THE CLIMBING FRAME

by MARY HOCKING

  Evelyn went back to the washing up. When she had finished she collected underclothes which had been draped round the gas-stove, damped them, and set up the ironing board in the sitting room.

  ‘You’ll have to go to bed in a minute,’ she said to Peter who was now absorbed in watching a model aeroplane display.

  ‘I want to watch Z cars.’

  ‘No. You can’t wait for that. If you’re going back to school tomorrow, you’ll have to go to bed early.’

  ‘I don’t want to go back to school,’ he protested automatically, his eyes still drawn by the model aeroplanes.

  ‘Peter, I can’t get Mrs. Hancock to look after you another day. I can’t afford it.’

  She ironed one of his shirts while he sat quietly watching the television screen. Then, as she picked up a pair of pants, she said:

  ‘Why don’t you want to go back to school?’

  ‘I don’t like school.’

  She pressed the iron down heavily and said, ‘Oh, what are we to do? What are we to do?’ The review of the model aeroplane display had ended and the news camera shifted to a factory where the workers were on strike. Peter wriggled round on the divan and looked at his mother. She paid no attention to him. He scuffed the linoleum, and when this failed to attract a rebuke, he gave one or two prolonged sniffs. But Evelyn Cathcart had gone away; she had gone away more surely and irrevocably than the times when she rushed out of the room, declaring that she was leaving him and would never come back. Then, although he was sometimes a little frightened if she stayed out for long, he felt that it was a game in which he was included. But this was one of the other times; the times when his mother retreated into a world of her own where he could never find her. He did not understand what happened at such times; he merely sensed that she had gone away and it terrified him. He began to grizzle, but it had no effect. She pressed the iron down with a slow, deadly determination, her face masklike, the eyes blazing down on the ironing board. Peter’s face was white. After another minute of silence, he put his hands to his ears and started to scream. He had her attention after that.

  Once he had worked himself into this state he was well-nigh uncontrollable as the staff at Crossgate School knew to their cost. Now, he tore at his mother like a wild animal, spitting, biting, clawing, kicking and screaming all the while. Before order was restored the dividing curtain was once more pulled down, three plates had been smashed and a carton of sugar spilt on the floor. By the time Evelyn Cathcart had got him to bed he had been sick and she had started one of her bad headaches. She sat beside his bed, staring at him, her face more harrowed than ever.

  ‘What is it?’ she said. ‘What is it makes you like this? Is it that school? Is there some trouble there? Have they been taking it out on you because I complained? Tell me, you must tell me.’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t know . . .’

  He had taken his pillow and was hugging it to him, burrowing into it as though seeking comfort.

  ‘Peter, answer me. You must answer me. Did Mr. Drew say something to you, were the teachers unkind?’ She tried to pull the pillow away, but he clung to it and began to cry again. She drew away, her back arched like an animal preparing to fight an ancient foe. He sensed the heightened drama and responded by keying up his own performance.

  ‘You musn’t be afraid,’ she said. ‘I shan’t let them get away with it. Don’t worry; they won’t get away with it.’

  ‘They’ had been getting away with it all her adult life. When the man with whom she had lived went back to his wife, they had wanted her to put the child in a home, but she would not consider it. She knew the penalty for what she had done, she had been brought up chapel. ‘I brought him into the world,’ she had said. ‘He is my responsibility.’ She went to the chapel regularly and sat at the back where she gained a mournful pleasure singing hymns, such as:

  ‘I take, O Cross, thy shadow,

  For my abiding place!

  I ask no other sunshine than

  The sunshine of His face;

  Content to let the world go by,

  To know no gain nor loss—

  My sinful self my only shame,

  My glory all—the Cross.

  Sometimes, in these moments, she experienced a sense of bitter fellowship. The chapel folk tried to welcome her into their midst, but she would have none of that; she knew the place that she must fill in society.

