At Ashford Applegate changed, with a thin sprinkling of other travellers, on to the branch line that runs through Romney Marsh. There was a wait of several minutes. He bought a
New Statesman
at the bookstall, settled himself in an antique railway carriage, and turned to the advertisements. One in particular caught his attention. No doubt he had, subconsciously, been looking for it.
At Bramley Hall we welcome “difficult” children or, as we prefer to call them, maladjusted personalities. By modern methods the maladjusted become attuned to society. No authoritarian pressures but creative work, not instruction but co-operation. Expert staff. Particular attention diet, hygiene. Jeremy Pont, MA and Janine Pont, Bramley Hall, near Murdstone, Kent.
Perfect, Applegate thought. He gave a small sigh of pleasure and looked up to find that the other occupant of the carriage was staring at him. Applegate stared back. He saw a long, thin man wearing a neat dark suit with a pin stripe, not very new perhaps, but clean and carefully pressed. The man’s Homburg hat, beside him on the seat, was well brushed. Above a snowy shirt and stiff white collar was a long, narrow face composed in vertical and horizontal lines. Two strokes for the cheeks, meeting at the bottom in a long, pointed chin. Another for the beaky, thin-nostrilled nose, two more for the deep-grooved cheeks. Then the horizontal lines, two across the forehead giving an expression of permanent worry, and another line serving for the almost colourless lips. One small red circle, a virulent pimple on the left cheek. And below the lips the long, tapering chin was blue. The total expression was one of caution, even anxiety. Not the kind of man to speak to a stranger in a railway carriage, you would have said, but now he was speaking to Applegate.
“These carriages are filthy. If you would like a newspaper I have one to spare.”
Applegate saw with amusement that his companion was sitting on a protecting layer of carefully folded newspaper. “Thank you. I don’t think I’ll bother.”
The thin lips became, if possible, thinner. “You are unwise. All public transport is filthy. You know the Marsh?”
“I’ve never been down here before.”
“Beautiful country.” The voice was as neat as the man’s appearance.
Applegate looked out of the window. He saw fields and a great many sheep. The prospect seemed to him ineffably dreary. Since leaving Oxford he had found that simple candour often produces a devastating effect. “Is it?”
The stranger wriggled with embarrassment, but did not stop talking. “In this spring weather –”
“When the east wind whips the stunted trees?” Applegate asked politely.
“Perhaps when it’s a little warmer,” the stranger conceded. There was something obsequious about him, Applegate thought, something eminently dislikeable in his sinuous wrigglings. “Are you going far?” he asked now.
“Bramley.”
“I go on to Murdstone myself.” Applegate knew that Murdstone was a small town on the coast. About the man’s next words there seemed something especially meaningful. They were uttered in the same precise, colourless voice, yet the effect of them was emphatic. “But I know Bramley too, of course.”
Applegate stared. “Why of course?”
The man’s fingers, long and white, moved with an effect of furtiveness to the pimpled cheek. “Everybody knows Bramley Hall. Progressive school, you know. And I used to go there long ago.” He stood up abruptly, a telescope extending to full length, went out into the corridor and disappeared.
A square of white lay on the floor. Applegate picked it up and saw that it was a small snap showing two men together. One was the man of the train, several years younger, less furrowed, but perfectly recognisable. The other man was a head shorter, thick, square, round-headed, curly-haired. Something in the set of his shoulders and the way in which the head was thrown back seemed to show a natural arrogance, or at least a sense of self-importance. While Applegate looked at the photograph he had the feeling that he was being watched. In the corridor a small roly-poly dumpling of a man, red-faced, sports-jacketed, passed by. Had he been looking through the window?
A couple of minutes later the tall man came back, and Applegate gave him the photograph. He took it with a word of thanks, wiped it with a piece of newspaper, and put it back in a wallet which he drew from his breast pocket. Applegate idly wondered how the snap had dropped from the wallet to the floor.
The train, which had chugged slowly from Ham Street to Brookland, from Brookland to Lydd and on again, crawled into a station. It was Bramley. Applegate got up.
“Glad to have had this little chat with you, Mr Applegate,” the tall man said. “I feel we have something in common. Look me up when you are in Murdstone. Jenks, Grand Marine Hotel, Murdstone 18345.”
It was not until Applegate was on the platform that it occurred to him to wonder how the man knew his name. But no doubt the answer was simple. There was a label on his luggage. Mr Jenks was a luggage-label reader.
