THE CLIMBING FRAME

by MARY HOCKING

  ‘That’s quite simple,’ Drew said, before Rudderham had a chance to confirm or deny. ‘The boy was in the playground with a group who were being taken for organized games. He is a rather disturbed child and tends to be a nuisance on such occasions. This time, he hit one child, spat at another, and stamped on a third’s foot. He was then told to stand to one side until he could behave himself, whereupon he went off and mounted the climbing frame. When told to come down, he loosed his grip and slid down, bruising his knuckles on the way.’

  ‘The details will be given on the accident form, I take it?’ Wicks asked idly.

  Chatterton looked at Aim sharply, and Drew said flatly, ‘There was no accident.’

  ‘This child fell off the climbing frame . . .’

  ‘He slid off it. He rapped his knuckles and got a slight graze on the knee.’

  ‘And you don’t consider that an accident?’

  Drew said quietly, ‘I have a junior and infant school, the children range from five upwards. If we filled in an accident form every time a child grazed himself in the playground . . .’

  ‘But this was a rather special case, surely?’

  ‘There was nothing special about it, apart from the fact that the mother complained.’

  ‘Then, surely, it was a special case.’

  ‘I think it would be a great mistake to make it into a special case because Miss Cathcart complained. The child has a big enough handicap as it is, without our magnifying trivial incidents.’

  ‘This really is a lot of nonsense,’ Miss Kane said angrily. ‘Of course Mr. Drew wouldn’t have completed an accident form for a trivial incident like this. The form, as I recall, includes a section where the Head has to detail the action taken by the staff . . .’

  ‘And no action was taken. So that makes it awkward.’ Wicks nodded sagely.

  ‘No action was taken because no action was necessary.’ Drew was getting angry. ‘An attempt was made to calm the child down, of course. But Peter throws tantrums at regular intervals; it is an outlet for him and has nothing to do with any injury he may have sustained.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Wicks shrugged his shoulders and made the wry face of one giving way without really being satisfied. ‘I’m not the Chairman of the Managing Body, or the Chairman of the Education Committee . . .’

  ‘Wouldn’t you have expected a form to be completed?’ Rudderham asked Chatterton.

  ‘No. As the Head says, this kind of thing is a common occurrence where you have young children running about in a playground. If first aid had been necessary, it might have been different . . .’

  ‘According to the Recorder first aid was most definitely necessary, though not provided,’ Wicks murmured.

  ‘We are here to find out the truth, not to pay attention to what the Recorder has to say,’ Miss Kane snapped.

  ‘I know, I know.’ Wicks held up a hand to ward off protest. ‘I’m just acting as the devil’s advocate to make quite sure we can’t be criticized in any way.’

  ‘You can’t possibly make sure of that,’ Miss Kane retorted. ‘Every school has one or two parents like Miss Cathcart who make wild accusations without regard to the truth, and there will always be people who will say that there is no smoke without a fire. Taking criticism is part of our job.’

  ‘The white man’s burden?’ Wicks chuckled. ‘But you see I don’t believe in shouldering any burdens I don’t have to. So I think it would be an idea if the Head completed an accident form and sent it in, even at this late stage.’

  ‘And I think it would be most unwise to do anything that gives credence to this woman’s story,’ Miss Kane said. ‘I think we should trust our Heads to decide whether or not it is necessary to complete an accident form. I’m sure the Chief Education Officer would agree to that,’ she deferred to Chatterton who replied:

  ‘I would have thought that rather than complete a form, it might serve your purpose better if the Head was to send in a written account of what actually took place.’

  ‘Fine, fine,’ Wicks agreed. ‘Though why it hasn’t already been done, I can’t imagine.’

  ‘It hasn’t been done because I came out here to talk the matter over personally with the Head at the Chairman’s request. At the time, it was thought that that was sufficient.’

  Wicks said, ‘So be it.’

  Rudderham and Miss Kane spoke simultaneously.

  ‘I certainly expected . . .’

  ‘I really think this has gone . . .’

