Trouble at the Little Village School

by Gervase Phinn

  Words spell trubble

  They decieve you, Supprise you,

  Worry you,

  They make you cry.

  Miss Brakespeare was tidying up her classroom when Elisabeth put her head around the door.

  ‘First couple of weeks nearly over,’ she said brightly, catching sight of the head teacher.

  ‘And things seem to be going well,’ said Elisabeth.

  ‘Very well, actually. I cannot tell you what a difference it has made having a smaller class,’ replied her colleague, ‘more space and all these new tables.’

  ‘I haven’t had much of a chance to see you since the term started,’ said Elisabeth. ‘It’s been so busy and gone so quickly. How was your Christmas?’

  Miss Brakespeare shook her head and gave a small smile. ‘Not what you would call a barrel of laughs,’ she replied.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Elisabeth.

  ‘I am afraid Mother seemed to delight in playing the martyr more than ever. I know she’s not been well but she could put a bit of a brave face on it, especially when it’s Christmas, a time of supposed peace and goodwill. I’m afraid she’s a dedicated hypochondriac. When Father was ill he rarely complained. Right up to his death he remained cheerful and made the best of the time he had left. My mother, I’m afraid, is one of the world’s grumpy old women. Nothing anyone does for her seems to be right. Her presents didn’t suit, there was nothing on the television, the house was too cold and nobody bothered to come and see her. The turkey wasn’t cooked enough, the sprouts were too hard, the stuffing dry and the potatoes overcooked. I tried to persuade her to go with me to the carol concert at the chapel but she wouldn’t. She went to bed early on Christmas Eve feeling sorry for herself and grumbling that this would be the last Christmas she would be having. “I won’t be here next year, Miriam. I’m on my way out,” she told me.’

  ‘You went to the carol service then?’ asked Elisabeth.

  ‘I did,’ replied Miss Brakespeare. ‘Mr Tomlinson asked me to turn the pages while he was playing the organ. I do it most Sundays for him.’ She reddened a little. ‘It gets me out of the house.’

  ‘He’s such a nice man, isn’t he?’ said Elisabeth.

  ‘He is, yes,’ replied the deputy head teacher coyly.

  Elisabeth was aware that her deputy head teacher had been seeing quite a bit of the chapel organist of late and thought that this might very well have contributed to Miss Brakespeare’s constant, cheerful good humour and to the fact that she was making a real effort with her appearance. She smiled but resisted making a comment. ‘Did Chardonnay sing?’ she asked.

  ‘She did, and beautifully too,’ replied Miss Brakespeare. ‘The minister looked quite overcome. George – Mr Tomlinson that is – said it was like listening to an angel. He said it was amazing that she has such a clear and powerful voice and she’s never had any voice coaching.’

  Elisabeth had discovered quite a deal of hidden talent when she arrived at Barton-in-the-Dale. In an effort to widen the children’s experience and offer them greater opportunities, she had invited a number of people into the school to work with the children. As well as Mrs Atticus, the lunchtime art teacher, there was the Reverend Atticus, who frequently called in to take the morning assembly. Mr Parkinson, the scout leader, came in to run a football team, in which Malcolm Stubbins had proved to be such a skilful player, and Mr Tomlinson had started a school choir, in which Chardonnay amazed everyone with her singing.

  ‘So to be honest,’ Miss Brakespeare confided, ‘I’m glad to be back at school. Oh, here I am nattering on about myself. Did you have a nice Christmas?’

  ‘Very pleasant,’ replied Elisabeth. ‘I had Christmas morning at Forest View with the staff and children.’ She failed to mention to her colleague that the afternoon and evening had been spent with Dr Stirling and the two boys at her cottage.

  It had been quite a mystery to the governors at her interview why Elisabeth should want to leave her last position as head teacher of a large and very successful primary school in the city to take on the small village school, which had received such a poor report from the school inspectors. Apart from her deputy and the staff she had never divulged the reason for wanting to leave her last post, this being so that she could be nearer to her son. John was a pupil at Forest View, a special school for autistic children and a stone’s throw from Barton-in-the-Dale.

  ‘How is your son?’ asked Miss Brakespeare now.

