Fear to Tread (31 page)

Colonel Bond said: “How long are you going to be away?”

Miss Toup said: “When were you proposing to start?”

It was almost a dead heat.

“I am actually leaving my present flat tomorrow,” said Mr. Wetherall. “I am not certain of my date of sailing, but it should be sometime at the end of this coming week. In the interval I shall be—er—staying with friends.”

“Impossible,” announced Miss Toup.

“You must have no end of pull,” said Mr. Hazel. “Last year it took me six weeks to book a passage to America – and I believe that’s easier than Canada.”

“One of the large newspapers is interested,” said Mr. Wetherall. “I am engaged on a series of articles for them which will defray – in fact, will considerably more than defray – the expense.”

“Quite impossible,” repeated Miss Toup. “If you must go off on a jaunt, why can’t you wait until the end of term?”

“I’m afraid that the sort of trip I had in mind wouldn’t fit into a school holiday. It will be at least six months. The earliest I could be back could be the beginning of next summer term.”

“It by no means follows,” said Miss Toup, “I speak, of course, for myself and without the authority of the chairman, but it by no means follows that you will still find the vacancy open. Perhaps Colonel Bond will let us know what he thinks.”

“Oh, well,” said the colonel. “Really, I couldn’t say.”

“Don’t let it worry you unduly,” said Mr. Wetherall. “I’m not sure that I want to come back.”

A moment of absolute silence.

“That’s taken the wind out of their sails,” thought Mr. Hazel. “Isn’t it just like these damned committees. When they get hold of a good man they badger him and chivvy him until he walks out on them. Curse that Toup bitch. The colonel’s a fool but she’s pure poison. Well, we shall see. She’s not indispensable herself. I might be able to pull a string—”

He made a note on his pad.

“I should perhaps explain,” said Mr. Wetherall. “This isn’t a matter of school business, and I hadn’t thought to mention it before, but I am, in my spare time, a writer.”

“Plenty of material here for your first novel,” said Mrs. Griller loudly and unexpectedly.

“I am happy to say that my first novel has not only been written – it has been accepted. It was this, coupled with the newspaper offer, that made me bold enough to think that I might be able to make a living with the pen.”

“What are the articles about,” enquired Mr. Fawcus, feeling it was time he said something. “Educational, I suppose.”

Mr. Wetherall toyed with the idea of saying: “Folly and corruption on committees,” but disciplined himself. “Just general articles on current topics,” he said.

“You spoke about writing in your spare time,” said Miss Toup venomously. “I wasn’t aware that headmasters had much spare time. Unless they make it at the expense of the school.”

Now Mr. Wetherall had meant to be good.

He had intended to confine himself to announcing his departure and parting on the best terms possible with his committee.

It was at this point that he lost his temper.

“I will willingly pay my royalties into school funds,” he said, turning directly on Miss Toup, “if you will yourself contribute any money you have received, directly or indirectly, for attacking my character.”

Miss Toup gave a squeak.

“Who put you up to enquiring about my so-called Communism? You can’t really expect us to believe that you care a brass farthing whether I’m a Communist or a Fascist or a nudist. It was the purest brand of nosey-parkering and trouble making. And another thing. Miss Donovan tells me you were snooping round the school a few nights ago. After we’d all gone home. What were you looking for? Hammers and sickles or rude words on lavatory walls.”

“Really, Wetherall,” said Colonel Bond faintly.

“And you,” said Mr. Wetherall. “You’re meant to run this committee, aren’t you? If it’s the way you ran your regiment I’m more surprised than ever that we won the war. Your job is to keep Miss Toup in order, not to let her bully me – or you. If you can’t manage it, I suggest you hand over to someone who can. And whilst you’re at it,” he added, with an unkind glance at Mr. Fawcus, “I suggest you stop co-opting alleged outside experts and get a few schoolmasters on this committee, and people who really know how schools are run.”

Miss Toup had got her breath back.

“If you think,” she said, “that by making vague threats and allegations—”

“Let me tell you something,” said Mr. Wetherall, over-riding her with effortless ease. “You may not know all that’s been going on behind the scenes in the last few weeks. I’m not sure exactly how you got brought into this, and I’m certainly not going to waste time trying to find out. There’s a limit to muck-raking. But I must give you a serious warning. This little melodrama that you’ve been meddling in is nearly over. We’re in the last act. The small characters have all been seen for the last time. Do you understand that?”

