‘May I have your name, sir?’ asked the butler, straightening up. He spoke in a hushed voice and his face was entirely expressionless.
‘Crispin De’Ath,’ replied the visitor. He continued to stare up at the lofty-ceilinged hall with the flaking plasterwork, gloomily lit by tarnished gilt chandeliers.
‘Her ladyship is expecting you, sir,’ said the butler. ‘If you would care to come this way.’
The visitor followed the slow, measured steps of the butler down a long corridor, passing a succession of vast, high-ceilinged rooms with dark portraits on the walls and porcelain arranged on the dusty antique furniture. Their unhurried progress ended at two mock-marble columns. The retainer opened the door and the visitor was ushered through it.
‘If you would care to wait here in the library for a moment, sir,’ said the butler. ‘I shall inform her ladyship that you have arrived.’
Mr De’Ath, senior partner and art historian in the firm of Dawkins, Deakin & De’Ath, Auctioneers and Fine Art Valuers, glanced around the room appraising all he saw. Far too flamboyant and cluttered for a library, he thought, but then he questioned whether the dusty, leather-bound tomes displayed in the bookcases were ever taken out. He stroked the small gilt desk with gold tasselled drawers. A nice piece, he thought, but of no real value. The patterned Persian silk carpet was interesting but not in the best condition, and the two inlaid tables by the window would need a deal of restorative work. The huge Chippendale-style mirror over the fireplace, however, might fetch a reasonable price at auction.
Presently Lady Wadsworth made her grand entrance. She had dressed for the meeting in her brightest tweeds and heaviest brogues and had decorated herself with a variety of expensive-looking jewellery. With her wave of bright russet-coloured hair and her lipstick as thick and red as congealed blood, she looked wonderfully impressive and every bit the lady of the manor.
‘Lady Wadsworth,’ said Mr De’Ath, bowing low.
‘Thank you for coming, Mr De’Ath,’ she replied, extending a hand, which her visitor shook.
‘It is a great pleasure,’ he said.
‘Do take a seat,’ she told him, gesturing to a plum-red armchair.
‘What a remarkable house this is,’ he said, sitting and crossing one leg over the other. She noticed his handmade shoes, gleaming with polish, and the red socks. He rested his folded hands on his lap.
‘I like it,’ she replied, ‘though it is a cold draughty place at the best of times.’
The butler arrived with a silver tray on which had been arranged a fluted china teapot, two delicate china cups and saucers, a milk jug, sugar bowl, tongs and spoons. Mr De’Ath noticed that the cups were chipped around the edges and the jug had a hairline crack. ‘Rockingham,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Rockingham china,’ he told her, tapping a cup.
‘Yes,’ replied Lady Wadsworth. ‘Sadly the last of the tea service, I’m afraid.’
The butler poured the insipid-looking liquid, bowed and departed.
‘So,’ said Mr De’Ath, reaching for a cup, ‘you have a Stubbs?’
‘Indeed,’ replied Lady Wadsworth. ‘I believe it was purchased by Sir William Wadsworth, my great-great-grandfather, around the 1760s. It’s been in the family for many years and, of course, I am very loath to part with it.’
‘I quite understand,’ said Mr De’Ath, in the sympathetic tone of voice he had perfected over the years when arranging the auction of a treasured heirloom. ‘It is distressing for one to part with something which has been in one’s family for so long, but sometimes it does become necessary.’
‘I believe,’ continued Lady Wadsworth, plopping two sugar lumps into her tea, ‘that in his day George Stubbs was considered a mere horse painter and overlooked as a serious artist, but Sir William must have had an eye for quality. He owned horses himself, of course, and had a winner in the St Leger. I suppose he paid just a hundred or so guineas for the picture. It’s a very beautiful portrait called Mares and Foals in a Landscape.’
‘Indeed, Lady Wadsworth, you are quite correct,’ agreed Mr De’Ath, placing his cup down carefully on the table. ‘George Stubbs, like many famous painters, was not considered of any great consequence in his own lifetime, but as they say, time stops all prejudice. Now he is regarded by many as the greatest equine painter of all time, quite unsurpassed.’ He suddenly uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, becoming quite animated. His eyes shone. ‘No one can paint horses so flawlessly,’ he said. ‘The perfectly executed sinews and veins, the intense observation, the realistic detail, the symmetry and arrangements of his subjects. I am so looking forward to seeing your picture.’