One other passenger got off at Bramley. This was the roly-poly man who had looked through the window. Seen more closely he was not so young as he had appeared at first glance, and there were small purplish lines below the ruddiness of his cheeks. “Wonder if we’re bound for the same place,” he said as they gave up their tickets. “Bramley Hall, right?”
“Right.”
“I’m a new boy there. New teacher, I mean. Name’s Montague.”
“I’m new too. Applegate.”
They shook hands solemnly. “Transport all laid on to time, Daimler waiting no doubt,” Montague said. They came out of the station to an open space of muddy earth and stood there for several minutes. The day was grey. A keen wind blew. “Transport definitely not laid on to time. Bad show.”
The sun had been shining when Applegate left London, and he was wearing a thin overcoat. He felt cold and slightly miserable. “Perhaps we can walk it. How far is Bramley Hall?” he asked the gnarled porter who appeared to be also the stationmaster.
“Maybe three miles, little more, little less.”
“Oh. Shall we split a taxi?”
“Good idea, old boy,” said Montague enthusiastically. “Do things in style on our first day.”
The porter had been listening with grim amusement.
“No taxi in Bramley. You want to get Ebbetts from Murdstone, it’s four mile. Cost you a bit, I reckon, that’s if you can get hold of Ebbetts now. Generally has a sleep in the afternoon, Ebbetts.”
“Oh, my God,” Applegate said.
“Would you be waiting for the car from Bramley Hall now?” Applegate said with restraint that they would. “You’re the wrong side then,” the porter said with satisfaction. “Car for Bramley Hall’s the other side. Over the bridge.”
They walked up the steps. When they had reached the top Montague whistled. “I say, old boy, do you see what I see? Transport
and
company laid on.”
Looking down from the bridge Applegate saw a very old open car. A girl stood by its side looking at her wristwatch. Her hair was fair, and she was wearing a black jumper and red jeans.
“Tally-ho,” said Montague. “Remember, I saw her first.”
When they got to the car the girl said: “Eleven and a half minutes.”
“What’s that?” Applegate asked.
“The time it took you to realise that the car might be on the other side of the bridge. It’s the first applied intelligence test, and frankly you don’t come too well out of it.”
“A damned silly test, if you ask me,” Applegate said moodily. He had been wondering whether he would be able to endure the strain of life at Bramley Hall, but consideration of the girl cheered him up a little. Her face had the unremarkable prettiness of many blondes who pattern their looks upon those of the fashionable film star of the moment, but her blue eyes had a vacant wildness that interested him. These eyes seemed to glow for a moment as though a light had been switched on inside them, as she looked at the two men. Then the light was switched off, and they were vacant again.
“Let me see if I can tell which is which. You’re Charles Applegate.”
“Right.”
“Applied intelligence, you see. And Frank Montague. Put your bags in the boot and get in. You don’t mind having the top down?”
“A spot of fresh air never hurt anybody,” Montague said.
Applegate, who did mind having the top down, said: “Won’t you be rather cold?”
“I’m burning.” She placed her hand on his for a moment. It was hot and dry. “You’d better get in front, it’s not so windy. There’s no point in putting the hood up anyway, it’s full of holes. Here we go.”
The car started with a jerk that flung Applegate back in his seat. Immediately below him, as it seemed, there was a noise like the clattering of saucepans. “What’s that?”
“What?”
“That noise,” he shouted.
“Just the engine. She doesn’t like standing idle. Better in a minute.” Like a rider urging her horse at a jump, she accelerated as they approached a gentle incline. A thunderous knock had developed by the time that they reached the brow of this slope. Then they were over. Applegate sighed with a relief that quickly changed to alarm as he saw a heavy lorry approaching them head on. The girl swerved to the left and missed it. “Pulls over to the right all the time. You have to be careful.”
“I can see that. What’s your name?”
“Hedda Pont. But call me Hedda. I’m the old man’s niece.”
“What do you do at the school?”
“I’m the matron.”
“The
matron.
”
“I was elected three months ago. Self-government. Elections every six months. You know the kind of thing. All the boys voted for me.”
“I’m sure.”
“What do you mean by that?” She turned to look at him.
“Look
out,
” Appleyard shouted. They had just turned a bend and he saw a stationary car a few yards ahead of them and another car coming the other way. He put his hands over his eyes and waited for the crash as he saw her pull on the hand brake. This time he was thrown forward against the windscreen. When he took his hands away from his eyes they were on a clear stretch of road, and the two cars had vanished.
From the back Montague shouted: “Good as the Big Dipper.”
“You shouldn’t drive like that.”
