by MARY HOCKING
‘I can read thoughts,’ she said merrily. ‘That’s another of my gifts.’
‘And my thoughts were . . .?’
‘Tea and buttered toast!’
Now, for some extraordinary reason, although he was not conscious of it until that moment, the theme of tea and buttered toast had in fact been running through his mind for some little while.
‘You really are a witch!’ he laughed.
They lapsed into silence. Silence in a woman was remarkable and Harry supposed one should be grateful for it. Nevertheless, as the day began to lose its brightness, a feeling of desolation came over him; he no longer felt able to identify himself with the landscape, he was puny, insignificant, expendable. And just as he had decided that Dorothy Prentice was not kind, so he now realised that the Downs were not civilised. The fantastic notion crossed his mind that he was fighting to preserve an enemy, and for a moment he would have been glad to come across a motorway driven through the heart of these indifferent hills. He was relieved when, over the brow of the next hill, they saw the town in the distance. He was beginning to develop a slight limp and one shoe was uncomfortably tight; it was good to be within sight of home.
‘This has been wonderful!’ He was so relieved that it did indeed seem that everything had been wonderful.
‘What has happened to your sense of direction?’ she laughed. ‘We’ve at least three miles to go.’
‘But that is Yeominster down there.’
‘Of course it isn’t!’ Daniel spared them his attention for a moment. ‘Where’s the cathedral spire?’
‘Three miles!’ Harry could not keep the dismay from his voice.
‘Would you like to sit down for a moment?’ Dorothy asked.
‘Certainly not!’ Daniel was striding ahead. Harry straightened his shoulders and fell in behind him.
The day withdrew its comfort abruptly with the going down of the sun. Cold closed about them like a garment tailored exactly across the shoulders and in the small of the back. The wind sharpened its teeth on stiles and barbed-wire fences and rushed on up to meet them. Harry walked, nose and eyes running, unable now to think of anything but tea and buttered toast.
Daniel no longer walked with a spring in his step. He, too, was unable to identify himself with the landscape. For a while at the beginning of the walk, he had thought it was going to be all right, that this was what he needed. But now, in this cold, steel-blue evening, he was lost again; and he felt menaced, like a person in one of those forlorn fairy stories that aren’t really good for children. He realised that he was an exile. His eyes were strained and his face had a skimmed look which might have conveyed more than words to anyone who watched him – though no one did – how much he missed the reality of Africa. He did not belong here, he would never belong here: panic that was close to vertigo seized him, he felt he had come to the edge of a precipice and could not go on. His legs were heavy and almost refused to carry him. He was desperately lonely and bereft and afraid. He had made no contact with anyone since he came back to England. His wife eluded him, his son resented him; to his daughter, he was still a dream figure and it remained to be seen what she would make of the reality once the dream had faded. Outside the family circle, he had made contact with no one. People mouthed and gesticulated, but they might as well be talking a foreign language for all the actual communication which took place at any but a superficial level. He had tried. He had talked and talked and talked, trying to communicate something about himself; and he had walked and walked and walked around that town, trying to find the spirit of the place, if spirit there was lurking somewhere out of the surge and swell of traffic, the ceaseless bustle of heedless people. But it was no use. He had always taken human contact for granted and had not realised its importance until the moment it was withdrawn. How did it work? What was the mechanism which set the process going? He did not know. He wanted to cry out to his companions, ‘Help me! Help me!’ But they were talking about tea and buttered toast, in a manner which suggested that really they were talking about something quite different. They would never understand anything so primitive as a cry for help. When the lights of Yeominster at last appeared, it took all the nerve he possessed to make himself walk downhill steadily towards the ominously twinkling town.
By this time, Harry had a sense of achievement. He felt he had won some small, but not unimportant, victory; he had come through a seven-mile winter walk with only a blistered heel. ‘Behold, the walking wounded!’ he said cheerfully to Erica when they reached Knocke Hall. Erica had provided tea and buttered toast, and as he sat by the fire, his face flaming, his body throbbing back to life, he was filled with a pleasant sense of goodwill and camaraderie: a gesture of some kind seemed imperative, so he invited Daniel to address the conservation society at its next meeting.
