THE CLIMBING FRAME

by MARY HOCKING

  It was a split-level bungalow, a fantastic zig-zag of sun lounges, patios and trellised arcades; to the rear there was a glimpse of a swimming bath.

  ‘If that’s the way they want to live, it’s their choice,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe. But I’d love to leave a plastic gnome on the patio.’

  ‘You’re a snob,’ she accused him. ‘Plastic gnomes don’t do any harm.’

  ‘I’m not sure about that.’

  They walked on, feeling like people who have wandered on to a deserted film set. Standards of behaviour, as accepted by Rudderham, were an irrelevance here. Their voices rang out, uncaring; they leant over gates and peered through windows, they laughed, argued and provoked, kissed and caressed as though this was a fantasy fun fair set up for their delight. At the end of the dusty street they came to the sea and instinctively turned away from the promenade, making their way towards the sand dunes. At some time, they fell down exhausted from the battle with the wind and the effort to walk on the shifting bank of pebbles. They came to rest against the hull of the boat, and after a while, Mylor was saying, ‘Can you breathe, now?’

  He thought how strange it was that her face changed at every stage of their relationship. How long ago had he first met the faintly worried office girl with the compelling eyes? And how long had it been before she became the girl in the car, sympathetic and responsive, provided one did not go too far? He searched the face for them, but the wind had borne them away. Worry and reserve had surrendered to sun and air; all that remained was at his mercy, parted lips that waited to cry out, eyes already in his shadow. He bent closer and the face went out of focus.

  The sea crept up the beach, spitting foam like tongues of fire; the waves receded with a harsh drag leaving pebbles gleaming darkly only to be covered as the next wave broke; the waves attacked, withdrew, reformed, attacked again and stealthily gained ground. The wind became more strident, billowing sand from between the pebbles, battering against the hull of the boat.

  Mylor stirred and whispered, ‘Did I hurt you?’ because she was crying. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’ He took her in his arms again to comfort her.

  ‘Don’t go away.’ She held to him tightly. ‘I want to stay here for ever, Mylor, please, please, please . . .’ She did not know what she was saying, she only knew that when he moved away it was so cold that it frightened her.

  ‘Your feet will be in the sea soon, you’d be very wet if you stayed here much longer.’ He teased and coaxed her gently until she was ready to move.

  ‘We’ll come here again,’ he said as they walked up the beach.

  ‘Will you want to?’

  ‘Want to?’ He stopped, staring at her in dismay.

  ‘I’m afraid . . .’ She saw pain darken his eyes and reached out a reassuring hand to his cheek. ‘No, darling, no! I’m happy, that’s all.’

  ‘What a goose you are!’ He hugged her in relief. ‘Why be afraid if you’re happy?’

  ‘I’ve always been afraid to be happy. I suppose I still am.’

  They had reached the promenade, it was warm in spite of the wind; she felt the heat through her thin sandals, her feet burnt with the salt and the wind.

  ‘Why have you always been afraid to be happy?’ he asked.

  ‘Happiness seemed magical. If you told anyone about it, it would vanish. We played a kind of game, not recognizing each other.’

  Perhaps she had been afraid to risk happiness because you committed too much of yourself to it, perhaps she had been wary in her giving. Mylor, who was ready to adventure anything, would not understand this.

  ‘I am happy now,’ she said.

  And, although she supposed that technically this was no longer so, she still felt that her love for him was innocent. How could it be otherwise on this bright day?

  They walked along the promenade looking at the rambling buildings outside each of which was a placard giving particulars of the accommodation in the flats and the rent. Mylor pushed at a gate and led Maggie across a lawn towards an imposing building painted white and designed in the style of early colonial architecture.

  ‘Suppose someone is there?’ Maggie protested.

  ‘They have flats to rent, haven’t they?’

