Adders on the Heath

'Oh, he was sent away, was he?' asked Dame Beatrice.

'It wasn't my fault,' said the boy. 'I didn't want him to leave.'

'Now, Clive,' said his mother, 'you must either go out of the room or else you must stop listening.'

'Sex means nothing to me,' said Clive, a small, pale boy with large eyes. 'When I'm eighteen I shall go into a monastery. I may get a bit of peace there.'

'They wouldn't have you, dear. You have to be a good boy for that,' retorted his mother.

'You think you have a vocation?' asked Dame Beatrice, fixing the child with her basilisk gaze.

'I'm pretty sure I have.'

'How old are you?'

'Never you mind. God made me what I am.'

'We must circumvent Him, then.'

'You're a nut case.'

'And you,' his mother broke in, 'are a rude, impertinent boy and a disgrace to your upbringing.'

'Impudent, not impertinent. Why don't you use the dictionary?' demanded the child. 'Well, what have you come for?' he asked Dame Beatrice. 'You're not one of these psychology sharks, are you?'

Dame Beatrice leered at him.

'Your perspicacity does you credit,' she replied. 'How did you guess, I wonder?'

'I didn't. I was being bloody rude.'

'Clive! Really!' protested his mother.

'Why was Mr Richardson dismissed?' Dame Beatrice enquired. She was beginning to wonder why Richardson had not resigned this particular post instead of waiting to be asked to leave.

'It was the letters,' said Clive.

'Clive, dear, don't be silly! You know nothing about it,' said his mother.

'I do, too. I read the letters. They were all lies. Mr Richardson didn't have a girl friend in this house.'

'Who said anything about girls?'

'Oh, mother, be your age!'

'I believe that particular expression to be outdated,' said Dame Beatrice.

'Well, how the hell should I know? I'm not allowed to go anywhere, or see anybody or anything!' He flung himself on the floor and began to drum his heels. 'Why can't I go back to school?'

'Oh, dear!' said his mother. 'Now he's gone into one of his moods! He really is terribly difficult!'

'I wouldn't be difficult if you weren't a-old-!' screamed Clive. Dame Beatrice picked him up, and stood him on his feet and gave him a slight and friendly shake.

'That's enough,' she said gently. 'Go out of the room and come back when you can behave like a boy and not like an hysterical puppy.'

'Well, really!' said his mother. Clive glowered darkly at Dame Beatrice and muttered, 'I'll get you,' but he went out of the room.

'Now,' said Dame Beatrice, 'what can you tell me about Mr Richardson?'

'Oh, but I must go and see to Clive. We never know what to do with him when he flies into one of his tempers. He might throw himself out of his bedroom window. He's often threatened it.'

'Always a splendid sign. The children who do it seldom threaten it beforehand.'

'But you shook him!'

'Yes, yes. And now about Mr Richardson. What were those letters your son mentioned?'

'Nothing. Some anonymous filth.'

'How did your son come to read them?'

'Oh, they were addressed to my husband, and Clive stole the keys of his desk.'

'But they referred to Mr Richardson?'

'In the most sensational terms, so much so that we felt we could not keep him on.'

'Perhaps I may be allowed to read them.'

'I don't suppose my husband has kept them, but I'll go and see, if you wish.' She went out of the room, but soon returned with the news, not unexpected by Dame Beatrice, that she could not find the letters. Dame Beatrice gave a non-committal nod and demanded briskly,