Fear to Tread (16 page)

‘”She’s cold,’ he said, grabbing me by the sleeve, and breathing into my face a blast of mustard pickle, whisky and senile decay. ‘Cold as a nice-berg. Not seckshually cold, old man – I don’t mean seckshually. Temperamentarally. Cold as a nice-berg.’ Did I know, he went on, Why her closest friends called her Icebox Annie?

“’Because she’s cold as a nice-berg,’ I guessed.

“’No, no. Not at all. It’s a story,’ he said.

“And story it was. Even now I don’t know if I believe it (but the mere fact that people
do
believe it describes her better than I can do). It appears that once, in the early days of the Hitler war, Annie had a husband. She got tired of him, so she ‘stretched him with a bottle’. No doubt many a wife has done as much before – and then screeched until the neighbours or the police rolled up. Not so Annie. Being in the catering profession provided her with certain amenities not enjoyed by ordinary folk. She was the owner of several out-sized refrigerators, into one of which she pushed her better half. Thereafter, being, amongst her other accomplishments, a good rough butcher, she cut him up into very small parcels indeed, which she deposited, from time to time, in the swill bins set up at each street corner by a thrifty government. At the end of three or four weeks, she had only the larger bones left, and these she parcelled up and dropped off the middle of Hungerford Bridge.

“The whole thing was, thought the boys, an extremely neat job, with the right professional touch about it. It seems to have raised her no end in their estimation – though it’s noticeable that no one has since actually volunteered for her hand.

“I’d had about enough for one night, and shaking off old Mustard Pickle I pushed along out and went home to bed.

“More soon.”

Mr. Wetherall folded up the three or four sheets of typescript. The one he was reading was a carbon copy. It did occur to him to wonder who had got the top copy.

When Mr. Wetherall arrived at the school next morning, he was surprised to find that Peggy was not there.

In all his experience of her this had only happened once before, when she had scalded her hand helping with the week-end wash, and the chaos during the seven days she had been away was something he liked to forget.

He sent for Sammy, and found that he was absent too. There was no time to do any more about this. He went into morning school with vague misgivings.

At eleven thirty Colonel Bond arrived. An air of mystery hung about his shoulders like a cloak.

Part of the colonel’s technique, as Mr. Wetherall well knew, was to allow the other person to start the conversation. It gave him the sort of tactical advantage which comes from sitting fourth in hand at bridge. It was an innocent gambit which Mr. Wetherall was usually willing to accept, but today he felt obstinate.

The colonel had suggested the meeting. Let him get on with it and say what it was all about.

“There are matters,” said the colonel at last, “which I do not find it at all easy to discuss.”

Mr. Wetherall contented himself with a nod. He was not going to abandon his moral position for a soft shot like that.

“I’m a liberal-minded man, Wetherall. I think I may say that a lifetime of experience has made me so. Nobody could spend twenty years in the Army and thirty in a profession and on the Bench and remain narrow-minded.”

“I suppose not,” said Mr. Wetherall.

What now? Smoking on the way to school? Mixed dancing class? Lavatories?

“What a man thinks is his own business. This isn’t a police state.” Mr. Wetherall looked up. He fancied he recognised an echo. “Liberty of conscience is a fundamental concept, not a form of words, Wetherall, a fundamental concept. Most of us are in the happy position of being able to go further. We can not only think what we like, we can say what we think. We have no responsibilities. If the man in the street wishes to join—to join—” (the colonel paused for a moment as he let his mind rove over the varied fields of human activity) “the Co-operative movement, then there is nothing to prevent him doing so.”

Mr. Wetherall felt a very faint premonition of what was coming. He decided to force the pace.

“You mean,” he said, “that people in positions of responsibility, like yourself, Colonel, or myself, have to be more careful than other people.”

“Caesar’s wife, Mr. Wetherall, Caesar’s wife.”

“Good gracious me! I
am
sorry. I had no idea—”

“I was using an analogy,” said the colonel crossly. He looked at his watch. He was being manoeuvred in the unthinkable position of being forced to make a definite statement.

“It has been suggested—” he said, “I know the matter is to be raised in committee – is it true that you are—were—a member of the Communist Party?”

