Trouble at the Little Village School

by Gervase Phinn

  Also by Gervase Phinn

  THE LITTLE VILLAGE SCHOOL SERIES

  The Little Village School

  THE DALES SERIES

  The Other Side of the Dale

  Over Hill and Dale

  Head Over Heels in the Dales

  Up and Down in the Dales

  The Heart of the Dales

  A Wayne in a Manger

  Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Stars

  A Load of Old Tripe

  Out of the Woods But Not Over the Hill

  POETRY

  It Takes One to Know One

  The Day Our Teacher Went Batty

  Family Phantoms

  Don’t Tell the Teacher

  About the author

  Gervase Phinn is a teacher, freelance lecturer, author, poet,

  school inspector, educational consultant, and visiting

  professor of education. For fourteen years he taught in a

  range of schools, then acted as General Adviser for

  Language Development in Rotherham before moving on to

  North Yorkshire, where he spent ten years as a school

  inspector – time that has provided much source material for

  his books. He is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Arts and an

  Honorary Fellow of St John's College, York. He lives with his

  family near Doncaster.

  Visit Gervase's website, www.gervase-phinn.com.

  Trouble at the Little Village School

  Gervase Phinn

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Gervase Phinn 2012

  The right of Gervase Phinn to be identified as the Author of the

  Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any

  means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be

  otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that

  in which it is published and without a similar condition being

  imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance

  to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Ebook ISBN 978 1 848 94941 6

  Hardback ISBN 978 1 444 70559 1

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  For my sister Christine Charlesworth, with

  love and tremendous gratitude

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  ‘So, what do you reckon then?’ asked the caretaker as he leaned idly against the doorframe, jangling the bunch of heavy keys in his overall pocket. He was a gangly, gaunt individual with sandy thinning hair, a hard beak of a nose and the staring eyes of a deep-sea fish.

  It was the start of the spring term at Barton-in-the-Dale Primary School and he and Mrs Scrimshaw, the school secretary, were in the small office.

  ‘What do I reckon to what?’ she asked, peering over the top of her unfashionable horn-rimmed spectacles and brushing a stray strand of mouse-coloured hair from her forehead.

  The caretaker moved into the room, perched himself on the corner of her desk and leaned closer. The school secretary caught a whiff of floor polish and disinfectant and wrinkled her nose.

  ‘Come on Mrs Scrimshaw,’ he chuckled. ‘You’ve got eyes in your head. You must have noticed.’

  The secretary removed her glasses and placed them carefully on the desk. She looked up at the caretaker. ‘Noticed what?’ she said, feigning ignorance.

  ‘About our head teacher and the local GP.’

  ‘I really don’t know to what you are referring, Mr Gribbon,’ she said stiffly. She replaced her glasses and looked down at the letters before her.

  ‘Oh, come along, Mrs Scrimshaw, don’t play the innocent with me,’ said the caretaker jovially. She winced. ‘It can’t have escaped your notice. It’s as plain as a pikestaff. You know as well as I do that there’s something going on between them.’

  ‘Mr Gribbon,’ replied the school secretary sharply, ‘what Mrs Devine and Dr Stirling do in their own time is of no concern of mine – nor yours for that matter.’ She shuffled in her chair and picked up a paperknife. ‘As you well know, I’m not a one for gossip and rumour-mongering,’ she added.

  ‘Well, I reckon there’s something going on,’ he persisted, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ‘I mean, when he’s in school she can’t take her eyes off of him and it’s clear to me that he’s got the hots for her. Why, when he was in last term doing that session on sex education—’

  ‘Mr Gribbon,’ interrupted the school secretary, ‘it is none of anyone’s business what Mrs Devine and Dr Stirling might be getting up to.’

  ‘So, you do think they are getting up to something then?’ He smiled conspiratorially.

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ she objected.

  ‘I mean,’ said the caretaker, sucking in his breath and blowing out noisily, ‘he couldn’t stand the sight of her when she started here and now they’re as thick as thieves.’

  ‘Couldn’t stand the sight of her?’ repeated Mrs Scrimshaw, placing the paperknife back down on the desk. ‘I think that’s something of an exaggeration. I admit that Dr Stirling, like a lot of other people, I might add, didn’t take to Mrs Devine when she took over as head teacher here, and some didn’t entirely see eye to eye with her, but once people in the village got to know her and saw how she started improving everything in the school, they soon changed their minds. And I for one think she’s been like a breath of fresh air since her arrival.’

  The school secretary’s observations were accurate. When Elisabeth Devine had been called for interview for the post of head teacher at the small village school, dressed in startling bright red shoes with silver heels and black lacy stockings, she had caused quite a stir. She was so very different from the present incumbent of the post, the formidable Miss Hilda Sowerbutts, she of the pleated tweeds, heavy brogues, bulletproof stockings, sour face and sharp tongue.

