Crocker was a keen gardener and he elaborated for some time on the poor quality of potatoes; he did this with energy and determination, refusing to be deflected by Crocker’s fretful fidgeting with the papers on his desk. In spite of his zeal for the subject of gardening, however, he noted the pile of grading lists, the choice forms, the admission lists. When at last he had made a mental note of the contents of the desk and incidentally exhausted the study of potatoes, he gave Crocker a direct look and a frank smile and said:

  ‘Now, tell me, what’s the trouble? Mr. Thatcher asked you for some quite simple information this morning and you refused to give it to him. Now I can’t believe that you would do that without a very good reason.’ He tucked in his chin and made a rueful grimace at Crocker, as though admonishing a naughty child.’

  ‘I was preparing these statistics . . .’

  ‘I’m not concerned with them.’ Ellis dismissed statistics with a flick of the hand and ignored Crocker’s agonized glance at the clock. ‘I have asked Mr. Thatcher to look into the whole question of office administration for me because I personally think that it is vitally important. People must cooperate with him.’

  ‘Then the C.E.O. will have to go without these statistics.’ Crocker was becoming not only agitated but aggressive. ‘I can’t do two things at once.’

  ‘That I can’t accept!’ Ellis gave the resounding bass laugh that he reserved for members of the staff who were being particularly tiresome. ‘You won’t convince me that your section can’t manage to do two things at once. You’re much too efficient. Since I’ve come here I’ve learnt to expect miracles from the Schools Section and I haven’t been disappointed yet. Now . . .’ He leant forward and fixed a man-to-man gaze on Crocker who stared back at him bleakly. ‘Now, is it really necessary for an officer on your grade to be wasting his time in this way? I’m sure your admirable Miss Hester could do this for you in no time.’

  ‘She’s doing 1965 and 1966!’ Crocker shouted. He had further trouble with his false teeth.

  Ellis said, ‘Very well. I can see I’m not going to get anywhere this afternoon.’ His face was blank as though a sponge had been wiped over it, leaving it virgin of all expression. He went back to his own room.

  Half an hour later Chatterton came in. He sat down in the visitor’s chair and asked Ellis about his handicap. Ellis was conscious that he had played this scene before, only now the parts were reversed. When Chatterton had exhausted the subject of golf, he said:

  ‘What has young Thatcher been up to? I’ve just had Crocker threatening resignation, a general strike, and the day of judgement!’

  Ellis went a dull red, it was a weakness he could not control apart from that he remained impassive. Chatterton went on imperturbably:

  ‘It seems that Thatcher has been pestering him for some damn- fool information about inter-section communications—whatever that may mean.’

  Ellis said in a tight voice, ‘To complain to you about Thatcher was a little beyond his province, I would have thought.’

  ‘Oh come!’ Chatterton protested easily. ‘People must be free to air their grievances from time to time. Does them good—a sort of safety valve.’

  ‘Perhaps Thatcher needs a safety valve, too?’

  ‘Thatcher needs a kick in the pants,’ Chatterton favoured Ellis with a disarming grin. ‘That’s why I came to you.’

  ‘Just what is Thatcher supposed to have done? I can hardly take this up with him on Crocker’s say-so.’

  ‘My dear chap!’ Chatterton was apologetic. ‘I don’t normally take Crocker seriously. We’ve known each other for years and I’m fond of the old rascal; and I know how difficult he can be. But on this occasion I have some sympathy with him. He’s getting out statistics which are urgently needed for the meeting of the working party on reorganization tonight. I really can’t have Thatcher interfering with people when they are preparing work for me.’

  ‘Thatcher is working on the survey on office administration,’ Ellis pointed out.

  ‘Good God, man! If he’s concerned with office administration he ought to know better than to interrupt people when they are preparing information that is urgently required.’

  ‘Crocker was very rude to him.’ Ellis was white about the mouth.

  ‘Oh, you have to make allowances for Crocker. In fact, you have to have broad shoulders and the hide of a rhinoceros if you’re going to survive in local government these days.’ And, having successfully moved from the particular to the general, Chatterton got to his feet. ‘Have a word with Thatcher, there’s a good chap. Tell him to use a bit of discretion.’

