Mary Hocking writes with very little of that verve that makes [Alan] Sillitoe good company on a London-to-Nihilon Express, but The Climbing Frame wins hands down at linking socialism with nihilism…. The Climbing Frame is a meticulous book about the tedious tragedies of running a school system. An aggressively unwed mother draws drama to herself over a playground accident that doesn't merit a sticking plaster. A combination of circumstance, buck-passing, political in-fighting, personality clash and a dearth of news escalate the incident toward national press and television coverage. It is the sort of local crisis that brings out the worst in both individuals and the system. The novel contains a disastrous magazine-style romance, and the situation itself is of a kind that commends itself to television series. What lifts it above this level is Mary Hocking's sharp, forgiving focus on the minds and motives of the little politicians. No slaughter here, but this nonsense is truly menacing. (p. 370)

Before the psychiatrists made a fetish of it, novelists were quietly observing the tiny, crushing hypocrisies of family life and their effects. It would be a pity to say much about the actual plot of Family Circle, because it is unfolded through the subtlest of hints and revelations. It is the very best kind of middlebrow novel—and this is said with all respect. There are never enough of such books: readable, intelligent, observant, with no unmanageable pretensions, and styled as unobtrusively as the best gentleman's suiting. They pass the time more profitably and agreeably, nearly always, than the cinema or television; and sometimes they leave a scene, a character, an idea in the mind just as real literature does, to be thought about and used. (p. 1477)

The Times Literary Supplement (© Times Newspapers Ltd. (London) 1972; reproduced from The Times Literary Supplement by permission), December 8, 1972.

[Daniel Come to Judgement] has clearly been sent out into the world as ladies' fiction, superior grade. This is as grossly deceptive an exterior as that of [Mary Hocking's] heroine, Dorothy, a sensible thirtyish lady, superior grade, "the sort of person who is always asked the way to the nearest public lavatory"—and who is also anarchic, compassionate, adulterous and sharp, and aware that she has a soul that is immortal, and quite amoral. The author's theme, as in her last book, is the contrast between those who have, and know they have, such a soul, and those who by various means succeed in disposing of it….

If English novelists could be bought up for capital appreciation like equities or Victorian watercolours it would be a good idea to acquire some Hockings and their like and sell some of the showier names. Like watercolours, this is a genre we do well and its stock is sure to rise. When that happens, however, the reader will no longer have the almost risqué surprise of finding subtlety and strength in such a demure package.