  With Elisabeth’s appointment the school had undergone a dramatic change. A moribund place under the management of Miss Sowerbutts, it had begun to flourish under Elisabeth’s firm and decisive leadership. The once dark and neglected premises had been transformed into a bright, cheerful and welcoming environment.

  Of course, it had not all been plain sailing. Soon after her appointment a bombshell had been dropped on the school. Elisabeth had learned that those on the Education Committee had it in mind to close Barton-in-the-Dale. There had been a concerted and ultimately successful campaign and the future of the school now seemed assured.

  ‘How long is it since the do
ctor’s wife fell off of her horse and broke her neck?’ asked the caretaker now.

  Mrs Scrimshaw pursed her lips and looked at him reproachfully. ‘You do have such a way of putting things,’ she sighed. ‘Talk about being blunt.’

  ‘Well, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?’ continued the caretaker, sliding off the desk and jangling his keys noisily.

  ‘She had that dreadful accident two years ago,’ Mrs Scrimshaw informed him.

  Mr Gribbon sniffed noisily. ‘So the good doctor will be on the lookout for another wife,’ he observed, ‘and Mrs Devine being divorced and all, it seems to me she’ll be in the running. They make a good couple, don’t you think?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ said the school secretary, looking down at the letters on her desk and picking up the paperknife again. The caretaker could sense her irritation. ‘And as for being divorced, that is sheer speculation.’ She sliced open an envelope.

  ‘Well, there’s no man on the scene,’ observed the caretaker.

  ‘She could be a widow,’ said the secretary, ‘or separated. Anyway, as I’ve said, Mrs Devine’s private life is no concern of mine – or yours for that matter.’

  ‘Yes, well, if you ask me—’ began the caretaker.

  ‘I’m not asking you, Mr Gribbon,’ interrupted Mrs Scrimshaw. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I have a great deal to do this morning and I guess you have jobs to do.’ She tapped the pile of letters on her desk. ‘Being the start of the new term there’s this little lot to deal with, for a start.’

  The caretaker made no effort to move. He stretched and scratched his scalp. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better finish off buffing my floors before the hordes arrive,’ he grumbled.

  ‘Good idea,’ muttered the school secretary, not looking up.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Gribbon, I’m sorry to interrupt your conversation but may I have a quick word with Mrs Scrimshaw?’

  The caretaker turned as a small boy, about eight or nine years old, came into the office. He was a rosy-faced child with fox-coloured hair and was dressed in curiously old-fashioned clothes – white shirt and tie, long grey shorts, grey knee-length stockings, knitted cardigan, and substantial black shoes. His way of speaking was also curiously old-fashioned. He was like a throwback to the 1950s. The caretaker rolled his eyes and shook his head tetchily.

  ‘You’re here bright and early, Oscar,’ remarked the school secretary, looking up and peering over her glasses.

  ‘Oh, I like to get here early on the first day of term, Mrs Scrimshaw,’ the boy replied cheerfully. ‘Actually I’m quite keen to be back. I’ve been rather bored over the holidays.’

  ‘Well, what is it you want?’ she asked.

  ‘I was wondering, Mrs Scrimshaw, if you have managed to go through the post this morning?’

  ‘No, not yet. Why?’

  ‘Well, there may be a letter there for me,’ the child informed her, approaching the desk.

  ‘And who’s sending you letters to the school?’ barked the caretaker.

  ‘Well, you see, Mr Gribbon,’ the boy explained, ‘this term we’re doing a project on our favourite writers, and over the Christmas break our teacher asked all the children in the class to pick a book to read. We will have to do a book review and say whether we like it or not and then write to the poets and authors. Mrs Robertshaw’s going to put up a display in the corridor about all the writers whom we have read, with pictures of them, book jackets and posters, and any letters we receive. I think it’s a really super idea.’

  ‘And?’ asked the caretaker.

  ‘Pardon?’ replied the boy.

  ‘Why are you receiving letters here at the school?’

  ‘Well, it occurred to me,’ said the child, ‘that it would be really good to send a letter to my favourite writer straight away so I dropped him a line over Christmas. I have a new laptop computer and thought I’d get a bit of practice in with the word-processing, so I wrote to the poet Peter Dixon. He’s really very good at rhymes and rhythms and his poems are very amusing. I sometimes laugh out loud.’

  ‘Really?’ said the caretaker disbelievingly.

  ‘I thought I’d put the school address on my letter since it is a school project,’ the child told him.

  Mrs Scrimshaw, who had been looking through the pile of letters on her desk while the boy was speaking, shook her head. ‘No, there’s nothing, Oscar,’ she said.

  ‘Could I have a quick look,’ asked the boy, ‘just to make sure?’

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ said the secretary. ‘There is no letter here for you.’

  ‘So take yourself off,’ the caretaker told him, ‘and don’t go walking on the hall floor. I’ve not buffed it up yet.’