  To Maggie’s dismay, a door at the back was open. Perhaps the caretaker had been airing the building; there was no sign of him now. Maggie followed Mylor into a dark corridor, her heart thumping uncomfortably. He pushed a door and she steeled her nerves for she knew not what horror: Miss Haversham in bed perhaps, or, even worse. Miss Haversham out of bed. But it was merely a communal sun lounge, polished wooden floor, wicker chairs, occasional tables with ash trays and copies of last year’s Sporting Life and The Field, a bold, brash mural on one wall. A spiral of smoke was rising from one of the ash trays.

  ‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ Mylor murmured.

  He went back to the corridor.

  ‘Mylor . . .’ Maggie protested uneasily, but he took no notice.

  Doors were half open on either side of the corridor, they could see sitting rooms with kitchen annexes, a bathroom; a bedroom with a vacuum cleaner on the rug, its lead trailing.

  ‘Like the Marie Celeste,’ he laughed. The laugh echoed down the corridor.

  ‘Mylor . . .’ she whispered. ‘We mustn’t . . .’

  At the end of the corridor he went into another bedroom. Maggie followed, past entreaty. The room had wide casement windows facing the sea; there was a built-in wardrobe, a dressing table, two occasional chairs, all painted white, and a big double bed. ‘Not bad.’ He opened a wall cupboard. An eiderdown and two blankets on the shelves, no sheets or pillow cases.

  Maggie went to the window and opened it. He came and stood beside her, his arm round her waist.

  ‘We could come here on weekdays without anyone ever knowing,’ he said.

  She closed her eyes and listened to the surge of the sea on the pebble beach; already it seemed to belong to another part of her life. Tears came in spite of herself. He said gently, understanding a little, ‘The tide will be in sometimes, goose. We must have somewhere to come.’

  Chapter Eight

  Very few people are entirely committed to evil and Rupert Ellis was no exception. He was anxious not only that all men should think well of him, but that he should think well of himself. The last thing he was determined to do was to prove himself a villain. He had, in fact, evolved quite a complicated procedure for assuring himself that his, actions were aimed at ensuring the greater good of the greater number. He checked the system over each morning to make sure it was in working order. It went something like this:

  Relationship with staff. If the man at the top is not seen to be one-hundred per cent efficient, it will be felt throughout the establishment; from his senior officers to the general division clerks there will be a feeling of insecurity. Ellis could convince himself without difficulty that there was a feeling of insecurity in Chatterton’s department. In most offices there are both senior and junior officers who are unable to cope with their jobs. Ellis had little difficulty in identifying several classic examples from among the education office staff to give validity to his case. The fact that these people were a minority did not concern him; it is the dissident minority with whom one tends to be familiar.

  And so to Influence on Committee. Apart from the relationship of the top man to his staff, there was the even more testing question of the effect which he had on his Committee. The man at the top must be able to handle his members without their realizing what is happening. Chatterton had handled his members very well for many years; but the pattern had changed over recent years. There was a lot of party strife and inter-party bitterness now, and officers tended to get caught in the crossfire between members. Chatterton did not handle this kind of thing well; he did not understand the nature of the game and even if he had he would not have been prepared to take part in it. A top man could not afford this kind of scruple these days.

  Finally, there was the all-important question of Educ
ation. Chatterton was hopelessly incapacitated for the present struggle. He was regarded as the man who had built up the grammar schools and he inspired no confidence in members most of whom were committed, to a greater or lesser extent, to a progressive policy which involved, whatever other differences there might be, a publicly expressed abhorrence of the divisive influence of the grammar school system.

  So what it came to really was that, on all counts, Chatterton was unfitted for his post and Ellis was the saviour for whom a South-East Kent long plunged in darkness was waiting.

  This established, he felt justified in ensuring that he was well- informed about anything that went on in the office, however trivial (like Wicks he had a great respect for the trivial). He also felt justified in introducing changes aimed at streamlining procedures where necessary and tightening-up on those which were not amenable to streamlining. ‘Dealing with the public’ came into the tightening-up category. And so, when he had had his morning coffee, he sent for Maggie Hester.

  ‘Ah, good morning! How nice of you to spare me the time,’ he greeted her when she made her appearance.