‘That would be marvellous!’ Erica accepted for Daniel. ‘A change from Mr. McReady’s slides . . .’
‘And the Borough Engineer talking about sewage disposal!’ They sat around the fire laughing and talking. Daniel watched them. He had no idea what sort of people they were and he did not think they had, either. They seemed to him like people who had put on fancy dress years ago and forgotten to take it off. He would never be able to live among them.
Chapter Five
Hepple’s study was pleasantly situated, looking towards the road, which was a quiet back street. There was a glimpse of a green lawn, plane trees lining the drive, an impression of peace. It was the kind of setting one had associated with the way school-masters passed their days before the blackboard jungle revelations: a benevolent, cloistered peace disturbed only by the distant cries from the games field to give necessary atmosphere. The interior of Hepple’s room was at variance with the pleasing aspect. It was almost monastically simple; the walls painted pale grey, a charcoal hair-cord carpet, old, dark furniture which reflected a taste for the severe. There were several paintings on the walls, representing a collection which was obviously the choice of one man whose preference was for the grotesque. Two of the paintings were impressive. They were of the sixteenth-century German school, painted by artists to whom character was of paramount importance. One was of a group of card players, the faces expressing with brutal intensity the avarice of a period when the middle classes were beginning to participate in the rise of capitalism. The other was of a man who was buying a ring, holding it up for inspection so that the light caught his face and that of the jeweller; the two men, so unalike, the one odiously pompous, the other servile and slyly malicious, united in a common venality. These were not paintings which aimed to please.
Hepple did not aim to please, either. His attire was clinically neat without giving the appearance of a fastidious pleasure in clothes; his neatness suggested rather an aversion to fabric which would not allow the easy familiarity of crease or wrinkle. He had a small head, the dark hair sleek as a skull cap. The face was precisely modelled, and so delicately executed that the more mobile features were rather startling, as though there was something shocking about the very fact of being alive. At the moment, his fastidious mouth was slightly askew as he listened to Erica Kerr talking.
Why women asked for interviews to discuss their son’s education was a mystery to Hepple. Perhaps it represented some kind of ritual to which they felt they must submit themselves, so that afterwards they could tell friends, ‘I’ve done absolutely everything I can. I’ve even been to see his head master.’ Hepple could understand the seeing part of it, all the women who came for interviews of this kind gave the impression they could see him. None of them listened to him. And yet they went to so much trouble, dressing carefully to create the right impression, smart without being flamboyant. It was so irrelevant. Couldn’t they see that? But they couldn’t; they really thought that by matching exactly the tan of handbag, gloves and shoes, by wearing the hat at just the right angle, stylish without being frivolous, they could affect their son’s performance in mathematics, or turn a failure in history O level into a pass. And the emo
tion! The eyes staring at him as though he were God and could, if he chose, forgive all that is past and sponge away the consequences.
Erica Kerr was the prime example of the very emotional woman. She always entered the room looking as though she was under sentence and intended to appeal for mercy; she would stare at him, full lips drooping, eyes glutinous as glycerine. Each time she came, she would explain that her family circumstances were difficult, her husband worked abroad and had taken no part in the upbringing of their children, she lived with her mother and younger sister, it was not ideal for Giles to grow up with so many women. Then, having made her confession, she would sit waiting expectantly; she had shared a part of herself, in return for which he was expected to offer comfort. When he failed to do so, she would tell him, ‘But I sent Giles to this school instead of the comprehensive because I felt it was important for him to be in a masculine establishment.’ She had trusted the school: the school had let her down. She never listened to any of his comments about Giles’s attitude to work, the quality of his mind, the type of course in which he was most likely to be successful. When she left, she always looked at Hepple reproachfully, as though he was withholding something from her. He had once tried to tell her that she was overprotecting her son, but she had managed to turn it into a compliment.