  At this moment there was a prolonged attack on the doorhandle, after which Miss Freeth backed into the room, bent over a laden tray. The idea of first opening the door and then picking up the tray would not have occurred to Miss Freeth who believed in hard work for its own sake. By the time she had finished excusing the cups, explaining that it was only instant coffee, and apologizing for spilling the milk, the conversation had become general and Wicks was reminding Rudderham:

  ‘I never agreed to the introduction of these climbing frames, anyway. Do you remember, I raised the question of safety at the meeting of the General Purposes Committee when the 1963 estimates . . .’

  ‘No, I don’t remember,’ Rudderham said shortly. ‘The P.E. people recommended them as I recall . . .’

  ‘But they recommended trampolines and look where we are with them . . .’

  Chatterton said to Drew, ‘Is the boy in school still?’

  ‘He’s away with a cold today; but he’s been here up to now.’

  ‘You haven’t seen the mother?’

  ‘No. But I received a message via the boy to say that his mother wasn’t coming to see me because she had to be at work.’ He put his cup down, the coffee untasted. ‘Can’t we just issue a general denial?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Chatterton said quietly. ‘This is what they will do eventually. But let them chew it over.’

  ‘If we make too much drama out of it, it will be bad for the boy,’ Drew said. ‘The adult world places too many burdens on him as it is.’

  He was more concerned about the boy than anything else. Jemima had once said that his entire store of patience was reserved for the very young and the very old. Chatterton wished that he would let members see this more gentle side to his nature.

  ‘I think we have taken up quite enough of the Head Master’s time,’ Wicks said when the indefatigable Miss Freeth had cleared away the coffee cups. ‘Suppose we see the teacher concerned now?’

  ‘Miss Smith?’ Drew looked surprised. ‘She’s not here.’

  ‘Not here?’ Rudderham said angrily. ‘You mean she’s ill?’

  ‘No. She’s not a member of the staff. We only had her on supply.’

  They stared at him blankly.

  ‘You didn’t tell me this,’ Rudderham turned accusingly to Chatterton.

  ‘Didn’t I mention it?’ Chatterton was not sure that this fact had registered with him. ‘I’m sorry. But if you want to speak to her, I expect she is still in the area.’

  ‘Can I just get this clear?’ Wicks isolated each word as though it had some extraordinary significance which he had only just come to appreciate. ‘This teacher who had these children in the playground was not their normal teacher?’

  ‘No. Miss Padwick was away sick. The office sent Miss Smith to us as a replacement.’

  ‘And this supply teacher took them for organized games in the playground,’ Wicks recapped.

  ‘Bit dodgy,’ Rudderham muttered, quite hypnotized by this performance.

  ‘But this isn’t at all unusual,’ Chatterton protested. ‘We have to make considerable use of supply teachers and part-time teachers these days, the schools would fold up without them!’

  ‘But surely where apparatus work is concerned . . .’

  ‘There was no apparatus work concerned here,’ Drew said sharply. ‘And, in any case, the climbing frame is a permanent fixture in the playground, children use it during break and when they are waiting to be let into school in the morning. The fact that a supply teacher happened t
o be with this particular group of children . . .’

  ‘I should like to have known this, though.’ Rudderham felt that he had been made a fool of in front of Wicks.

  ‘Do you know how many supply teachers we have at schools in Eastgate alone?’ Miss Kane demanded. ‘Who are probably at this very minute taking a group of children in the playground . . .’

  ‘No point in taking this any further.’ Wicks looked at his watch. ‘We obviously can’t see Miss Smith now.’

  As they followed Chatterton to his car, Wicks said to Rudderham, ‘No accident form, supply teacher on duty and you weren’t told about it. It’s not good enough, you know.’

  ‘I doubt if Chatterton would ever have investigated the matter if I hadn’t stirred things up,’ Rudderham said.

  ‘It would be interesting to know what action had been taken before you went to see him,’ Wicks agreed.

  Miss Kane had elected to stay behind at the school, which Wicks felt was all for the best.