‘That is very good to hear, Mr De’Ath,’ said Lady Wadsworth, ‘because I guess it will fetch a good price.’
‘Oh yes, indeed,’ nodded the visitor. ‘A very considerable sum. I have an American client who will be most interested indeed.’
‘I should not like it to go to America, Mr De’Ath,’ said Lady Wadsworth sharply. ‘The picture is quintessentially English and should stay in this country.’
‘I am afraid, Lady Wadsworth,’ he replied, ‘that we are not in a position to preclude any prospective buyer, should you place it for auction.’
‘A pity,’ she replied. ‘Of course I am greatly saddened to have to sell the Stubbs. It has, as I have said, been such a part of this family for generations. I used to stand and stare at it as a small child. It seemed to draw me into the scene. I could almost smell the horses and feel their breath on my cheeks.’
‘I do understand it will be a great loss to you,’ said her visitor, giving her the benefit of his most sympathetic expression. ‘So, shall we look at the picture?’
Chapter 8
‘Today, children, I thought we might write a poem,’ Elisabeth told her class.
Malcolm Stubbins pouted moodily.
‘And please don’t pull that awful face, Malcolm,’ said Elisabeth. ‘As my mother would say, if I had an expression like that when I was young, “One day the wind will change and your face will stay like that”.’
‘I don’t like poetry,’ grumbled the boy. ‘It’s all la-di-da and blood—’ – he paused momentarily in time to correct himself – ‘and flipping daffodils.’
‘Well, clearly your knowledge of poetry is very limited, Malcolm,’ said the teacher good-humouredly, ‘and perhaps by the end of the lesson I will have persuaded you that poetry can be about anything and that sometimes it is the very best way of expressing your feelings.’
The boy shrugged and grimaced.
‘Now one of the reasons we are going to write a poem today,’ continued Elisabeth, ‘is that the School Library Service has organised a poetry competition for schools and will award prizes for the winners.’
‘What sort of prizes, miss?’ asked Malcolm.
‘I suppose they will be book tokens,’ replied the teacher.
The boy scowled. ‘I’ve already got a book at home,’ he said.
‘Well, I don’t think you can have too many books,’ said Elisabeth, ‘and if you read a bit more, Malcolm, your schoolwork would improve.’
‘But I want to be a professional footballer, miss,’ said the boy. ‘You don’t see footballers reading books.’
‘I’m sure some of them do,’ said the teacher.
‘Well, I’ve never—’ began the boy.
‘Malcolm,’ interrupted Elisabeth, ‘I think this discussion has gone on long enough. I would like you to listen. Now, it is intended that an anthology of the best entries will be published by the School Library Service. All schools in this part of the county have been asked to submit some poems. We have some excellent poets in this school and I think we are in with a good chance of winning a prize.’
‘Miss, can I write about our Bianca’s baby?’ asked Chardonnay.
‘I don’t see why not,’ replied the teacher. ‘I can see you still pulling that face, Malcolm. You can write a poem about football if you like.’ His fa
ce brightened a little.
‘Danny could write about his ferret,’ said Chardonnay.
‘Yes, he could,’ said Elisabeth.
‘Or he could write about living in a caravan.’
‘Yes, that might be a possibility.’
‘Or about some of the animals and birds he’s seen in the countryside.’
‘I think we’ve heard enough about what Danny should write about for one morning, Chardonnay,’ said Elisabeth.
‘Yea, you gerron wi’ yer own poem, Chardonnay,’ blustered Danny, embarrassed at being the centre of the girl’s attention
‘Now, now, Danny,’ said Elisabeth smiling. ‘She was only trying to be helpful.’
‘But it’s none of ’er business what I write about, miss,’ replied Danny, his face still red with embarrassment.
‘No, it isn’t,’ agreed Elisabeth.
‘I’m only giving him a few ideas,’ muttered the girl, pushing her bottom lip forward petulantly.
