by Gwen Moffat
Miss Pink allowed herself to be overborne and they passed the final plans.
“Canoe expeditions,” Beresford read from the agenda with palpable relief, “the Coastguard have pointed out that we may be going too far along the coast. Porth Bach is a goodish way from the estuary for novices, you know. They say, rightly in my opinion, that with an ebb tide, we could be in a sticky position if anything happened to the safety boat.”
Not for the first time they were reminded that they had no seaman on the Board, but Roberts and Beresford agreed to consult local experts and, since the season was over anyway, the problem of canoes’ range was shelved thankfully until a future meeting.
They passed to the next item which was the delegation of authority in the possible absence of the chairman. Sir Thomas proposed that Miss Pink and Ted Roberts should be deputies. This was passed while Miss Pink wondered if the chairman had any specific contingency in mind when he put the old man up to it. At this point Roberts was called from the library to take a telephone call and returned some considerable time later, obviously disturbed.
“A complete shambles,” he exploded, taking his seat again. They waited expectantly, the warden watching him with a curious expression that could almost have been defiance. There was tension round the table; even Beresford’s well-bred charm was gone and in its place was the cold mask which is the Englishman’s defence against surprise.
Ted was looking through his bifocals at the agenda, murmuring: “Local telephone exchanges are a disgrace to the principality!” He met the chairman’s eye blandly: “Where have we got to?”
Smoothly Beresford continued with staff salaries but Miss Pink’s attention strayed to the warden. She wondered if the uneasy atmosphere which had prevailed throughout this meeting originated with Martin who had taken virtually no part in the proceedings unless appealed to directly. On these occasions he seemed to come back from a great distance and the effort was embarrassingly obvious. Now, after his momentary interest in Ted Roberts, he had withdrawn again.
Beresford was winding up: “Well, that’s that,” a glance at his watch: “And now I believe they’ve put on a delicious tea for us.” He glanced at Martin pointedly who responded with difficulty: “Oh, yes. Yes. In the dining room.”
He walked to the door, opened it and passed through ahead of the directors. Sir Thomas stared after him in astonishment. Roberts crossed the room, closed the door and came back to them.
“The electricity people,” he said clearly and with obvious restraint, “have discovered that they’ve built a pumped storage scheme under a mountain that, for two decades, has been used to store explosives. The party at the mine is the Central Electricity Generating Board, the police, and the highest ranking people from Lawson’s who could be found on a Saturday afternoon.”
“But they knew all the time,” Miss Pink protested.
“The suggestion is that they didn’t.”
“That’s preposterous!”
“We know that. The Press knows it. That’s not the point. Either the explosives must go or the reservoirs have to be drained and abandoned and that means the end of their pumped storage scheme. The implication being that Bontddu is at risk since it’s below the dams.”
“Then they’ve always been at risk,” Miss Pink began angrily but Beresford was saying quietly: “Would that be the real reason for draining the lakes, Ted? The C.E.G.B. knew the explosives were in the mountain when they built the dams. The stuff can’t suddenly become dangerous — or can it?”
“No,” Ted said, “they’re talking of evacuating the stuff but they want it kept quiet. Partly I suppose because of the shindig there’ll be at what might have happened, and, more practically, because they’re afraid of the lorries being hi-jacked when the stuff’s evacuated. We’re too near Ireland.”
They thought about this for a moment, then Sir Thomas asked how dangerous the evacuation would be.
“Some of it may not be in the best of condition. They’ve had an explosives expert up but,” Ted’s voice cracked with indignation, “would you believe it, the master plan of the store can’t be found and the storemen and the manager have all gone to a football match in Wrexham where, incidentally, the police have failed to find them, and you know what those old levels are like. The mountain’s honeycombed with them, and half of them have fallen in . . . We’d look fine if there were an emergency, a fire for instance. We could all be blown to kingdom come before the sirens went.”
“How did they get in the mine?” Sir Thomas asked.
“They had the keys but nothing more. They must have been wandering around the inside of the mountain like so many blind moles. Perhaps they are still.”
“Knocking gelignite off shelves,” Beresford commented wryly, “and all the time we were prancing over their heads. How did Howell know all this?”
Ted was surprised at his ignorance. “The grapevine, of course. A country editor has an information network like the criminal underground. He had a man up at the mine and inside the gate shortly after the top brass arrived but he was forcibly ejected by ‘an ape with a Cockney accent’. Then Howell went up himself (he wasn’t playing golf at all) and blackmailed them for the story. He knew it was important with his reporter being man-handled. They told him but he’s not going to print anything about the possibility of hi-jacking. That’s to be kept quiet.”
There was a murmur of agreement, then Beresford said: “I can see why you didn’t speak in front of Martin.” He collected their eyes. “I’ll contact Global this evening to get the official line on these developments. Meanwhile I think we can take it that we’re not going to be blown sky-high within the next half-hour, so I suggest we have some tea to be going along with.”
Miss Pink preceded her colleagues to the door thinking grimly that his brusqueness was dictated by cowardice. As he’d remarked on the mountain: the explosives had always been her bête noire but, curiously, now that some of her fears had been confirmed, she was no longer angry. The eye of the storm, she thought.