  ‘He’s very much the same,’ Elisabeth told her. ‘Improvement tends to be slow. John’s very settled and likes his teacher, and the routine suits him well, which is the main thing. It’s a very good school and I’m so pleased he managed to get a place there. I go to see him every Saturday and, touch wood, I’ve not missed a visit yet.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you decided to come. You’ve been a real tonic and made such a difference.’

  ‘That’s kind of you to say, Miriam,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Anyway, come along, you shouldn’t be here at this time. You should be getting off home.’

  ‘I think I’ll stay another half-hour,’ the deputy head teacher told her. ‘It’s Mother’s weekly visit from Dr Stirling today – he calls in on her every other Thursday – so I need to brace myself to prepare for the blow-by-blow account of her many ailments.’

  Elisabeth left the school to find Miss Sowerbutts at the gate. The former head teacher must have been waiting quite some time, for it was getting on for five o’clock.

  ‘May I have a word with you, Mrs Devine?’ said Miss Sowerbutts. Her face was pinched with cold and irritation.

  ‘Yes, of course, Miss Sowerbutts,’ replied Elisabeth, meeting her eyes. ‘Would you care to come into the school?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Miss Sowerbutts said in the petulant tone of the aggrieved. ‘What I have to say can be said here. I wanted to tell you that I am most displeased.’

  ‘About what?’ Elisabeth asked calmly.

  ‘About your blatant unprofessionalism.’ The woman’s face was rigid.

  ‘I’m afraid I really don’t know to what you are referring,’ Elisabeth told her.

  ‘It has come to my ears that in speaking to a parent you have pooh-poohed the advice which I gave her.’

  What an odd word to use, thought Elisabeth. ‘Pooh-poohed?’ she repeated.

  ‘I believe that you have told Mrs Holgate, who works in Farringdon’s hardware shop, that you disparaged the advice I gave to her about her son? She informed me, when I called in to buy various items, and with some perverse pleasure and in front of another customer, that her son is on some fanciful course or other and that what I had told her about him when I was head teacher was wrong.’

  ‘If you mean that I disagreed with your assessment of Darren’s problem, then I readily admit that I did,’ Elisabeth told her.

  ‘The boy has no problem!’ snapped Miss Sowerbutts. ‘He just can’t spell. There are people in the world, you know, who cannot spell, Mrs Devine. We don’t need to put some fancy label on it. Disobedient children are not naughty any more, they now have “attention deficit disorder” or some such twaddle, and children who are unable to spell now have dyslexia. All nonsense in my view.’

  ‘I told Mrs Holgate that I felt her son does have a form of dyslexia, and this was borne out by Mrs Goldstein, the educational psychologist.’

  ‘Huh,’ grunted the former head teacher.

  ‘Darren requires some help and support with his writing,’ continued Elisabeth, ‘which he is now getting.’ She resisted the temptation to tell the former head teacher that the boy should have received such help and support a long time ago, and remained silent.

  Miss Sowerbutts’s eyes narrowed and she gave a small disparaging smile. ‘I might have guessed there would be a psychologist lurking in the background making work for herself. The term “dyslexia” in my book is nothing more than an excuse parents propound for having a less able child who cannot write.’

  ‘I don’t think Darren is less able,’ retorted Elisabe
th, wearying of this bossy, self-important woman. ‘Actually I think quite the reverse. He is a bright and articulate young man and the content of his writing is very good.’

  ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘But then you have never taught him, Miss Sowerbutts, have you,’ Elisabeth told her with mounting anger, ‘so how would you know?’

  ‘Huh!’ the former head teacher huffed. ‘I said to Miss Brakespeare when the governors had appointed you that you would bring in all these modern approaches and trendy initiatives. She’ll bring in a whole raft of progressive teaching methods that will be full of educational jargon and be keen on fashionable fads and fancy schemes, I said. I’ve been proved right. Let me tell you this, Mrs Devine, I’ve been in the business of educating children for a great many more years than you and—’

  ‘But no longer, Miss Sowerbutts,’ interrupted Elisabeth, ‘and whatever you think is no concern of mine. You are not the head teacher of Barton-in-the-Dale. I am, and I will introduce anything I feel is appropriate and for the benefit of the children.’