  He went on his way, leaving Ellis staring at the closed door. Ellis himself seemed to have closed up. He was by nature an introvert and at such times all emotion was driven underground; the shutters were drawn and the conscious Ellis was barely aware of what went on behind them. He drew a piece of paper towards him and picked up a pencil, as much to convince himself as anyone else that he was sitting calmly at his office desk getting on with the day-to-day work. After a very long time, he wrote on the piece of paper: ‘Matter to be investigated: Why has the Education Department no statistics section?’

  ‘Lot of work you people prepared for us this evening,’ Rudderham said to Ellis. Ellis had buttonholed him to sign chairman’s approvals after the meeting of the working party.

  ‘We certainly did!’ Ellis agreed, quickly putting another approval forward in case Rudderham thought he had finished. ‘We need a statistics section.’

  ‘All for adding to the rate bill, you chaps!’ Rudderham muttered.

  ‘It would be to members’ advantage, sir. The whole of the Schools Section was turned over to this work today, and that means that a lot of other work had to wait.’

  Rudderham said, ‘Mmmh.’

  ‘After all, we are concerned with the day-to-day running of the schools,’ Ellis reminded him jokingly as he pushed yet another approval towards him.

  ‘Yes.’ Rudderham signed the approval and put the top on his fountain pen. ‘You’ve got something there, of course. All this pressure for reorganization, people forget we have to run the service.’

  ‘That’s why I feel there may be an argument for the planning and statistics work to be taken away from the main sections.’

  ‘Mmmh.’ Rudderham fiddled with the fountain pen. ‘Was that the way they organized the Department in your previous authority? Planning and statistics in a separate section?’

  ‘Yes, as it happens.’

  ‘You find this place a bit of a change, I expect?’

  ‘Very pleasant, though.’

  ‘Office probably seems a bit sleepy, eh? Always imagine Northerners push ahead . . .’

  ‘They get things done, cer
tainly.’

  ‘Don’t want you to be afraid to introduce changes here,’ Rudderham said gruffly to his fountain pen. ‘Not afraid of progress myself, not a bit. In fact, I think we could do with one of these management consultant wallahs to give us the once-over.’

  ‘Now that would put something on the rates!’

  ‘Don’t you think it would be worth it?’

  ‘To be quite frank, I’m not at all convinced of the value of that kind of thing. I certainly think that every office needs to take a fresh look at itself every now and again; but if it has been run efficiently, and after all this is a matter for its officers—no point in having management consultants if you haven’t efficient officers to run the place when they’ve departed—if it has been run efficiently, I’m not sure that it should be necessary to bring in outside people to do what is needed.’

  ‘But these people are experts.’

  ‘Now you’re not really bamboozled by this word “expert” that is so fashionable nowadays, are you, sir!’

  ‘Can’t stand the word,’ Rudderham said hastily.

  ‘I have a feeling that most of these firms are geared to do this kind of job in industry and commerce, where the whole set-up is very different to local government. They don’t really know what they are about when it comes to our kind of work and very few of them have any experience of it. And this is particularly true in education; you see, they tend to underestimate the importance of the contacts we have with the general public. Heaven help us if we dealt with people the way they deal with them in industry and commerce!’

  ‘What would your solution be?’

  ‘Get it done internally by people who know what they are about. But then, I’m an interested party, aren’t I, sir?’

  They both laughed.

  ‘Seriously, though,’ Rudderham said. ‘There are drawbacks. It is a great temptation for someone to feather his own nest. I’m not at all sure that the answer isn’t the completely independent, unbiased outsider.’

  ‘Provided he is independent and unbiased. The man who did the job for one big authority we both know was a friend of the Clerk!’

  ‘And we know what happened there!’ Rudderham laughed reminiscently. ‘Yes, you may be right. I sometimes feel that there’s no such thing as a really independent, unbiased person now. A dying breed. You know, fifteen years ago, before Bunce and his like came along—and some of our own people are included in that, I don’t mind telling you—we didn’t have any of these pressure groups and all this political emphasis. We would go through a whole meeting without any controversy at all, because we were all interested in running the schools efficiently and nothing else.’ He thumped the table. ‘We didn’t try to make a burning issue of everything, we just got on with the job.’