Today, she had brought her husband with her. Some kind of communication might, therefore, be possible. Hepple studied Mr. and Mrs. Kerr, patting his pleated lips gently with one forefinger, while Mrs. Kerr explained why she was worried about Giles’s lack of progress. Usually, Hepple found, one had only to look at the parents to see what was wrong with the child. A more ill-assorted pair than Erica and Daniel Kerr would be hard to imagine, he thought. From his knowledge of Erica Kerr over the years, he was aware that hers was not a good mind, nor a sensitive one; her reasoning powers were limited and her emotions formidable but immature. She personified a particular kind of feminine chaos which he found deeply disturbing. It was obvious, even on this short acquaintance, that her husband was a very different proposition. His intelligence was palpable; it radiated from his eyes and seemed to flick the nerves in Hepple’s skull, giving him a series of infinitely pleasing shocks. He was liberated from the emotional miasma exuded by Mrs. Kerr, and grateful for his deliverance. In return, he hoped he might impress Mr. Kerr, not because he had any desire to ingratiate himself with other men, however intellectually gifted they might be, but because he was genuinely concerned about Giles’s future.
‘The immediate problem, Mrs. Kerr,’ he said when Erica had completed her summary, ‘is that Giles lacks motivation. And he is not naturally industrious, not one of those who will work without motivation. On the other hand, he will not be happy if his contemporaries leave him behind. His expectations exceed his means of realising them.’
A flush spread up Erica’s neck. Daniel said, ‘And if he had the motivation?’
‘He should be capable of getting his A levels. He might well go on to take a degree.’
‘But of course he will take a degree!’ Erica was dismayed. This was something which was now considered essential even by people of a different social background; that there should be any question whether her son took a degree was humiliating. A bright pain jerked up her body as though someone had thrust a red-hot poker into her system. It was intolerable that the interview should proceed any further, to talk in these terms was a betrayal of Giles. She picked up her handbag and looked hopefully at Daniel, expecting that he would also see the need to leave immediately. But he seemed to be taking things very calmly. Of course, he had been out of England for a long time and had no understanding of these matters. He was saying:
‘Are you telling us that he doesn’t use his ability, or that he has no ability?’
‘I think I’m saying both.’ Hepple crimped his mouth and thought carefully, enjoying himself His sympathetic understanding did not extend beyond the adolescent stage. He was always meticulous in his choice of words when discussing boys with their parents, but he never considered the parents’ feelings; either it did not occur to him that pain could be inflicted on parents, or he felt that they deserved to suffer. ‘He certainly does not use his abilities to the full,’ he mused. ‘Undoubtedly, he could do better than his present results would indicate. But I am inclined to the view that he has no intellectual stamina, and I feel he has a rather . . .’ He paused, staring at the painting of the card players on the wall behind the Kerrs’ heads: the painting allowed of no compromise. He said, ‘. . . a rather superficial mind. Quite clever, but superficial.’
Erica’s eyes filled with tears. She wanted to go up to this dry little man, take his neat skull in her hands and crack it like a nut. It was terrible to talk of Giles in this cold, analytical way, as though he was inert matter lying in a trough waiting to be dissected. The smell of the biology laboratory at school, which had always made her sick, was suddenly in her nostrils; she clenched her hands, wondered whether she would in fact be sick and rather hoped so.
Daniel said, ‘May not the lack of motivation make him appear superficial?’ It was obvious that he did not like this description of his son any more than did his wife, but he was traitorously willing to consider the possibility that it might be true.
‘He has lacked motivation for a long time,’ Hepple said dryly.
Daniel looked at him and Hepple saw that he was aware of what was being inferred. No one is born superficial, but some learn painfully that it is better to skim the surface of life; for them, the depths contain very unpleasant things which are best left undisturbed. Giles was seventeen, he had been skimming the surface for a long time and was unlikely to change now. Daniel clasped his bony hands and held them tight between his knees. He said, ‘I blame myself for this.’ His wife, who in Hepple’s opinion was more to blame, appeared to have dissociated herself from the conversation and was staring out of the window with an expression of obstinate defiance on her large, loose-featured face.