  The former head teacher clutched her canvas bag tightly. ‘I never took to you when we first met,’ she spluttered. ‘I found you full of yourself.’

  ‘And the feeling was mutual,’ answered Elisabeth. ‘I never took to you either. To be honest, I found you discourteous and uncooperative when I came to visit.’

  ‘I have been a head teacher in this county for twenty years, Mrs Devine,’ Miss Sowerbutts told her angrily, ‘and spent all my teaching career in the village school, so I pride myself on having a deal of influence in educational circles. I shall be contacting your Chairman of Governors, the Director of Education and the Chairman of the Education Committee to lodge a formal complaint about your unprofessional behaviour. This will not be the end of the matter, I can assure you of that.’

  ‘What you do is up to you, Miss Sowerbutts,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Now, if you will excuse me.’

  As Elisabeth made a move to go, Mr Gribbon appeared at the door of the school. ‘Hello there, Miss Sowerbutts!’ he shouted down the path. ‘Have you come to look around and see what changes we’ve made to the school? I think you’ll be very impressed.’ The stare she gave him would have stunned a charging rhinoceros at fifty yards.

  The governors convened in the staffroom of the school the following Friday evening: the Chairman, Major C. J. Neville-Gravitas, R. E. (Retd); the Reverend Atticus, Rector of Barton and soon to be elevated to be Archdeacon of Clayton; Ms Tricklebank, a senior education officer from County Hall; Dr Stirling, the local GP; Mrs Pocock, the parent governor, and Councillor Cooper, the newly appointed Local Education Authority representative.

  Mrs Pocock wore her sour expression like a comfortable old coat and sat in silence, arms folded tightly over her chest. Dr Stirling, who sat next to her, was in earnest conversation with the Reverend Atticus. The senior education officer sat next to the major, discussing the evening’s agenda. Elisabeth placed a tea tray on the table and arranged some chocolate biscuits on a plate. The major looked up and chuckled at the sight of the confection.

  ‘I trust those are not from a box of what Mrs Sloughthwaite calls her “Venetian selection”, Mrs Devine,’ he said jovially. ‘You know, I think everyone in the village must have a box tucked away somewhere. I would check on the sell-by date if I were you.’

  ‘There’s nothing the matter with the chocolate biscuits!’ snapped Mrs Pocock. ‘They’re very nice actually, and if you’ve any complaints then I suggest you take it up with Mrs Sloughthwaite.’

  The major closed his eyes briefly as if pained. When he opened them again a twitch had appeared in the right eye. This was going to be a difficult meeting, he predicted. ‘Well, shall we make a start?’ he said, raising a small smile. ‘Firstly I would like to introduce Ms Tricklebank, a senior education officer representing the Director of Education, who will act as clerk this evening and give us the benefit of her advice.’ He turned to the woman of indeterminate age with thinning grey hair tied back tightly on her scalp, and who wore a rather intense expression on her face. She sat on the chairman’s right, clutching a sheaf of papers. ‘And another new face,’ continued Major Gravitas, ‘is Councillor Wayne Cooper, who replaces Councillor Smout as the Local Education Authority representative.’ He smiled at a nervous, thin individual who sported a shock of frizzy ginger hair. The senior education officer was dressed in a crisp white blouse and shapeless navy blue jacket, the young councillor in a pinstriped suit. They were quite a contrast; she looked to be near retirement, he as if he had just finished school.

  Mrs Pocock looked in the direction of the two newcomers with cold mechanical interest before speaking. ‘Well, I hope you are both better than the last education officer and councillor what we had on the governing body,’ she said, glaring at them. ‘They were both a waste of space.’

  ‘Good evening,’ said the woman seriously. ‘I shall endeavour to be helpful.’

  The young man looked uneasy, shuffled in his chair and gave a weak smile.

  ‘That Mr Nettles, your predecessor,’ the parent governor told the woman, ‘was about as much use as a chocolate teapot.’

  ‘Mr Nettles is now dealing with school meals,’ she was told.

  ‘Well, God help the children if they let that man loose on food,’ Mrs Pocock remarked with a contemptuous little sniff. ‘He’ll like as not poison them.’ The major opened his mouth to speak, but Mrs Pocock had not finished. ‘What I would like to know is what exactly is your function?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Ms Tricklebank stiffly.