  She knew also that one was better off without any help from the do-gooders. They were well-intentioned, but their patience was very limited; they would talk to you for half an hour, an hour, a whole morning, but always in the end there was a withdrawal, as though at a certain level of demand the current of sympathy must be switched off; regretfully, wearily, crisply—the tone varied, the implication never—she was dismissed with, ‘I have tried to explain to you, Miss Cathcart . . .’ ‘I have nothing to add to what I have already told you. Miss Cathcart . . .’‘I don’t think we are going to get anywhere. Miss Cathcart . . .’‘We have been over this ground before. Miss Cathcart . . .’ The Children’s Officer, herself childless, had even had the effrontery to say, ‘You make it difficult to help you, Miss Cathcart . . .’ The trouble, of course, was that they wanted to tell you what was wrong, as though anyone could know better than a mother.

  For a time, she had thought that Mr. Drew was different. He had listened when she explained to him about the difficulties of Peter’s upbringing and when, during his second year at school, she had said that Peter was unhappy and felt victimized, Mr. Drew had agreed to move him into another class. But it had all been a particularly subtle form of blackmail. As time went by, he had been less co-operative and it had been suggested that she might be a little more co-operative. ‘We have gone more than half-way to meet you. Miss Cathcart . . .’

  She got up from Peter’s bed, which was in a dark recess, and tiptoed across the room to the dresser. The man with the hammer was at work again in her head and she needed another pain killer. What could she do? she wondered, as she filled a glass with water. She could not speak to Mr. Drew; he would undoubtedly be vindictive after the report in the newspaper. She could not go to the education office after her treatment there, and it was no use going to Welfare because they would be in league with the education people. She well-remembered on one occasion the Welfare Officer saying to a caller over the internal telephone, ‘Yes, I have her with me at the moment.’ She had not been deceived by the impassive features.

  So where could she go now that she had exhausted authority of one kind or another? Her throat was so dry that she had difficulty in swallowing the tablet. She had allowed herself to be pushed further than she had intended. At first, the account in the newspaper had pleased her; but gradually she had become increasingly apprehensive. The young man in the newspaper office had been so responsive, and he had encouraged her by such statements as ‘That’s what we are here for.’ She had been elated and had talked a great deal. She rinsed the glass, automatically rubbing the rim hard with a dish cloth before drying it. Suppose they said that Peter could not return to Crossgate School? What would she do? It was so near; she could take him there on her way to work in the morning, and Mr. Drew had agreed to let him stay at the school until half¬past four in the afternoon when Mrs. Hancock could collect him. The only alternative was the Marshes School which was much further away and which drew entirely from the council housing estate. She went back to the sitting room. She felt sick and her heart was thumping. She picked up her handbag and took out the purse; her fingers were trembling so much that she could not count the coins so she emptied the contents on to the divan. Three sixpenny pieces and five pennies. That should be enough. She had no very clear idea what she was going to say, except that she must call this thing off before it went any further. Peter was still asleep. She left the door on the latch and ran quickly down the stairs; there was a telephone box only a few hundred yards along the street.

  It was a bad line and she could not make him understand who she was at fi
rst; then she was so agitated that she could not express herself properly. Her sense of grievance overcame her and she said one or two things that she had not meant to. He said that he would come to see her, which was not what she had intended.

  Later, he said angrily to his editor, ‘I tell you the woman was terrified! The boy is afraid to return to school because they have been taking it out on him. She’s a poor creature who has hit out just once in her miserable life and brought the full majesty of local government down on her head. It was pathetic to see the state they had got her into.’

  Roger Meakin, with that mixture of naivety and cynicism peculiar to journalists, believed that the unfortunate are invariably virtuous and all officials corrupt. He also believed that right must prevail whoever might be sacrificed in the process. He had no intention of allowing Miss Cathcart to be subdued by authority. Miss Cathcart was the first cause that the Recorder had ever offered him and he cherished her; she was the medium through which he could strike at the things he most hated, bureaucracy, the arrogance of office, the dictatorship of the professional classes. He was fortunate in that his editor shared his crusading zeal.