  His smile was smooth as butter, but Maggie noted that it was not reflected in the blue eyes. She noted, too, that the big, strong body was losing some of its hardness, there was the hint of a paunch and the neck was thickening. The face was coarsening about the jowls. In a few years’ time he would be gross. As he turned to adjust the blind, she noted the little forest of flaxen hair on the pink neck. He sat back in his chair, his hands resting on the arms; pink again, with square, well-polished nails, no bones showing. She noted all this automatically, observation was second nature to her. This time, however, she was not as detached as usual. The man repelled her. She hoped that he was not going to talk about the climbing frame woman; he might bring Mylor into it and the thought of Ellis talking about Mylor made her feel sick.

  Ellis, meanwhile, was regarding her with the admiration he felt was due to a shapely pair of legs in the briefest of skirts: he liked to be correct in all things.

  ‘It always does me good to see you. Miss Hester,’ he said. ‘How are things in the Schools Section?’

  ‘Easing up a bit. There’s only a trickle of people coming in about the 11+ results now.’

  ‘Good, good. I see one or two have written to the Department of Education and Science.’

  ‘Yes. This happens each year.’

  ‘And what do you do when they threaten to write to the Department?’

  ‘Give them the address.’

  ‘Very sensible. You manage these things remarkably well. There’s a letter in only today from a parent expressing appreciation of your sympathetic attitude.’ He sighed. ‘I wish more people were appreciative. You’ve had your troubles recently, I believe.’

  ‘You mean Miss Cathcart?’

  ‘Yes. You saw the Recorder?’

  ‘It was on my desk this morning.’

  ‘A very exaggerated account, no doubt.’

  ‘I didn’t say “your child was disobedient”. I merely asked her whether the teacher had told him not to use the climbing frame.’

  ‘I’m sure you were most tactful. But we really can’t have charming people like you being bullied, Miss Hester! Another time, you must make sure that someone else sees Miss Cathcart’s sort of person.’

  She accepted calmly the inference that someone else would have handled matters better and merely pointed out, ‘But there was no one else here. That was why I had to see her.’

  ‘Then make an appointment and send her away! Be firm.’

  ‘She’d have made even more fuss if we had sent her away. She had given up a day’s work . . .’

  ‘Come! We can’t be bullied by the general public to that extent! And we’re not going to be. Don’t you take too much on yourself, Miss Hester. In future, no one under the rank of a senior officer is to see anyone making a complaint. That means, in your section, Mr. Crocker or Mr. Punter.’

  Not long ago, it had been decided that if possible Mr. Crocker was to be prevented from seeing people who had come to make a complaint because his manner of dealing with them only exacerbated their condition. But Maggie made no mention of this. She merely inquired, ‘Does that go for the 11+ complaints?’

  ‘No.’ Ellis flinched at the thought: he had seen the queues in the corridor when the results were known. ‘I think we can exempt the 11+ from this ruling. After all, you have made yourself something of an expert in that field, haven’t you?’ He made it sound as though he was doing her a favour.

  ‘But to go back to Miss Cathcart,’ he went on. ‘Did you get the full story from the school?’

  ‘Mr. Chatterton has gone out there this morning with one or two of the members,’ Maggie said.

  ‘Yes, so I understand.’

  There was a pause while they eyed each other, Ellis blandly interrogative, Maggie stubbornly unresponsive. Then Maggie said:

  ‘You’ll be able to get the full story from him when he comes back.’

  Ellis’s colour heightened. He said coldly, ‘Yes, of course. I merely wanted to make sure that all the proper procedures had been followed.’

  She made no comment.

  ‘Well, I won’t keep you any longer.’ The last pretence of cordiality had gone. ‘You are obviously very anxious to get back to your 11+ preoccupations.’

  There was a point beyond which Ellis made no further effort with people; he had reached that point with Maggie Hester. From now on he would have no use for her. Much too young and inexperienced to be handling the kind of work with which she is entrusted, he reflected as the door closed behind her; sympathetic and emotional, but lacking judgement and subtlety of approach. A good clerical III, but certainly not the type for the administrative grade. Her promotion had been a mistake.