‘Well, I am sure Danny really appreciates your suggestions,’ replied the teacher.
‘No, I don’t,’ mumbled the boy.
‘But as my mother also used to say, Chardonnay,’ continued Elisabeth, ‘“you get on with your own knitting”.’
The girl’s brow furrowed with incomprehension. ‘I can’t knit, miss,’ she said.
‘Never mind,’ said Elisabeth, laughing. ‘You just get on with your own poem.’
Later, as she tidied her classroom at the end of school, Elisabeth suddenly had a thought and, leaving things, headed for the school office.
The school secretary was busy putting stamps on envelopes ready to be taken to the post.
‘Mrs Scrimshaw,’ said Elisabeth, ‘could you find me the address of the local football team please?’
‘Football team?’ repeated the school secretary, peering over her spectacles.
‘That’s right,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I want to write a letter.’
At morning break the following day, Oscar arrived at the staffroom door accompanied by Mr Gribbon, who gripped the back of the boy’s jacket, very nearly lifting the child off the ground. The caretaker blew air out of his mouth noisily like a weary carthorse.
‘I’m sorry to disturb your break, Mrs Devine,’ he said, his voice sounding choked, ‘but I would like you to have a word with this lad.’
‘Oh dear, Oscar,’ said Elisabeth, ‘whatever have you been up to?’
‘Actually nothing, Mrs Devine,’ he replied pertly. ‘I think Mr Gribbon has got the wrong end of the stick.’
‘Oh, no, I haven’t!’ snapped the caretaker angrily. ‘And if I did have a stick I would know what to do with it! It was you what did it!’ He stressed every word through gritted teeth.
‘Did what?’ asked Elisabeth.
‘Blocked the toilets, that’s what, Mrs Devine,’ he told her, bristling with anger, ‘by putting foreign objects down the toilet bowls. Three toilets won’t flush because of obstructions and I’ve got all manner of stuff coming out. The water’s brought all the varnish off of my polished parquet floor and—’
‘Thank you, Mr Gribbon,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I’ve got the idea.’ She turned to the boy. ‘Perhaps you had better explain yourself, Oscar,’ she said, putting on her most serious expression.
Oscar sighed. ‘I have been trying to do that, Mrs Devine,’ he replied, ‘but Mr Gribbon, I’m afraid, won’t believe me. You see the thing is, the boys’ toilets are rather smelly.’
‘Now look here—’ began the caretaker.
‘Please let him finish, Mr Gribbon,’ said Elisabeth, ‘and then we might get to the bottom of this.’ The caretaker grimaced.
‘As I was saying, Mrs Devine,’ continued Oscar, seemingly unperturbed, ‘the boys’ toilets are rather smelly and I suggested to Mr Gribbon that if some ping-pong balls were put down the bowls for boys to aim at, then they wouldn’t pee all over the floor. Anyway, I found some old ping-pong balls and put them down the toilets and it seemed to work very well but I’m afraid some other boys must have put some old tennis balls down and they blocked the pipes. You see, ping-pong balls float but tennis balls can fill up with water and do not.’
‘I see,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Well, Oscar, I am sure Mr Gribbon was grateful for your suggestions, but he is in charge of the premises and he decides what should be done and what should not be done in the boys’ toilets. You had no business taking it on yourself to put ping-pong balls down the toilet bowls, however well-meaning that was.’
‘And now I’ve got blockages and floods and a damaged floor!’ cried the caretaker, tense with indignation and thrusting out his jaw.
The boy looked undaunted. ‘Well, if I have any other ideas, perhaps I should run them past you first, Mrs Devine,’ announced Oscar.
‘Other ideas!’ repeated the caretaker angrily. ‘We don’t want any other ideas.’
‘Mr Gribbon is quite right, Oscar,’ said the head teacher. ‘Let him deal with the boys’ toilets.’
‘It was just that I read,’ said the boy, ‘that if you place a brick in the cistern above the toilets it will conserve water.’
The caretaker looked apoplectic. ‘You see what I mean, Mrs Devine,’ he groaned. ‘I really can’t be doing with this. You will have to stop him. He’s driving me to distraction.’