  ‘Jean can’t discuss anything rationally nowadays; she tends to get so emotional,’ he sighed, as Chatterton drove them back to the education office. ‘Time of life, I suppose.’

  When they were in Chatterton’s room, Wicks asked:

  ‘What action was taken when this complaint was first received?’

  ‘I went to the school to see Drew and . . .’

  ‘No. It’s the office procedure for dealing with this kind of complaint before it is brought to a member’s attention that interests me.’

  ‘It is taken up with the Head. We have to have both sides of the story.’

  ‘So someone had spoken to Drew before you went to see him?’

  ‘Yes. Miss Hester spoke to Drew.’

  A slight reserve in Chatterton’s manner alerted Wicks.

  ‘When did she speak to him?’

  It was at this point that for the first time Chatterton sensed danger. Hesitation would have been fatal, so he said:

  ‘I believe she saw him some time in the late afternoon.’

  ‘You mean, she went round to the school?’

  ‘No.’ Why hadn’t he said that she had telephoned? They might have got away with that, even allowing for the incorruptible Miss Freeth on the switchboard. ‘They encountered each other somewhere and she mentioned it then.’

  Wicks said. ‘I see.’ He was silent, digesting the possible implications. Rudderham, whose mind was less subtle said:

  ‘Damn it all, where did they meet? At some function or other?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘You mean you don’t know?’

  ‘I don’t inquire about the movements of my staff out of office hours.’

  ‘But this is an office matter,’ Wicks pointed out.

  Chatterton said carefully, ‘The matter which concerns us is that Miss Hester did not speak to Mr. Drew during office hours. Perhaps she should have done, but she did not. She had had a very busy day, and it seems to me not unreasonable that if she knew she was likely to run into him during the evening, she should wait until then to speak to him. It isn’t always easy to get a head on the telephone, anyway.’

  It was a plausible explanation and he would probably have got away with it, had it not been for that slight reserve earlier on. Wicks could not forget it; he sensed that Chatterton had found himself up against a factor which he had not taken into account and that, just for a moment, it had thrown him off balance. For the first time, he had taken a stand; very quietly, but quite definitely, he had taken a stand. Wicks was intrigued.

  Rudderham had other causes for suspicion.

  ‘Never felt Drew could be completely trusted,’ he said as they left the building together. ‘Foreigner, you know, dark and with a name like that. I’m satisfied in my own mind there’s something between him and that girl.’

  ‘I must confess I am a little uneasy about it,’ Wicks said. ‘If only one felt one could trust one’s officers to tell the whole story; but look at the things which have come out. No accident form, an inexperienced supply teacher on duty in the playground, and now this . . . I don’t think we can let it drop here.’

  Miss Kane did not think that they would let it drop here. As she left Crossgate School she looked worried, her sharp face more lined and tired than Drew had ever seen it.

  ‘I appreciated your support,’ he said to her. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I don’t think we have heard the last of this,’ she warned him. ‘I don’t like to say this sort of thing about my colleagues, but a fuss would suit some of them at the present time.’

  ‘But it’s so ridiculous!’ he expostulated.

  ‘But some people love a ridiculous cause, it’s so English. And then there are the others, the ones who won’t rest until they have made the world safe for psychopaths to live in.’

  ‘You paint a gloomy picture,’ he laughed as he held the car door for her.

  Quite unexpectedly, she felt a heavy sense of defeat. He touched her heart, standing there; he was so vulnerable in spite of his strength. He really believed, not so much that right would prevail, but that idiocy could not. She was not so sure. She was getting old, and for the first time she felt it. Well, at least we’ll give them a fight, she thought, and put her foot on the accelerator, giving a bad scare to a senior citizen who was about to negotiate a zebra crossing.