  Rudderham, about this time, was reflecting for the twentieth time in the past week, that Drew was not a suitable type for the Head Master of a school—a technical college, perhaps, where the qualifications seemed to include long hair and bad manners. Not that Drew had been demonstrably ill-mannered, it was simply that his attitude lacked the deference due to the Chairman of the Education Committee. ‘I never make a show, sir, never; I do you the honour to behave as if you were an ordinary person visiting my school,’ the Head of a neighbouring primary school was wont to say, thereby making it quite clear that Rudderham was not in fact an ordinary person, but a man of considerable distinction who was too unassuming to expect a fanfare of trumpets to herald his approach. Rudderham found this vision of himself a pleasing one. Drew’s habit of treating him as though he was as good as the next man but no better was something he could not accept. It seemed to him a deliberate lack of respect, like refusing to salute an officer.

  ‘The rest of the firing party hasn’t arrived,’ Drew had greeted Rudderham and Chatterton.

  ‘Just a friendly visit,’ Chatterton assured him easily.

  ‘I can’t remember the last time I had so many important people at my school.’ Drew was quite forthright about it, he was not a man who dealt in sly hints.

  ‘You never send out invitations to your functions, so what can you expect?’ Chatterton retorted.

  ‘I don’t have functions,’ Drew answered.

  ‘You don’t organize anything?’ Rudderham was scandalized. ‘No plays, no concerts . . .’

  ‘Oh yes, for the children.’

  A man who is a good showman puts on something for public display every now and again, Rudderham thought; and particularly for influential members of the public.

  ‘Drew doesn’t believe that children of primary school age should be encouraged to take part in set-pieces for the entertainment of adults,’ Chatterton twinkled, genuinely amused.

  ‘Children love showing off,’ Rudderham said.

  ‘They do indeed!’ Drew agreed.

  ‘Ah, I see the rest of our party has now arrived,’ Chatterton observed.

  Through the window, Rudderham saw Wicks manage to skip clear of a red Mini before Miss Kane b
anged the door. Even at this distance, Miss Kane, in a steel grey costume, looked formidable as a torpedo.

  ‘So sorry to keep you, entirely my fault, slight rumpus at the shop.’ Wicks greeted everyone and shook hands with Drew. ‘Sorry to invade you like this, Head Master.’

  ‘I’m beginning to feel a bit outnumbered.’

  Miss Kane sat down, muttering ‘quite unnecessary, all this fuss’ in a voice that was pitched so as to be just audible.

  ‘I’m sure it will already have been made clear to Mr. Drew that we are here entirely for his benefit,’ Wicks said.

  As neither Chatterton nor Rudderham had got down to the subject matter of the visit, his remark was greeted by an awkward silence.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Wicks said. ‘Well, let’s make that quite clear now, shall we?’

  ‘You’re going to declare war on the Recorder?’ Drew inquired. He sounded sceptical in a tolerant way. If only he would look a little more worried, Chatterton thought: Rudderham will think him arrogant and Wicks will be denied that little touch of drama he so much enjoys.

  ‘I think a letter should have been sent immediately to the Recorder,’ Miss Kane said. ‘A straightforward denial, no attempt to answer every allegation.’ She looked at Chatterton for support.

  ‘Now, wait a minute, wait a minute,’ Wicks shook his head at her reprovingly. ‘You know as well as I do, Jean, that you have to be very careful in dealing with the press. Goodness knows, I’ve suffered enough in my time.’

  ‘We haven’t come here to hold an inquest on the Recorder.’ Rudderham was annoyed at having proceedings taken out of his hands. Drew raised his eyebrows and Chatterton intervened hastily.

  ‘We haven’t come here to hold an inquest on anyone. As you will appreciate. Drew, the Recorder’s article involves not only you and your staff, but the office staff and County Council members. And this, of course, is worrying for the Chairman. I think I’m right, am I not, sir, in saying that in so far as the Head Master is concerned, you merely wish to run over events in order to make sure that you have a clear picture of what took place.’