The cat was out now, claws and all.

“I was once,” said Mr. Wetherall. “I’m not now.”

“And you’ve severed all connection with them?”

“I never had very much connection. I paid two annual subscriptions and attended one or two meetings. Then I decided that they were even more stupid than the other political parties. So I gave them up. That was nearly twenty years ago.”

“You paid subscriptions?”

“Two subscriptions, yes.”

“To the Party funds?”

“I certainly didn’t intend them as a personal gift to the treasurer, if that’s what you mean. He was a greengrocer’s assistant. A most unpleasant man. Even whilst I was a Party member he seemed to pick me out nothing but maggoty carrots.”

“But he was official treasurer.”

“Certainly. What is all this about?”

“As I told you. Miss Toup has given notice that she intends to raise the matter in committee. As chairman I hardly see how I can stop her.”

“Short of cutting her tongue out, I doubt if you could,” agreed Mr. Wetherall.

“It’s very difficult. Of course, the committee would quite understand if you decided not to be present.”

“I shall certainly be present,” said Mr. Wetherall. He was pleased to find how well he had himself in hand. Two weeks ago such a manoeuvre would have left him speechless with rage. The events of the last fortnight had toughened him.

“If the matter is going to be discussed,” he said, “though I have yet to be convinced that it is a proper matter for this or any other committee – I should certainly prefer that it was not done behind my back.”

“Oh, quite, quite,” said the colonel.

“Well,” said Colonel Bond. “That disposes of the midday milk question.” He looked at a list of items on the agenda before him, all neatly ticked off. “Unless any member of the committee—?”

He allowed his gaze to rest on each of them in turn; on Mr. Hazel, small and sharp looking; on Mrs. Griller, who spent all her money on clothes and still managed to look like a badly tied parcel; on Miss Toup, who was thin and rigid and was always unselfishly willing to express her views on subjects however difficult.

It was Miss Toup who responded.

“I gave notice, chairman, of an additional subject I wished introduced for preliminary discussion.”

“Yes, Miss Toup.”

“Then perhaps you would kindly introduce it.”

Put on the spot in this cowardly way the colonel cleared his throat, rearranged his papers, and said: “Miss Toup wished the committee to consider the subject of political affiliations so far as they may affect heads of state schools.

Mr. Hazel looked surprised.

“Is it proposed,” he said, “that we discuss the subject theoretically?”

“Certainly not,” snapped Miss Toup. Her nose was a little pink, and she so steadily avoided looking at Mr. Wetherall that the rest of the committee at once stared in his direction.

“Perhaps, then, Miss Toup, you would outline the nature of the discussion you propose,” said the colonel, playing the ball neatly back into her court.

“Certain allegations,” said Miss Toup, “have been made, and I consider that the committee should discuss them and, if it thinks fit, make a minute of its conclusions.”

“What are you talking about?” said Mrs. Griller, suddenly. She had a deep, comedian’s voice.

“I thought I had made myself quite plain,” said Miss Toup.

“You haven’t said anything yet,” said Mrs. Griller. “Allegations. Political affiliations. What does it all mean? I’m a Liberal myself.”

“The suggestion,” said Miss Toup, “was that it was undesirable for the headmaster of a school – a state school – to hold extreme or openly avowed political views.”

“Oh, you’re talking about Mr. Wetherall. What’s he done now? I thought you were a Conservative, Mr. Wetherall.”

“I should like to put it on record,” said Miss Toup, “that I did suggest that Mr. Wetherall should not attend this meeting. Apparently, however, he feels—”

“Please don’t mind me,” said Mr. Wetherall. “Just imagine I’m not here.”

“That’s all right, then,” said Mrs. Griller. “Now tell us what he’s done.”

“May I ask you a question,” said Miss Toup. “Are you a member of the Communist Party?”

“No,” said Mr. Wetherall.

“Have you ever been a member of that Party?”

“Yes. I was once. I think it was eighteen years ago.”

“Have you entirely severed your connection with it?”

“Entirely.”

“And your political convictions?”