‘No more suggestions, Oscar,’ said Elisabeth firmly. ‘No more ping-pong balls and forget about the brick. Is that understood?’
‘Very well, Mrs Devine,’ said the boy.
‘Now you go and have a run around in the playground and get some fresh air,’ said the head teacher, ‘and leave Mr Gribbon to get on with his work.’
‘Actually, I’m not that keen on running, Mrs Devine,’ he told her, ambling off.
Later in the day when Elisabeth passed the boys’ toilets she could not contain her smile. The caretaker had pinned a large sign to the door: ‘ATTENTION WET FLOOR! THIS IS NOT AN INSTRUCTION!’
‘May I come in?’ Elisabeth stood on the steps at Clumber Lodge that evening.
‘Well, hello stranger,’ said Dr Stirling, kissing her lightly on the cheek. ‘I thought you had gone off me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ replied Elisabeth. ‘I just seem to have been so very busy. Start of term and all that. I did mean to phone.’
‘Well, it’s good to see you. Come on through.’
He led the way into the sitting-room, where a fire blazed and crackled in the hearth. When Elisabeth had first visited the house this room had been cold and unwelcoming with its heavy fawn-coloured curtains, earth-brown rug, dark cushions and dusty furniture. The bookshelf was crammed with books, journals and papers, and on a large oak desk were an old-fashioned blotter, a mug holding an assortment of pens and broken pencils and more papers stacked untidily. On the walls were a few dull prints and an insipid watercolour of a mountain and a lake.
Just before Danny had come to live at Clumber Lodge, Dr Stirling had arranged for one of the musty and unused bedrooms to be redecorated. Elisabeth and Mrs O’Connor had seen their opportunity – they had prevailed upon the doctor to give other parts of the house greatly in need of some refurbishment an overhaul, and the sitting-room had been transformed. It now looked homely and bright. The walls were painted, the wood shone, the prints and watercolours had been replaced by large bright paintings, the faded curtains had given way to long plum-coloured Dralon drapes and a thick-pile beige carpet had been fitted. The desk had been moved out and replaced by a deep-cushioned sofa. Even the large pot plant in the corner gleamed with well-being.
The only item remaining from the old decor was the delicate inlaid walnut table, on which several photographs in small silver frames had been arranged: one showing Dr Stirling with his arm around a striking-looking woman, his wife who had been killed in the riding accident; another a more formal portrait of the same woman posing in front of a horse; and several photographs of a serious-faced James.
‘You look just about done in,’ said Dr Stirling. ‘Come over by the fire and I’l
l get you a drink. You look as if you need a whisky.’
Elisabeth warmed her hands and then sat on the sofa, stretching back and sighing. ‘I am done in,’ she agreed, ‘and I could do with something strong. Where are the boys?’
‘Upstairs,’ he told her. ‘Since you started that chess club at school they’ve become quite obsessed with the game.’ As he poured the drinks Dr Stirling asked, ‘Is there something wrong?’
‘I just need to talk,’ she told him. ‘It’s been a pretty nerve-racking week.’ He passed her a glass and she took a sip.
‘You’d better tell me about it,’ he said, sitting down next to her. He rested a hand on hers. ‘You know what they say, you can trust me, I’m a doctor.’ She gave a small smile. ‘Is it this proposed merger that’s worrying you?’ he asked.
‘Yes, it’s preying on my mind,’ she said. ‘The term started off so well. Everything seemed to be going fine, the school’s future assured, contented teachers, happy children, new furniture and then this comes out of the blue. There’ll be all this uncertainty and upheaval, changes of staff, two premises to manage and I just don’t think I could work with that irritating man at Urebank.’ He let her talk. ‘I went to see the Director of Education earlier in the week. He virtually offered me a job in the north of the county at a new, purpose-built primary school, but you know I can’t leave here. I don’t want to be miles away from John, and from you.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. You would be greatly missed if you left the village,’ he said. ‘And I would certainly miss you. I’m sure you know that, Elisabeth.’
She smiled. ‘Well, I’ve no intention of leaving.’
Trouble at the Little Village School Page 12