  Chapter Ten

  Years afterwards Maggie was to write that at this time it seemed to her that she was floating down a slow moving river on a canopy of blossom, like a goddess in a pagan festival; her senses were overpowered by the lush beauty of the flowers, her body luxuriated in their soft caress. The sky was always blue at this time, there was only the occasional whisper of a breeze to make a reality of the brilliant summer stillness. Night was velvet pierced with all the jewels in heaven’s treasury; she drifted in and out of sleep scarcely knowing which was which. She was happy, and she was aware of it at the time, for which she was profoundly grateful; this was to be no retrospective joy, but something immediately recognized and fully realized. It was a happiness which was warm and rich, and was rooted deep within her being, not the will o’ the wisp happiness of early years. The elusive magic had gone: magic is for childhood.

  She had never complained about the small injustices and petty irritations of office life: now she had wings to soar above them. She viewed without dismay the mounting pile of correspondence which Punter delegated to her, and often, as she dictated letters she would have to pause and stare out of the window because joy bubbled up within her and she lost all sense of the prosaic matters with which she was supposed to be dealing. In spite of the intense heat, she was scarcely aware of the tedious journey home. ‘I came on a broomstick,’ she laughed when her mother commented on her inexhaustible energy. At that time, she felt herself to be indestructible.

  How long this period lasted, she did not know; in retrospect it seemed that it was the whole summer long, but this of course could not have been so. It must have been only a short time before she became aware, floating on her bed of blossom, of hands that dragged at her, of the pull of a current trying to draw her into the bank. Only one memory of those less happy days before the conflict reached its climax remained indelibly printed on her mind: her mother’s face, dominated by the eyes that seemed to read between the lines of life, understanding more than it is good to know. When her mother died, many years later, Maggie was to write of her loss:

  No words, only a sigh severed her ties with us:

  Eternity became her, the face was serene;

  Free at last of our love and need she looked younger,

  Transported back to a time when we had not known her.

  We performed the necessary tasks efficiently

  And without tears.

  Rain on a cross of roses awakens no response.

  She has gone, taking with her all the childhood years,

  The slow maturing, the long summer joys,

  All the memories that whispered in the eaves and echoed in the

  rafters of the house,

  All gaiety and the spontaneity of grief

  She has taken.

  The mind circles, blindly, anxiously searching,

  Fingers grope endlessly probing for the nerve centre,

  Exploring bone and sinew, imploring the reality of pain;

  But there is no response because she has taken the heart away

  Leaving only the rain to weep

  Over the roses.

  She had never been able to write of the loss of Mylor which was something that went deep, out of the reach of reconciliation or understanding; but perhaps a little of her feeling went into this poem. At the time of her mother’s death, it seemed that she lost him again. Memories, she wrote, need to be shared, one must be able to say to someone, ‘Do you remember how glorious that summer was, how we said that the hedgerows were never so fine again, nor the apples so abundant?’ Beauty, abundance, giving without restraint, acceptance without question; when there is no one left to remember, how can we ourselves survive?

  During the affair of the climbing frame woman, when such statements came easily, she said:

  ‘I don’t mind what happens; I don’t care how much I am hurt. I have had this and nothing can take it away.’

  ‘As long as you know what you’re doing,’ her mother said.

  ‘I’m not consciously “doing” anything.’

  She was simply allowing life to have its way, minute by minute. She heard, at a great distance, as though it was something unconnected with her, the broadcast that led to the climbing frame affair taking the imagination of the nation. Was it eight o’clock on a Friday that a man reviewed the provincial press and said of a certain piece, ‘This is the kind of thing which justifies a local paper’? It was of no interest to her.

  On Mylor, it made a greater impression because it was followed by one event which affected him deeply.