Chapter Two
The warden’s wife had dull red hair dressed elaborately in what was once called a beehive. Her skin was thick and creamy and from the other side of the room the eyes appeared as black pits in a mask. She was thin and her hipbones showed through an acid yellow dress that was slightly longer than the fashion. Despite the fact that she was only thirty she looked dated and rather worn. Her eyes met those of Miss Pink but there was no reaction, no hint of greeting.
“Hitting the bottle,” Ted observed as he handed his colleague a cup of tea.
“Obvious.” Miss Pink turned to face the window and the rain which was now falling against the sombre shrubbery. “She looks tubercular,” she added absently.
“I meant Martin. He’s gone straight to his flat, I presume. He should be here.”
“I know. There’s more wrong than meets the eye. Everywhere.”
“It’s not as bad as that surely? This is what comes of having a lady writer on the Board.”
“A sense of atmosphere isn’t a monopoly of ladies.” She looked at him straight. “You don’t feel that there’s something wrong?”
He raised his eyebrows. “I’m the incurable optimist, probably the result of living all my life in a dying community.”
“I would have thought you’d be a pessimist.”
“No. If you do survive, nothing can be as bad as what you’ve come through.”
“If you look at it that way, I suppose that, beside poverty and decades of unemployment, the problems of an adventure centre are somewhat trivial.”
“They can be put right more easily.”
“Miss Pink,” said a hard bright voice at her elbow, “do have a cake.”
She gave her attention to Linda Lithgow: a small intense girl whose dark mane almost obscured huge round spectacles.
“Mr Roberts has his priorities right.” She glared at Miss Pink angrily.
“I’m sure he has. You think our problems are trivial too?”
/> “I don’t suppose it’s diplomatic to say it, but —” she fixed them with that intent stare, “are we important?”
Miss Pink had had a heavy day and now she found herself wilting. To be attacked suddenly and without warning by the chief instructor’s wife was the last straw. Over Linda’s head she appealed mutely to Ted — and saw Beresford had approached.
“Do you mean us as people, my dear, or as an institution?” He was at his most avuncular.
“I don’t mean anyone personally, just all of us. Do you think teaching children to climb mountains should be a primary function of life?”
“You think the Thoughts of Chairman Mao should be a set work rather than Mountaincraft?”
She looked at him in contempt. “It’s not political, it’s social. What evidence have we that climbing makes them better people? We don’t even have a follow-through.”
“Children need adventure,” Miss Pink said stolidly.
“They need a goal!”
“Could it be the same thing?” Ted asked.
“There’s no end-product,” the girl insisted, “their energies should be channelled productively, like V.S.O. or the Peace Corps.”
“Do you think you should direct children into that kind of work?” Miss Pink asked, vaguely interested despite her fatigue for she knew that the girl was sincere. In Miss Pink’s parlance, once the rough corners had been smoothed off, Linda would become a useful person.
“That depends on who does the directing,” Linda said.
“She is saved only by her utter gaucherie,” Beresford remarked as she moved on with her plate of cakes.
“She’s rather wearing,” Miss Pink admitted, “Lithgow is well-suited to her. He must be as impervious as a crocodile — armour-plated.”
“One would never feel sorry for Lithgow, even married to Linda,” Ted chuckled.
A large woman in her thirties entered the dining room carrying a large brown teapot. She placed it on a table and, looking round, saw the three directors and came across.
“I haven’t had a moment,” she said, smiling, “they’re coming off the hill sopping wet; there’s a crop of blisters — it’s those new French boots, John — and one sprained ankle: Nell had them make a rope stretcher for practice and they carried him the last mile. They’re stoking the furnaces like firemen to keep the bath water hot. Won’t it be lovely when we’re oil-fired? Will you have more tea?”
Spontaneously there rose to Miss Pink’s lips the question: “Are you running this outfit?” but she said mildly and with only a little emphasis: “A secretary never stops.”
Sally Hughes glanced at her. “Linda’s helping,” she pointed out, “and now that all the instructors have finished they’re supervising things. Rowland and Jim just looked in for a moment.” They followed her glance to where her husband and the chief instructor formed a group with Sir Thomas and Bett Martin. The warden’s wife was animated now and slightly flushed. The group had a curious air of cohesion despite the disparity of its parts.
Jim Lithgow was a small spare man with a grizzled beard and receding hair. Sir Thomas was expounding some point but Lithgow, although immobile in a listening attitude, gave the impression of a coiled spring, his eyes moving over the room like those of an alert bird of prey except that he looked less fierce than mocking. There was no respect in that look.
Hughes, large and a little too heavy, a red-faced man in early middle age, slightly stooped, listened to Sir Thomas with an air of profundity, stroking his chin. Bett Martin stood close to him, her eyes on Lithgow.
Both instructors, clean but still in their breeches and sweaters, exuded vitality and a smell of wet tweed. Perhaps there is not so much wrong, Miss Pink thought; it’s just the one couple. The last instructor came in then: Paul Wright, his hair still wet from the shower, his eyes widening in genuine pleasure as he crossed the room to Miss Pink. She smiled too for she was quite fond of Paul, but she was startled to see, as she looked past his shoulder, answering his greeting, that Bett Martin’s eyes had followed him. Ignoring her own group, she stared with unmistakable hostility at Paul’s back.