Miss Toup tried to say something, but failed.

“I see you do. Then one thing more. The sort of people I’ve been contending with have got rather drastic and unpleasant ways of sweeping up minor characters when their spell of usefulness is over. You may not know about Mr. Crowdy. His death didn’t feature in the sort of papers you read. But you mustn’t overlook what happened to Mr. Pride—”

Her face the colour of old parchment, Miss Toup got up and walked from the room.

When the committee had dispersed, Mr. Hazel sought a word with Mr. Wetherall.

“Don’t take them too seriously,” he said. “Have your holiday and enjoy it. I think it’s been well-earned. When you get back you may find some changes on the committee.”

“It’s very good of you, but—”

“I didn’t understand a quarter of what you said, but I gather you’ve been engaged in a sort of private war. What has Miss Toup been doing? Helping the enemy?”

“I think she was tricked into it.”

“She’s got about as much common sense as a hen, less really. Is that the only reason you’re getting out?”

“It’s one of them,” said Mr. Wetherall. “But I really did mean what I said. I just don’t know if I shall come back. To school-mastering I mean. I’ve long wondered if I was fitted for it. I’m not a patient or scholarly person. And I’m not half energetic enough for a headmaster. I like boys. But I like them for themselves. I’m not mad to improve them.”

“You may be right,” said Mr. Hazel with a smile. “All I’m suggesting is that you don’t make your mind up now.”

The news seemed to have leaked out.

Peggy arrived with a face of fire, and said: “What’s this I hear about them chucking you out?”

“Shut the door,” said Mr. Wetherall, “and stop looking like a tigress robbed of her young. No one’s chucked me out. I’ve resigned.”

“Really, or are you just saying that?”

“You must know me well enough,” said Mr. Wetherall primly, “to know that I am not in the habit of just saying things. I am going to Canada almost at once and I shall be away for at least six months.”

Peggy looked at him straightly.

“Are you coming back?”

“The matter is undecided.”

“I suppose old Edgecumb will be running things?”

“I imagine Mr. Edgecumb may be given temporary control.”

“Not over me he won’t. I shall get another job.”

“As a matter of fact I have the offer of one for you. On the
Kite.”

“Newspapers, huh?”

Big men. Smooth types. Take a note, Miss Donovan. If the foreign secretary calls—

“You’re not kidding?”

“Certainly not. There’s a job for Sammy as well. When you go along – that is, if you like the idea – ask for Mrs. Bolton. She’ll look after you. For a start, she’ll find you somewhere to put up.”

“And you’re really getting out? No fooling?”

“No fooling,” said Air. Wetherall. “I’ve almost gone. You can go along to see the
Kite
this morning, if you like.”

“I’d better straighten things up here first,” said Peggy. “I’ve still got last week’s milk returns to make out. I’d better get them fudged up—”

“Adjusted,” said Mr. Wetherall mechanically.

“—adjusted, before I go.”

She whisked out quickly and shut the door.

Mr. Wetherall sat staring after her.

The big car in which Mr. Wetherall was travelling turned north off the Finchley Road and the noise of the traffic died behind them as they climbed the long straight street, which rises gently towards the heath.

The driver slowed, and then turned again.

If the previous street had been a tributary, this was no more than a backwater.

The car nosed along, its engine running silently, until the road came to a dead end in a circular run-around of asphalt and turf. Then it turned about and drifted down the other side, the driver watching the numbers.

All the houses were big, all modern, and all expensive, in the style of the ‘thirties, in hand-baked brick and rustic tile. Some of them had wrought iron porch-lanterns and others had little shutters beside the upstairs windows, which were plainly not intended to shut but looked very attractive all the same. They all had their ration of garden in front, defined by side path, front path and garage run-in.

The car drew up in front of No. 8 and the driver switched off. The stillness and the peace became absolute. In the distance, cut off as it were by a wind break, the noise of the traffic came up from the foot of the hill, like the murmur of a distant brook which enhances the stillness of a forest glade. Secure behind the buttress of pounds, shillings and pence, the houses slept out the massive peace of an English Sunday afternoon.