  ‘What exactly do you do?’

  ‘I support schools, advise head teachers and school governors, represent the Director of Education on interviews and working parties and at meetings, write reports for the Education Committee, liaise with the Department for Education, am involved in curriculum developments and a whole lot more.’

  The major sighed. ‘Mrs Pocock, Ms Tricklebank is not on interview. She is here to offer guidance and she has been asked to oversee . . .’ He stopped to think for a moment. ‘. . . Oversee various initiatives. Now if I may proceed? The other piece of information I wish to impart prior to starting the meeting proper,’ he said, ‘is that Mrs Bullock, the foundation governor, has tendered her resignation.’

  ‘Unlike some I could mention,’ muttered Mrs Pocock, drawing her mouth together in a tight little line. The major drew in a long breath through his teeth but decided to ignore the pointed remark.

  ‘I think she found it difficult hearing much of what we were saying,’ said the vicar. ‘Perhaps we might send her a letter of appreciation for all her hard work and dedication?’

  ‘Yes. Of course,’ said the major. ‘Should we do the same for Councillor Smout?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ exclaimed Mrs Pocock. ‘We’ve got nothing to appreciate him for! He was the one who wanted to close the school.’ Then she glanced at the chairman. ‘Like others I could mention.’

  ‘I never felt Councillor Smout was committed to the school,’ added the Reverend Atticus, his head on one side. He pressed his long fingertips together.

  ‘Not committed, vicar!’ she exclaimed. ‘He wanted to close the place, that’s what he wanted to do. Good riddance to him, that’s what I say. Anyway, from what I’ve heard he’s been fiddling his expenses and got suspended.’

  ‘No, no,’ Councillor Cooper replied. ‘Councillor Smout was fully exonerated. It appears it was merely an oversight on his part.’

  ‘Huh,’ Mrs Pocock grunted, ‘if you believe that, you’ll believe pigs will fly.’

  ‘Mr Chairman, could we get on please?’ asked Dr Stirling.

  The major, his voice deliberately steady, turned to Elisabeth. ‘I should just like to say before we address the agenda how very pleased I am, and I am sure my fellow governors will concur, with the management and leadership of the school. I think you have done a magnificent job, Mrs Devine, in the short time you have been with us, and we look forward to another very successful term.’


  ‘Hear, hear!’ said Mrs Pocock and the vicar in unison.

  ‘Perhaps, Mr Chairman,’ said the Reverend Atticus, ‘we might have our appreciation of Mrs Devine minuted.’

  Major Neville-Gravitas nodded. ‘Of course,’ he said.

  ‘Now the first item on the agenda is the replacement on the governing body of Mrs Bullock,’ said the major. ‘Are there any suggestions for someone we might consider co-opting?’

  ‘We want someone who is committed to the school,’ said the vicar.

  ‘And who will play an active role,’ added Dr Stirling.

  ‘And who can hear what’s going off,’ added Mrs Pocock.

  ‘Perhaps Mrs Devine has somebody in mind?’ said the Reverend Atticus.

  ‘Indeed I do,’ Elisabeth replied. She had been deliberately very quiet until this moment. ‘It is someone who was wonderfully supportive and proactive when the school was threatened with closure.’

  ‘Unlike some,’ said Mrs Pocock under her breath.

  ‘This person I am thinking of,’ continued Elisabeth, ‘lives in the village. She is someone who has very close associations with the school, for it was her grandfather who endowed the building, which was originally intended for the children of his estate workers, and she has donated a sum of money for the new school library. I am referring, of course, to Lady Wadsworth.’

  ‘An excellent suggestion,’ agreed the Reverend Atticus. ‘She is ideal as a foundation governor, since her grandfather founded the school. I second that heartily.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Dr Stirling.

  ‘And I’ve no objection,’ said Mrs Pocock. ‘It would be nice to have an aristocratical person on the governing body. Adds a bit of class. I just hope her hearing is all that it should be. I used to have to repeat everything loudly for Mrs Bullock.’

  ‘Councillor Cooper?’ asked the major. ‘Are you happy with this?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ the councillor replied.

  ‘And I take it you have no objection, Ms Tricklebank?’ the chairman asked.