SPECTATOR'S NOTEBOOK
J. W. M. THOMPSON
Mr Wilson was really making a party point when he said last Saturday that the 1970s will not be dominated by economic prob- lems as the 1960s were, that instead social problems will be paramount. All the same, it is an interesting prophecy and in its way a hopeful one. So far, the outstanding characteristic of the 1970s has been their depressing similarity to the 1960s in this regard. In spite of all the far-seeing forecasts at the beginning of the year, the domestic scene has been dominated by the familiar spectres of the past decade—the balance of payments, rising prices, wage demands, in- dustrial discontent. Even Mr Selwyn Lloyd's unhappy experiences with nurses' pay are being recalled. Mr Wilson, with his familiar buoyancy, now tells us that we are about to leave the national obsessions behind to con- centrate instead upon improving the pattern of life in this country. It sounds implausible enough but it may yet prove to be true. So much the better for everyone, if it does.
There is a vast audacity, though, in any politician advising the country at this moment to stop fretting about economic matters. Who but the politicians have taught people to elevate the balance of payments to the status of a tribal god? The mysterious process of 'getting the economy right' has been proclaimed in a million speeches to be all-important. Solve the problem (the mes- sage has been) and the land would flow with milk and honey. So when the magic surplus finally appeared, it would have been odd in- deed if people had then resigned themselves to being worse off as a result of the gallop- ing price rises that came along with it. If a man is urged to enter the football pools week after week, year after year, it's a bit hard to announce that he has won a prize at last— and then to offer him instead a homily to the effect that money isn't important really, and that he had better turn his mind to higher things.
Floreat Etona, but—
The other day I found myself at a party where practically every person present was the parent of one or more boys at a public school. It occurred to me that they probably represented the last generation of the middle class to stick so firmly (and at such sacrifice) to this form of education for their children, that in all probability many of these children will themselves find the price too high when it comes to educating their own sons. The latest round of stiff increases in school fees has already spread gloom and of course there will be further increases to come. The recent tax penalties on families which choose to pay for education are bearing down heavily. Further, the taxation of schools themselves is likely to be made more severe if there are many more Labour Budgets.
I wouldn't care to gamble today on the long-term survival, in anything like their present form, of many of the less famous public schools. Places like Eton or Win- chester look secure enough. The paradox is that this acute egalitarian pressure upon parents is likely to make independent schools far more 'socially divisive' than they now are; as usual, state manipulation of people's lives will produce unlooked-for results. The political campaign to kill off independent schools will end with the crea-
tion of a smaller and more exclusive group catering largely for the rich capitalist. Not, I think, the Labour party's purpose.
Value judgment
Oddly enough the proposed independent university—if, as I rather think it will, it comes into being—may well accelerate this change in middle class educational habits. It wouldn't be surprising to find parents opting for the local comprehensive and saving what they might have spent on school fees to invest, if necessary, in higher education on the same fee-paying basis that their own parents accepted for secondary schooling. Perhaps this will be the next generation's ideological battle in the field of education.
The bitterness aroused by the thought of people paying school fees is a remarkable phenomenon. It fairly sizzles on the more vituperative pages of the 'Red Paper' on education published this week by way of reply to the 'Black Papers'. 'No true de- mocracy,' one contributor declares, 'can afford to allow people to buy privilege in the manner permitted by the English public school system.' (My italics.) I saw in the Observer an inquiry into the family finances of, among others, a docker earning £49 15s a week. Of this sum £6 went on smoking and £6 4s on clothes (mainly for a fifteen- year-old daughter). Many a middle class daughter would consider this a glaring example of privilege of which she is the victim. Many a middle class father would like to have £6 to spare for cigarettes after paying school fees. I'm hanged if I see why these different values should produce such exclusively one-way moral condemnation.
Mystery story
I have found much bewilderment at the treatment, by press and police, of the dis- appearance of poor Mrs Alick McKay. People disappear from their homes pretty well every day, but the news value of such events is usually slight or even non-existent and the police action is seldom more than a routine check. Since all this is well known to the public, mystification at the enormous hue and cry over Mrs McKay was inevitable without better explanation than was offered. One popular supposition was that the huge press coverage was to be attributed rather cynically to the fact that the wife of a man prominent in Fleet Street was involved. This is most probably unsound. The newspapers, reasonably enough, took their cue from the police; when the police deployed a small army of men on the search the matter be- came, by definition, of public interest.
It is the police conduct of the case that has raised questions. The mystery may have been solved by now (one hopes satisfactorily) but the questions will remain pertinent. Why was such partial and at times misleading information published about the case? Why were the facts which distinguished it from other disappearances not made plain to a wondering public? Why, when Mr McKay elected to hold a press conference, did the police censor such apparently reasonable and relevant questions as whether or not Mrs McKay left a note behind her? Parliament could well ask the Home Secretary to lift the veil a little next week.
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