‘I understand he thinks of taking up journalism,’ Daniel said.
‘He could do worse, I suppose.’ Hepple reflected, but could think of nothing worse except television, and Giles had talked of that, too.
‘I don’t want him to be a journalist.’ Erica addressed the plane trees beyond the window. ‘They’re a rackety lot.’
‘Do you feel he has been wise in his choice of A level subjects?’ Daniel asked.
Hepple glanced down at the notes on his pad: English Language and Literature, History, Sociology. ‘English, yes. History, I’m a little more doubtful, he’ll never make a historian. Sociology . . .’ His mouth wrinkled in distaste. ‘Well, if he’s going to take up journalism . . .’ He shrugged his shoulders, dismissing both sociology and journalism. ‘But frankly, it is his attitude which is the most disturbing feature. He does not seem to me, or to the members of staff who teach him, to be interested in any of his studies.’
‘Mightn’t that be their fault?’ Erica had decided to attack. ‘I think it is a terrible admission of failure, to say that a boy at the A level stage, when it’s so important, isn’t interested.’
‘Yes,’ Hepple agreed calmly. ‘It is a failure. We acknowledge that, Mrs. Kerr. But quite where the blame lies, it is hard to decide. We would certainly accept some of it, he has been with us for a long time.’
‘Do they get good results, these men who teach him?’
‘They are very competent members of staff,’ Hepple said austerely. ‘I think you must accept that some of the blame lies with Giles himself. He can’t expect at this stage to be guided and watched over as if he were a fourth former. He should be capable of organising himself by now.’
‘Doesn’t this school believe in pastoral care?’ She had used pastoral care as a trump card on every occasion when she had been to see Hepple.
‘Pastoral care includes helping young people to grow up into independent men and women capable of running their own lives,’ Hepple said dryly. ‘When your son goes to university, he will have a bad time if
he hasn’t learnt how to organise his work.’
‘He will have a tutor there,’ she said.
‘Not all universities have a tutorial system, Mrs. Kerr.’ He wanted to add that in any case a tutor was not a masculine house-mother, but decided it would have no effect.
Daniel, who had been studying the carpet with great intensity, now looked up with an air of purpose. ‘You have given us a lot of your time and you have been honest with us, Mr. Hepple. We are grateful to you.’
When they were walking down the drive in the early dusk, Erica said, ‘I don’t know how you could be so civil to him. He didn’t tell us anything. He never does. Except that Giles is clever – he said again today that he is clever-and there is no reason why he shouldn’t be doing well. I can’t see how he can sit there so smugly accepting defeat.’
‘I don’t think he is a smug person,’ Daniel said.
‘You can’t possibly like him!’ she expostulated. ‘No one likes him. People say he’s a queer.’
‘But not smug.’
‘I can’t understand you. Harry says he sometimes wants to kick his backside.’
‘But I don’t think he was unsympathetic in his attitude to Giles, do you?’
‘Unsympathetic! He could hardly have been nastier.’
‘But not about Giles.’
‘Not about Giles!’ she exclaimed impatiently. ‘Who else were we talking about?’
‘Us.’
‘Us? He doesn’t know us!’ She looked despairingly at the dank pavement, smudgily reflecting the light of a street lamp. Her mind probed around in its own restricted area of light. ‘I feel dreadfully to blame about this. I shouldn’t have sent him to that school. Dorothy thought he ought to go to boarding school, but he would have been so unhappy away from home.’ She went on, probing around and found another possible cause of failure which she could bear to acknowledge. ‘But I should have sent him to the comprehensive school. Emma has done so well there. And the head master has three children of his own. I hope you’re coming to the carol concert?’ She had gone as far as it was safe for her to go, beyond that was darkness and uncertainty. She said, ‘They have an excellent reputation for music, they came second in the county music festival last year.’