Trouble at the Little Village School

by Gervase Phinn

  Lady Wadsworth mellowed. ‘He is, isn’t he,’ she agreed. ‘I’m on my usual Sunday constitutional,’ she said. ‘Stop the old knee joints from seizing up. How are you, Elisabeth?’

  ‘I’m very well,’ Elisabeth replied. ‘Actually, I was meaning to give you a call. I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes. There’s something I need to ask you.’

  ‘Nothing untoward, I trust? I cannot cope with any more bad news.’

  ‘No, no,’ replied Elisabeth. ‘Come on in and we can discuss it over coffee. Then you can tell me about your bad news.’

  ‘So you want me to become a governor?’ said Lady Wadsworth, when Elisabeth had explained. She had settled herself in a comfortable chair by the open fire and was warming her hands, the terrier stretched out on the carpet. Elisabeth had placed a cup of steaming coffee and a plate of biscuits before her on the small occasional table.

  ‘Yes, it was a unanimous vote of the governors and we all feel you are the perfect choice.’

  ‘Really?’ Lady Wadsworth took a sip of coffee and then crunched noisily on a biscuit. The dog looked up expectantly.

  ‘You were so massively supportive over the proposed closure of the school,’ Elisabeth told her, ‘and your intervention certainly had an effect.’

  ‘I should like to think so,’ said Lady Wadsworth. ‘I have to admit I did exert a little pressure over the closure. I do pride myself on having some influence in the county.’

  ‘And after all, it was your grandfather who endowed the village school,’ continued Elisabeth, ‘and you have provided us with our lovely new library. So you will join us?’

  ‘Yes, I most certainly will. I am flattered to have been asked. Perhaps getting involved in the school might take my mind off the present problems I have.’

  ‘This sounds ominous,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, my dear, but I fear not. It is a sad fact that Limebeck House is crumbling around me. It’s far too large and draughty and in desperate need of repair. I do not have the necessary resources to do it. In the past there were housekeepers and maids, gamekeepers and chauffeurs, butlers and grooms. Grandfather even had a full-time mole-catcher and somebody to wind up his clocks.’ She sighed. ‘Times have changed. You can’t get the staff now and if you could you couldn’t afford to pay them. There’s just Watson now. He does his best, of course, but like the rest of us he’s getting on. It’s such a worry.’

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Is there nothing you can do?’

  ‘I was to sell one of my most prized possessions – my Stubbs painting – to pay for the restoration, but it turns out it is a fake. I had an expert up from London and he said it was a copy and not a very good one at that. I was devastated, as you might guess. It was like a nail through the heart when he told me. All these years of thinking I had this beautiful original painting by one of the Old Masters and it turns out to be a reproduction. I feel like taking Sir Tristram’s portrait off the wall, I really do, for it was he, you can bet, who sold the original. He was the wastrel son of Sir William Wadsworth, who bought the painting. Tristram was the black sheep of the family, a playboy who spent all his time gallivanting around Europe, gambling and womanising and drinking himself into an early grave.’

  ‘Perhaps the person who valued it is mistaken,’ suggested Elisabeth.

  ‘Doubtful. Crispin De’Ath is the recognised expert on Stubbs.’

  ‘Experts have been mistaken before. It would do no harm to have a second opinion.’

  ‘No, I guess it wouldn’t.’

  ‘You can’t lose anything, and you might have everything to gain.’

  ‘Do you know, Elisabeth, I think you might be right. I shall get on to it immediately.’

  Mrs Atticus was walking up the path to the rectory on her way back from morning service when she caught sight of a small figure placing some flowers on a grave.

  ‘Hello, Daniel,’ she said.

  ‘’Ello, miss,’ replied the boy.

  ‘You come here quite often, don’t you?’ she said. ‘I’ve seen how well you look after your grandfather’s grave. There’re always fresh flowers.’

  ‘Aye, I do come regular, miss.’ He pointed to the flowers. ‘These are called Christmas roses an’ they were one of mi granddad’s favourite flowers.’