Now Mr. Wetherall had only got to say “yes.” He realised it clearly. The matter could then hardly be taken further. There was a limit to the lengths which even Miss Toup could go; and, though not the most sensitive of women, she must have realised that the rest of the committee were not with her.

Unfortunately he had become suddenly and unaccountably so angry that none of these cool arguments carried any weight with him at all.

“I refuse to answer the question,” he said.

“Ah,” said Miss Toup, exactly like a bullying barrister who has at last extracted an admission.

“And I shall ask the chairman to rule that it is a most improper question.”

“I—well—ah,” said the colonel.

“I must say I agree with Mr. Wetherall,” said Mr. Hazel. “This is a school committee, not an inquisition of consciences.”

“Well, if that’s your view—” The colonel turned to Mrs. Griller, in the evident hope that he could protect himself behind a majority opinion. But Mrs. Griller was out of her depth.

“If Mr. Wetherall will assure us,” said Miss Toup smoothly, “that he is no longer an advocate of Communism, I, for one, should be quite satisfied.”

“I thought I had already made it plain that I left the Communist Party a very long time ago.”

“You ceased to subscribe to its funds,” agreed Miss Toup. “What I, for one, would be interested to hear is whether you ceased to subscribe to its opinions.”

“Well, that’s a plain question,” said Mrs. Griller. “What do you say?”

“It’s a question that the committee has no right to ask,” said Mr. Wetherall, “and which I have no intention of answering. And I demand the protection of the chairman.”

The colonel looked unhappy.

“Then I move,” said Miss Toup, “that the best method of dealing with the matter would be to minute the discussion without arriving at any conclusion.”

“A minute—yes—perhaps the secretary—”

Mr. Wetherall, being himself secretary of the committee, obediently took up his pen.

“In what form would you like the minute,” he enquired.

“I should suggest,” said Mr. Hazel. “A most improper question as to his personal political beliefs having been put to Mr. Wetherall, he very rightly refused to answer it.”

“This is hardly the occasion for flippancy,” said Miss Toup.

“I am perfectly serious,” said Mr. Hazel. “I regard the matter as unpleasant, uncalled for, and out of order.”

“Come, come,” said the colonel hastily (and, in the circumstances, rather belatedly). “We don’t want any unpleasantness.”

During the lunch break Mr. Wetherall telephoned his wife.

“It was the craziest meeting I’ve ever attended,” he said, “and when you consider our committee, that’s no mean record.”

“You don’t think they were serious?”

“Serious about
what
? What do they think happens next? That’s what made it so stupid.”

“You say Miss Toup started it?”

“Yes. But Colonel Bond knew all about it. He was in it too.”

“Supposing they report you?”

“For goodness’ sake,” said Mr. Wetherall. “Who to?”

“I don’t know.”

“If they were trying to goad me into handing in my resignation – or assaulting Miss Toup – it was mismanaged. They oughtn’t to have warned me beforehand. If it had been sprung on me, I might have gone off the deep end.”

“Well, I don’t like it,” said Mrs. Wetherall.

Mr. Wetherall didn’t like it either. There were one or two things worrying him. Not the least was the absence of the Donovans. There was nothing he could do about that. They had no telephone and he was tied to the school all day.

At half-past six that evening, when he was reaching for his hat and coat, he heard footsteps along the corridor and the red head of Sammy Donovan appeared in the gloom.

He was glistening with excitement.

“Oh, Mr. Wetherall.”

“Where have you been all day? And where is Peggy?”

“She’s home.”

“What’s wrong with you all.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” said Sammy. He sounded important, complacent and excited. “We can’t move out till after dark. Even after dark’s not easy.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“It’s Patsy. You heard what he did?”

“I heard something.”

“You know you tipped him off about Jock’s Cafe and Pop Maunder.”

“Jock’s Pull-In for Carmen,” said Mr. Wetherall slowly. “Yes, I believe I did say something. What about it?”

“Patsy went round and busted Pop up – to make him sing.”

“Sing?”

“Talk. He bounced him up and down on his head till he talked. He can get very mean, these days, Patsy.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Wetherall. He thought of Sergeant Donovan as he had last seen him. “Yes, but why?”

“He got slung out of the police for it. Well, he’s not actually slung yet, but he’s going to be.”