  Chapter Nine

  Evelyn Cathcart stacked the dirty crockery on a tray; she performed this task with the air of drudgery which had become habitual to her. Washing up was yet another of those humiliations which had been devised especially for her. A woman at the office, a much- lacquered blonde who worked for pin-money, had recently been presented with a washing-up machine because she had complained to her doting husband that she could not cope with running a home and doing a part-time job. ‘The more fool he!’ Evelyn thought. Although she had herself been treated badly, her sympathies were seldom for her own sex. ‘A washing-up machine indeed!’ She examined a crack in a cup and satisfied herself that it went right through. She put the cup to one side and said to Peter:

  ‘Don’t sniff.’

  He scuffed his heels on the linoleum and she told him not to do that either. He said, ‘Bugger all.’ Evelyn put the macaroni dish down slowly on the table and stared at him; her body was rigid, her long face was distorted as the features coped with a variety of emotions, incredulity, shock, anger, the need for retribution . . . On the mantelpiece the clock ticked away the seconds; tension mounted, Peter waited. At last, Evelyn spoke. She said, ‘I don’t ever want to hear that expression again.’

  The boy waggled his head and made a silly face.

  ‘Do you hear me, Peter?’

  He tittered and scuffed the linoleum again.

  ‘And where did you hear it, anyway? From those boys on the council estate, I suppose. Have you been playing with them?’

  He did not answer. Anxiety wrinkled her face, making her look ten years older.

  ‘Peter, have you been playing with those children?’

  ‘Mr. Drew’s children play with them.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ She gave a dry laugh. ‘And the Welfare Officer’s children, too. Setting an example, no doubt. Well, that’s safe enough for them; but it’s an example we can’t afford to follow.’

  She picked up the tray and went behind the curtain which separated the bed-sitting room from the kitchen area. Peter followed her.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ he whined.

  ‘You can watch television.’

  ‘It’s too late for Parsley.’

  ‘There’ll be the news. You can tell me what has happened today.’

  ‘I want to go out.’

  She walked past him and went to the television set; after a lot of twiddling and one or two thumps a rather ghostly image appeared. She studied it thoughtfully and then announced:

  ‘It’s Biafra. Can you see how thin those poor little children are, and how their tummies are distended? They are starving because people are talking and arguing and having conferenc
es instead of getting food to them. Do they tell you about that at school?’

  ‘No,’ he said sulkily.

  ‘Then they should do. I don’t know what you learn at that school.’

  She turned up the volume and went back to the kitchen area. After a moment, he fumbled with the curtains and she called out sharply:

  ‘Peter, don’t! You’ll pull that curtain down again.’ She twitched it back for him and the washing up water slopped on to the floor. ‘There! Now look what you’ve done.’ She could never leave cleaning up until the task in hand was completed, every spot, each blemish, must be dealt with as soon as seen; so now she grabbed a cloth and mopped the floor. Peter said:

  ‘Do I have to go back to school tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes. You must be better if you want to go out.’

  He went back to the television set, dragging his feet. She turned to the washing-up bowl, rubbing with clumsy urgency at the crockery, an expression of desperation in her eyes. After a minute or two, she let the dish cloth drop into the basin and dragged the back of her hand across her forehead.

  ‘Peter,’ she called. ‘Have you been playing with those children again?’

  He did not answer. She picked up a towel and walked into the sitting room, drying her hands with obsessive fastidiousness as though about to perform an operation.

  ‘Last night, when I went to the doctor’s surgery for your prescription, did you go out?’

  He looked her in the face, blandly insolent, and said, ‘No.’

  ‘You’re telling me the truth?’

  ‘Yes. Can we see what’s on ITV?’

  ‘You’re not telling me the truth, are you?’ She flung the towel on the floor with a dramatic gesture of rejection and said vehemently, ‘If you go on like this something dreadful will happen. I shan’t be able to manage much longer. You’ll have to go away.’

  The boy’s expression intimated that he knew who had the upper hand in this situation.

  ‘All right, then!’ she cried. ‘You don’t care. So that’s all right. We won’t bother any more. Shall I pack your case for when they come to fetch you?’

  He responded to this performance with the triumphant smile of one who sees that the enemy has now thrown its entire reserve force into the attack.