  ‘Actually they are called hellebores and they are amongst my favourites too,’ the vicar’s wife told him. ‘They bloom very early and they like the shade. You could plant some around your grandfather’s grave. There’s a legend surrounding the hellebores, you know. My husband mentioned it in one of his sermons. When a small girl went to see Baby Jesus in the stable all those years ago she saw that the shepherds and the kings had taken Him presents. She had nothing to give and began to weep. The tears fell upon the snow and where they had fallen the hellebores grew and the pure white flowers bloomed. It’s a lovely story, isn’t it?’

  Danny was staring open-mouthed. He looked down at the grave, bent and touched the white petals which lay on the top. ‘Aye, it is,’ he said.

  Mrs Atticus noticed a set of trowels, small forks and shears on the ground near the boy. ‘You are not the mystery groundsman by any chance, are you?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, miss,’ said the boy.

  ‘Someone’s been giving the graveyard a good tidy, cutting the grass around the graves and digging up the borders. Mr Massey is supposed to look after the grounds but he’s been rather remiss lately. So are you responsible?’

  ‘Well, it’s true I ’ave done a bit o’ tidyin’ up,’ the boy replied. ‘I don’t like to see things get ovvergrown an’ I like being outdoors.’ He put his hands on his hips and sucked in his bottom lip. ‘Ya see, if you don’t keep yer weeds down they’ll be waist ’igh in t’summer.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I have been telling Mr Massey,’ said the vicar’s wife. ‘Seeds blow over into the rectory garden.’

  ‘An’ it’s t’devil’s own job removin’ dandelions once they’ve tekken root,’ said Danny.

  ‘Exactly,’ agreed Mrs Atticus.

  ‘Aye, and then there’s yer couch grass and yer nettles and yer dock leaves and yer ivy. Some o’ them rhododendrons ’ave bushed out an’ gone wild. They wants cuttin’ back.’

  ‘It’s a constant battle,’ said the archdeacon’s wife.

  ‘’Tis that,’ agreed the boy. He pointed up at the huge oak tree. ‘That’s a fair old age,’ he said. ‘That big branch wants comin’ off. It’s dead an’ could come down in a strong wind.’

  ‘I’ll ask Mr Massey to take a look,’ said Mrs Atticus. ‘That is if he stirs himself to come up here.’

  ‘Well, I’d best gerron,’ said Danny.

  ‘It is very good of you, Daniel, to do this,’ said the vicar’s wife. ‘I must pay you for your trouble.’

  ‘Nay, it’s all reight, miss. I like doin’ it. It’s good to be outdoors.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Mrs Atticus. ‘Now don’t you stay out here too long. It’s very nippy and we don’t want you missing school with a cold.’

  ‘I won’t,’ said Danny, wiping the earth from his hands. ‘I’m nearly done.’ The boy thought for a moment and then asked, ‘Mrs Atticus?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That big grave ovver theer. The one under t’gret big tree.’ He pointed to an enormous marble mausoleum with a stooping angel on the top, in the shadow of an ancient oak gnarled with age and with huge spreading branches. ‘It must ’ave bin for somebody dead important.’

  ‘I’m sure he would like to think he was,’ said the vicar’s wife. She frequently referred to what she called ‘that vulgar monstrosity’ when there was mention of her husband’s predecessor and his elaborate tomb. ‘He was a rector who lived in the village many years ago.’

  ‘He must ’ave been really liked for someone to build that for ’im,’ said Danny.

  ‘Quite the opposite. He was quite an unpleasant man by
all accounts and spent most of his time hunting and drinking and gambling. Burnt the rectory to the ground with himself and his dogs inside during the last century. He had the tomb built for himself. He designed it and left enough money in his will to have it erected. If it was up to me, I’d knock the thing down. No one ever visits it.’

  ‘It’s sad is that,’ said Danny.

  ‘In my experience, Daniel, the bigger the grave the more high and mighty is the person under it. Your grandfather’s grave is much better.’

  Suddenly a cat appeared and began rubbing its body against the boy’s leg. It was one of the most beautiful creatures Mrs Atticus had ever seen, small, slender and lithe, with a silky cream-coloured coat and the most brilliant deep blue almond-shaped eyes. ‘Oh ’eck!’ exclaimed the boy, ‘it’s come back.’

  ‘If I am not mistaken that’s Miss Sowerbutts’s cat, isn’t it?’ asked the vicar’s wife. ‘She’s put a notice in the church porch saying it has gone missing.’