“Soaked to the skin,” he told the directors cheerfully, “all white and wrinkled like a frog’s paw.”
He displayed his small hand which did indeed look chilled and flaccid.
“Where were you?” Miss Pink asked.
“On the crag in the grounds. And for the last half-hour standing immobile on the absolute tip at the mercy of the elements and trying to coax my second up the top crack. I feel as if I’ve been on the receiving end of a fire hose.”
He looked young and lithe and happy.
“Did you do that thing in the Lake District?” Beresford asked, “what was it, Hawker something?”
“No Hawkers. It was frantic. I came off the top pitch, and the last two pegs came out — my God! I can hear them now, tinkling against each other — they slowed me down though and I came to rest past the next one. It stopped me being frightened of the thing. I got up it all right after I’d had a breather.”
“Good gracious,” Miss Pink exclaimed, “you came off the top of that cliff! I’ve never seen anything so forbidding.”
“You know it?”
“No, indeed. I’ve looked at it. I know where your No Hawkers is. Why the name?”
“Swifts. The first time I attempted the route they were all over the place, hawking flies. The top pitch is a terribly delicate slab, and you know the exposure — I swear they were tipping me, those swifts. I felt like a weak sheep with ravens trying to knock me off. We retreated that time but the swifts had named the climb for us.”
“What fun you have,” she said sincerely.
*
“We’re in something of a fix,” Beresford said, placing two sherries carefully on the table and seating himself. They were in the residents’ lounge of Miss Pink’s hotel which was in the village of Bethel and about a mile from the Centre. The chairman had finally contacted Global and been told to sit tight and keep quiet; everything was under control. On returning to the lounge after making the call, the snub showed in his manner and in his sudden interest in trouble inside the Centre. Miss Pink played up to him.
“There were undercurrents at the meeting,” she agreed, “you should have warned me. A fix? Is Charles Martin an alcoholic?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised, but he’s not my main concern — at least . . . I don’t know.”
She looked at him in surprise.
“It’s not like you to be so vague, and ever since I had your letter suggesting this evening on our own, I assumed — in fact you implied — that there was something specific to discuss. You mean, it’s something other than his drinking?”
He picked up his glass and studied the pale liquid. He pouted boyishly and she knew he was embarrassed but nerving himself, anticipating her reaction.
“I don’t like the ideas going round the school,” he said with a hint of defiance, “all these protest movements. Everyone’s mixed up in some group or other. I found a tract about battery poultry houses on the driver’s seat of my car this evening!”
Miss Pink allowed herself a smile.
“John! You’ve put your finger on it when you say everyone’s mixed up in something. What do you expect of responsible youngsters — anyone for that matter? It’s not a bad thing, you know.”
“Yes, I know what you mean: sewage and — er — so on. That’s all very well; it’s the potential I worry about. We’re in a very delicate position. Nowadays one has to know what one’s employees are up to — or at least to know where their sympathies are. You do realise, don’t you, that with all this concern about the environment, these kids will be thinking of Global as the enemy? Particularly with this new development: storing explosives not over-far from centres of population. After all, we wouldn’t stand much chance if the lot went up, let alone the surrounding villages.”
“They’re too level-headed to fly off the handle with such a flimsy excuse. No,” she added quickly, se
eing his surprise, “I don’t mean the explosives aren’t serious but that the staff will realise that the Centre doesn’t bear responsibility for Global’s mistakes.”
“The trend now is that we’re all responsible for all mistakes. Conversely, that the little man pays for the shareholder’s profits. No, it may appear paternalistic but I’m prudent and I want to see those cottages finished and all our staff on the premises where we know what they’re up to.”
“There’s no further argument; we passed the plans. But I wish you didn’t distrust the staff, John.”
“Not to say distrust exactly.”
“What’s wrong with the instructors?”
“Well for one: Lithgow’s too independent.”
“You’re a conformist. The Centre’s for adventure; any ‘character moulding’ is incidental. You’re thinking in terms of Outward Bound and a military tradition. We need men with initiative, particularly the chief instructor. It doesn’t matter so much with the others; they should be good at taking orders and, I believe are, judging by their work (you can’t fake things in the field and in front of experts) but the chief man, no. He runs the Centre so far as training goes, and I’d rather have a man who was too independent than one who played safe.”
Beresford listened morosely. He hated Miss Pink putting the finger on his conformity.
“A chief instructor’s job, in a Centre like this, is full-time: twenty-four hours a day,” he said.
“It shouldn’t be; he’ll work better for having a life of his own in his off-duty hours.”
“It’s a dedicated job,” Beresford persisted, “Lithgow isn’t dedicated.”
“He’s competent and he gets on well with his staff and the students. I can’t imagine anyone disliking Jim. He’s so lively. He could be abrasive if you wanted to be lazy or quiet, but a mountain centre doesn’t go in for that kind of atmosphere.”
“You can’t pin him down,” Beresford tried again, “he’s as slippery as an eel.”