“You should be more careful what you say to me. I’m a delinquent, you know. Or was, rather. Jeremy says I’m not any more, but I don’t believe him. Sex has always been my trouble. If only there were no men in the world.” She began to sing in a tuneless voice:
“‘See the pretty lady up on the tree,
The higher up the sweeter she grows.
Picking fruit you’ve got to be
Up on your toes.’
How old are you?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Isn’t that odd, so am I. You don’t look it.”
“There’s no point in trying to shock me. What’s your uncle like?”
“Jeremy? He’s a nice old boy. A bit cracked of course, and a bit of a fake. Anybody must be to run a school like Bramley. But really very nice. You’ve had no experience as a teacher, have you? Neither has Frank, back there. You won’t stay, nobody ever stays. Except me. I’ve been here two years as delinquent, teacher, and now matron.”
“How many pupils are there now?”
“Eighteen. Twenty-one last term. Four left and one has come.”
“But the school must run at a loss.”
“It always has done. Janine provides the cash, she’s got quite a lot.”
Applegate said no more, but concentrated on the drive through the winding Marsh roads. He noticed that Hedda’s handling of the car was reckless but skilful. The scenery appeared to him a duplicate of the scenery he had seen from the train. If these were not exactly the same fields and sheep they were very good imitations.
“Here we are.” Hedda turned right between two iron gates and went up a long, weedy drive. At the end of the drive was a large courtyard. With a screech of brakes she stopped the car, which steamed like a horse after a race. “Bramley Hall.”
It was a remarkable structure. The middle of it must have been at one time a pleasant Georgian house of moderate size. The original doorway had been replaced by a much larger one in Victorian Gothic, with a pointed church-like door studded with bits of iron. On the moulding above it was carved:
JB 1937
. There were two additions to the original building. The first, on the left, was a variation on the Victorian Gothic theme. Built in Kentish ragstone it had mullioned windows. Above, the roof was castellated like a medieval castle. The addition on the right was aggressively modern, with a large expanse of glass window and a flat roof. The white paint used for this addition had flaked away in many places and was discoloured in others. The casement windows were rusty.
Applegate, who was not particularly sensitive to architectural detail, was appalled. “Did Mr Pont do this?”
Hedda laughed. “Oh, no, it was done well before Jeremy’s time. The house had been empty for a year or two when he bought it.”
Now the iron door swung open and Pont, pinkly benevolent, advanced upon them. “Welcome,” he cried. “Welcome to Bramley Hall.”
Before Applegate sat down to supper that evening he had been all round the school, spoken to the ten boys and eight girls who were there, and had a long discussion with Pont. Against his will and belief he had been impressed by Pont’s sincerity as the headmaster sat and talked to the new teachers in the sparsely-furnished room he called his office. This room overlooked the garden at the back of the house, with its weedy flowerbeds and neglected tennis court.
“Most of the boys and girls here are what society calls difficult or delinquent,” he said. “Maureen Gardner has been a thief, Billy Mobbs is a bed-wetter, Arthur Hope-Hurry was sent here because he told lies. Some are merely thought difficult, said by their parents to be unresponsive to affection, or have been found stupid at ordinary schools. John Deverell, who is new this term like yourselves, has a father who lives in the Argentine. He wanted John to be educated in Europe and for the past two years he has been at a school in Switzerland. His father was worried by reports that he made no progress and was unco-operative, and decided to send him here.
“I mention these boys and girls to show partly that each is an individual case to be treated in a particular way, but also to show the contrary. There is one general answer to all their problems. The answer is love. It can never be punishment. That is not to say we allow unlimited freedom. If I find the boys and girls smoking I take their cigarettes away. If I find them drinking – that rarely happens – I take away the bottle.” For a moment Mr Pont’s pink face became pinker, then the flush receded. “These children have to live in society, and they must understand that society has certain restrictions which are called laws. I put it this way.
We allow children freedom in deciding what not
to do.
Attendance at lessons is not compulsory. Work is not compulsory, except certain community duties like washing up. We provide a cultural environment and observe the reaction to it. We have our failures, but there are many more successes. Maureen Gardner no longer steals, Arthur Hope-Hurry is learning to be truthful within the proper limits of adolescent fantasy.”
Applegate crossed to the window. “Do they look after the garden?”
“On a voluntary basis, yes. At the moment it is neglected. Is that what you were thinking?”
“The idea had crossed my mind.”
“Three years ago that tennis court was made by boys and girls eager to play tennis,” Mr Pont said warmly. “I wish you could have seen the work they put into it. They levelled the ground, returfed it in part, and saved their money to buy nets, posts, racquets and balls. These boys and girls have left us. Nobody today troubles about the tennis court. In another year or two there may be others who want to play.”