  ‘Actually I’m glad I’ve seen you, Mr Gribbon,’ said the boy, ignoring the instruction. ‘I noticed that the boys’ toilets were very smelly last term. They could have done with a good clean. I’m afraid they were not very hygienic.’

  ‘You don’t say?’ The caretaker grimaced.

  ‘And the floor was quite wet. I nearly slipped and could have hurt myself,’ continued the boy.

  ‘Well, you should look where you’re going then, shouldn’t you?’ said the caretaker, a vein in his temple standing out and beating angrily.

  ‘I’ve just called in now,’ continued the boy, undeterred by the caretaker’s angry tone of voice, ‘and I have to say they are still rather smelly.’

  ‘If you boys aimed where you’re supposed to aim,’ snapped Mr Gribbon, ‘then there wouldn’t be wet floors and the toilets wouldn’t be smelly.’

  ‘But there’s nobody been in the toilets this morning except me,’ replied Oscar.

  ‘Look here—’ began the caretaker, stabbing the air with a finger in the boy’s direction.

  ‘Perhaps,’ continued Oscar, ‘you could put a ping-pong ball down each of the toilet bowls for the boys to aim at. It might solve the problem. I’ve done an experiment and when the toilet is flushed the ping-pong ball floats and—’

  ‘Look—’ began the caretaker again, spots of angry red appearing on his cheekbones.

  ‘And you might use an air freshener.’

  The caretaker opened his mouth to reply but the boy smiled widely and said, ‘Well, I think I’ll get on with my book in the library. I’ll call back again at break, Mrs Scrimshaw, and see if my letter has arrived in this morning’s post.’

  ‘Goodbye Oscar,’ said the school secretary, giving a fleeting smile as she caught sight of the caretaker’s angry red face.

  As Mrs Scrimshaw busied herself opening the letters in the school office, the caretaker departed grumbling to buff up his floor and young Oscar headed for the small school library to read his book, Miss Brakespeare, deputy head teacher at Barton-in-the-Dale village school, stood at the front of her classroom, hands clasped before her, and examined the room with pride. She looked approvingly at the vivid displays, the bright new tables and chairs, the neatly stacked books, the colourful drapes at the windows and the bookcase full of glossy-backed paperbacks. So wide was her smile that had she been wearing lipstick that morning she could very well have left red traces on the lobes of her ears.

  The deputy head teacher had spent several days over the holidays in readiness for the new term, sorting out her storeroom, sharpening pencils, tidying the books, mounting pictures and posters on the walls and preparing her lessons. She had never felt quite as content at the start of a new school term as she did on that crisp January morning, with bright sunshine lighting up her room, and she looked forward to welcoming back the children in her class.

  Miss Brakespeare took a deep breath. Yes, she thought, as she surveyed her classroom now, she was very happy with how things had turned out.

  A head appeared around her classroom door. ‘Your classroom looks nice, Miriam.’ The speaker was a broad woman with a wide, friendly face and steely-grey hair gathered up untidily on her head.

  ‘Thank you, Elsie,’ Miss Brakespeare replied, clearly pleased with the compliment
. ‘One tries one’s best.’

  ‘You haven’t forgotten the staff meeting at eight-fifteen, have you?’

  ‘No, no, I’m just coming.’

  Mrs Devine and the teachers met in the staffroom, formerly the head teacher’s room in the time of Miss Sowerbutts. Elsie Robertshaw, teacher of the lower juniors, and Rebecca Wilson, teacher of the infants, sat with Marcia Atticus, the vicar’s wife, who was training to be a teacher at the school. Elisabeth smiled as she saw Miss Brakespeare bustle through the door in a stylish grey suit, pink silk blouse, black stockings and patent leather shoes. What a change had taken place in her deputy, she thought, and not just in her appearance. When Elisabeth had first met her at the interviews for the headship, she had not formed a very positive picture of her future colleague. The mousy little woman with the round face and the staring eyes, dressed in an ill-fitting cotton suit, dark stockings and sandals, had appeared dowdy and dull. Her hair had been scraped back in a style that was a good twenty years out of date, and there had not been a trace of any make-up. She had smiled a great deal, sighed a great deal and nodded a great deal but had said very little. But over the term she had blossomed, and the school inspector who had given her such a poor report noted, on his return visit, that she had made a vast improvement.

  ‘Good morning, everyone,’ said Elisabeth cheerily, ‘and a very happy new year.’ There were smiles and good-humoured murmurs in response. ‘I won’t keep you long, because I am sure there are things you need to get on with and the children will be arriving soon. I just wanted to welcome you back and say I am really looking forward to working with you all again this term. We travelled through some pretty stormy waters last year, didn’t we, with the proposed closure of the school and all the uncertainty?’

  ‘We did indeed,’ agreed Miss Brakespeare, nodding like one of those toy dogs seen in the backs of cars.