“Quite a dump,” said the driver. “We’ll wait here for you.”

“I may be a little time.”

As he spoke Mr. Wetherall glanced at the occupants of the back seat and the largest of the three men sitting there nodded reassuringly.

“Be sure to shout if you want any help,” he said. “We shall hear you.”

“It’s quiet enough to hear a bomb go off,” agreed his companion.

“Oh, I don’t think it’s going to be that sort of party,” said Mr. Wetherall.

The little man who was sitting in the middle of the back seat like a prisoner between two large warders, looked up and blinked unhappily, but said nothing.

“Good luck,” said the driver.

Mr. Wetherall walked up the neat, flagged path to the cream- coloured front door and applied his finger to a fat chromium bell-push. After a longish pause the door was opened by a maid.

“Mr. Harbart?”

“I’m not certain if he’s in,” said the maid. “Would you mind waiting in here.”

She opened a door and showed Mr. Wetherall into a morning-room.

It was everything that such a room should be, from the wood block floor to the built-in white wood bookcases. There was not much furniture but any bit of it looked worth a year of Mr. Wetherall’s work.

Five minutes later a boy looked in. He was about sixteen, with a lanky body and a pleasant, half-grown face.

“I’m sorry you’ve had to wait, Mr. Wetherall,” he said. “I know father’s somewhere about. They’re searching for him now.”

“That’s all right,” said Mr. Wetherall.

“He put off his Sunday afternoon golf when he heard you were coming. I shouldn’t think he’s done that for anyone else this year.”

“I’m sorry to have put him out,” said Mr. Wetherall.

He made a grab at his morale, which was slipping fast.

“I don’t think he minded, actually,” said the boy. “He was down to play a man who always beats him. Dad hates being beaten.”

Just then the door opened and Mr. Harbart came in.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said.

He was in his early fifties and looked, Mr. Wetherall thought, like a retired soldier. A soldier turned business-man. There was none of the weakness, none of the spiritual fatness that he had secretly expected. It was the face of a man used to command himself and others. Of a man neither stupidly kind nor stupidly cruel. It was the face of a man who was very sure of himself.

“I hope Tom has been entertaining you,” he said.

Mr. Wetherall agreed that Tom had been entertaining him.

“All right. You’ve done your stuff. You can vamoose.”

The boy grinned and disappeared.

“It’s his long leave from school,” said Mr. Harbart, “and much as we both look forward to it, it’s sometimes difficult to find things to fill up the forty-eight hours. Now what can I do for you?”

Mr. Wetherall had never felt himself in greater difficulty.

He realised that he was being cleverly manoeuvred into a position of disadvantage, but it was hard to say exactly how it was being done.

It was not as if he had come out expecting to meet a subhuman character wearing a mask.

On the other hand, he had not anticipated that the man would be wearing an old Etonian tie.

Meanwhile Mr. Harbart was waiting.

Mr. Wetherall drew a deep breath.

“Why did you give up your golf for me?” he asked.

For a second Mr. Harbart looked surprised.

“My message,” persisted Mr. Wetherall, “was that I wanted to discuss matters connected with P.S.D. Frankly, I should have expected your answer to be that you only talked business in business hours. Your son informs me, too, that you don’t lightly give up your Sunday golf. That’s why I was surprised.”

“Put it down to the approach of Christmas,” said Mr. Harbart genially, but his eyes were wary.

Mr. Wetherall sank back slightly in his chair. He knew now that his hunch had been right. However amiable, however correct, however imposing, the man in front of him was a crook.

“I can explain my business best,” he said, “by starting with a story. It’s the story of a man who founded and built up, between the wars, a very large and profitable wholesale food business. It was a business which sold direct to restaurants and hotels and clubs of all sorts, mostly in London.”

“Sounds like P.S.D. to me,” said Mr. Harbart. “Do you smoke?”

“Thank you, no. The man who actually built this business up never appeared directly as head of the enterprise. Partly, I think, because he had an old-fashioned idea that the food trade was the hall mark of the lower middle classes.”