“But –” Applegate stopped, unable to formulate all his objections.
“Did what’s her name, Maureen Gardner, pinch things when she first came here?” Montague asked.
“She did. We found almost all of them. The impulse was a natural infantile one to gain attention from adults. When Maureen found that she was not punished, and that in fact little attention was paid to her petty thieving, she gave it up.”
“Do you mean to say that if a kid pinches my wallet I’m not going to do anything about it?” Montague’s chubby face expressed incredulity.
“I said nothing of the kind. I said that we should understand that the theft was an infantile reaction and treat it accordingly.” Behind Pont’s good humour Applegate sensed that invincible conviction of his own rightness from which martyrs and lunatics are made. “Now a personal word to you both. You are not experienced teachers. That is all to the good. The orthodox teacher is too hidebound for life here. In fact – I will not try to conceal it from you – few stay more than a couple of terms. They lack idealism. I hope you will bring fresh and unprejudiced minds to bear on the problems you meet. They will be
your
problems as well as those of our boys and girls. It is in solving them that you can find happiness, as I have done. Try to reach beyond the self to the not-self.”
For a moment the intensity of his gaze held them. Then he ended, rather lamely: “Mrs Pont will be happy if you will drink coffee with her tonight. Now, shall we meet the boys and girls?”
They met the boys and girls. Fourteen-year-old Maureen Gardner was producing what she called thought-paintings composed of bands of vivid colour moving in waves across a sheet. “Liberate the instinct for creation,” Pont said triumphantly. “And you see the result.” Well, better thought-paintings than theft, Applegate said to himself.
Five boys were kicking a football about a meadow in a desultory way. Pont frowned a little at this. “Where did that ball come from?”
“I brought it back with me,” said a boy with a squint. “Why shouldn’t I? We’re free to do as we like, aren’t we?”
“Perfectly free, Arthur. If you would sooner kick a football about than do something constructive, that’s up to you.”
“We can’t play a decent game. We’ve got no goal-posts.”
“Build them, my dear boy. There is timber at the back of the woodshed.”
“That stuff’s no good. Too thin,” said a long gangling boy.
“Adaptation, Derek, adaptation. I can’t believe that human ingenuity would be unable to convert those pieces of timber into goalposts.” They went on. “Arthur is still inclined to be a trouble-maker, I’m afraid. He leads the others on to play football, an infantile reaction again. Ah, here comes our new student, John, with Hedda.”
They met on the neglected tennis court. “This is John Deverell, the newest inhabitant,” Hedda said to Applegate and Montague. “John, here are two new teachers. You’ll be expected to call them Charles and Frank.”
John Deverell was brown-faced, slight and rather elegant, perhaps sixteen years old. He showed even white teeth in an unembarrassed smile. “That is a little different from my school in Geneva. We had a teacher there who rapped our knuckles hard – with a ruler – when we forgot to call him ‘sir.’”
“Shocking,” Pont commented briskly. Applegate expected him to add that rapping boys on the knuckles was an infantile reaction, but instead he went into his little talk about the cultural environment. Deverell listened with every appearance of attention. Hedda looked from one to the other of them with a frankly cynical expression.
“I’m sure I’m going to enjoy myself here,” Deverell said composedly, and showed his teeth again.
“There’s more to see.” Hedda and Deverell walked away round the side of the house together.
Montague watched them with interest. “What do you do about the hydra-headed monster? Good old triple sec?”
“Triple sec?” Pont was baffled.
“Sex. What makes the world go round, you know. After all, Miss Pont – Hedda – is a pretty attractive matron. If I know anything about anything young Deverell was thinking she was just the type he’d like to tuck him up at night. Some of the other boys have reached the age of consent too, I should guess.”
“It
is
a problem.” Pont stood out in the neglected garden, a nipping wind ruffling the white curls round the edges of his pink head. “Speaking personally, I have no objection to any kind of youthful sex play. But we must be practical. I may not approve of the laws of this country, but I have to abide by them. There are limits to what the law will allow.”
“You mean it’s all right to advocate freedom as long as you don’t practise it?” Applegate suggested.
“Something like that.” Pont did not seem to detect any irony in the remark.
“Supposing there was some jiggery-pokery between a boy and a girl, would you get rid of them?” Montague asked.
“It happens very rarely,” Pont said evasively. “At half-past eight, then, we shall look forward to seeing you for coffee.”