  ‘ “An insignificant incident?” ’ Jemima read the piece in question aloud at breakfast. ‘ “Very probably. But one that raises issues of some importance. Examine the facts: the teacher on duty at the time was not a member of the staff of the school and had little experience of young children; there was an immediate attempt to hush-up the incident; no accident form was completed by the Head; the education office singularly failed to make inquiries until . . .” ’

  Jemima flung down the paper.

  ‘When I think that you have suffered that wretched child for three years! I’d love to see that sanctimonious reporter saddled with Peter Cathcart for half a morning—there’d be murder to report in the Eastgate Recorder then!’

  Jemima was in favour of writing to the paper. Mylor was more philosophical.

  ‘I’d like to know where they got their information from, particularly about the accident form. But there’s nothing we can do. If we told them that the woman browbeats her son into telling tales to satisfy her need to be a martyr, they’d be scandalized at the brutality of our language. She can call us anything she likes, make up any story, however unlikely; but if we hit back, it will be the power of authority grinding down one helpless woman! Whichever way you turn, they’ve got you. We shall just have to ride it out.’

  But when he got to school he found it was not to be as simple as that. Chatterton came to see him on his way to the office and this time the rueful, apologetic air had been replaced by something less endearing.

  ‘Wicks is making an issue of the fact that Miss Cathcart’s visit to the office was not immediately reported to you.’

  ‘But it was,’ Mylor said. And then, ‘Oh, I see . . .’

  ‘You had better watch your step. I’m afraid that local government officers and teachers are still expected to be above reproach in these matters.’

  ‘The last bastions of puritanism!’

  Chatterton thought that the intensity of Drew’s tone was quite inappropriate to the discussion. But then, the man had no sense of tone; he was flippant with members when he needed to be earnest, and now he was earnest when he needed to be flippant.

  ‘My dear chap,’ he said. ‘Your private affairs are no concern of mine. Find your pleasure where you will, only do be discreet about it.’

 
Mylor thought, he thinks I’m giving the office girl a whirl. He was blazingly angry, but he remained silent. To attempt to express his feelings for Maggie would be to cheapen them; it would be impossible to find words which would not strike Chatterton as ridiculous and immature.

  Chatterton said, in the tone of one trying to coax a little sense into a man who has lost his grip, ‘I don’t like discussing this sort of thing any more than you do. But in the circumstances it is obviously sensible for us to agree on the statements which we make. This is really for your own protection.’

  Mylor said, with difficulty, ‘What do you want me to say?’

  ‘I had hoped you would have some ideas about that.’ He cocked an amused eye, and then, receiving no response, sighed. ‘Oh well, in that case, I would suggest the least said the better. Concoct something fairly innocuous and incapable of proof. Don’t say you met in a pub if you didn’t.’

  He went on talking, trying to ease Mylor into a more rational mood. His manner suggested only too clearly the weary contempt of the man of the world for the bungling amateur in matters amorous. If he had taken a horsewhip to Mylor, the effect could not have been as painful as this urbane flow of talk, this civilized amusement. Mylor, scorched with shame and anger, was incapable of reasoning.

  ‘Well, I think we shouldn’t take this any further,’ Chatterton said eventually. He looked out of the window and said conversationally, ‘I find this continuous sunshine tries me. I must be getting old, my eyes can’t stand the glare any more. I hope my sun glasses are in the car.’

  ‘They’re in your breast pocket.’ Mylor’s tone was not conversational.

  ‘Ah, good.’ When he was on the way out, Chatterton said, ‘Don’t be so angry with me.’

  It was not a fair appeal; Mylor was not a resentful man, but his feelings ran deep and could not be diverted by a flash of charm. Yet afterwards, when it was too late for anyone to make amends to Chatterton, he remembered this incident with regret. He remembered watching the man walk away to his car, the weary hunch of the shoulders, the slight dragging of one foot. The car was standing in the full glare of the sun; he opened both front doors and stood for a moment or two, his hand resting on the bonnet, waiting for the air inside to cool. Around him, the tarmac sweated in the heat.