  ‘Yeah miss, I know. Mrs Sloughthwaite telled me. It keeps followin’ me round. I’ve tekken it back twice now but it keeps comin’ back an’ won’t leave me alone.’

  ‘It obviously likes you,’ said Mrs Atticus.

  Danny stroked the silky fur. ‘I’ll take it back when I’ve finished ’ere.’

  ‘I think that would be a good idea, Daniel.’

  ‘An’ I’ll pop back next Sat’day an’ do a bit more in t’churchyard.’

  ‘Well, don’t overdo it, and call in at the rectory when you’ve finished. I insist you will be paid for your labours.’

  ‘No, you’re all reight, Mrs Atticus. I’ve nowt much else to do come the weekend an’ as I said, I like being outside.’

  ‘Well, that’s very kind of you,’ she said. Would that all young people were as polite and helpful as this young man, thought the vicar’s wife as she headed for the rectory to prepare lunch.

  Danny was halfway down the high street, clutching the cat to his chest, when he heard a shrill voice behind him. ‘Daniel Stainthorpe, stop where you are!’ He recognised the voice immediately, for he had heard it many times before. His granddad had said it was as strident as a tree full of crows. The boy froze in his tracks. He turned to see an angry-looking figure, muffled up in a thick black coat and sporting a woollen hat, striding towards him.

  ‘What are you doing with my cat?’ demanded Miss Sowerbutts.

  ‘I . . . I . . . was—’ he spluttered.

  She reached over and took the animal from him. ‘Where have you been, Tabitha?’ she said. Then she turned her steely gaze on Danny. ‘I said, what were you doing with my cat?’ she asked again.

  ‘ I . . . I . . . was bringing it back, miss.’

  ‘Where did you find her?’ she asked.

  ‘Down by t’millpond, miss. It ’ad a tin on its ’ead.’

  ‘She had a tin on her head,’ articulated Miss Sowerbutts, stressing the first letter of each word.

  ‘That’s wor I said, miss.’

  Miss Sowerbutts sighed. She had tried hard to eradicate what she considered to be the dreadful accent of these children, but to no avail. ‘Had she still got the tin on her head when you found her?’

  ‘Yes, miss, but I gorrit off an’ I dint ’urt it. I were dead careful.’

  ‘Well, I hope you didn’t. She’s very delicate,’ said Miss Sowerbutts, stroking the silky head of the cat. ‘When did you find her?’

  ‘Abaat a week ago, miss.’

  ‘A week ago!’ she exclaimed. ‘Why didn’t you bring her back before?’

  ‘I din’t know it were yer cat, miss.’ He decided not to tell her that he had returned the animal to her garden several times.

  ‘I’ve been at my wits’ end,’ Miss Sowerbutts said, her voice becoming calmer. She stroked the cat again.

  ‘It’s a lovely cat an’ it’s really affectionate,’ said Danny.

  ‘Yes, well, she’s a very special cat – a Siamese and with a very fine pedigree. She shouldn’t be out. I keep her indoors. The other cats would be very jealous of her and attack her.’

  ‘I reckon it can ’andle itself, miss,’ said Danny.

  ‘And what would you know about Siamese cats?’ she asked tetchily.

  Probably more than you do, thought Danny, but he knew when to keep his mouth closed.

  ‘Have you been feeding her?’ asked Miss Sowerbutts.

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  She sighed. ‘On what?’

  ‘Just scraps o’ meat an’ stuff.’

  ‘She has a special diet of fish and chicken. She has a very delicate constitution. I shall take her inside out of harm’s way.’ The cat, as if it had understood her, suddenly arched its back, hissed and leapt from its mistress’s arms, disappearing behind a large laurel bush.

  ‘I hope you haven’t made her wild,’ said Miss Sowerbutts, scuttling after her.

  ‘There’s a meeting about the school amalgamation next week,’ announced Mrs Sloughthwaite.

  Her only customer, the aged Mrs Widowson, her of the tragic countenance, gave a small shrug. ‘Well, I can’t say it’s got anything to do with me. My children are well past school age and I don’t have any grandchildren. And seeing what some of these youngsters these days get up to, like that lass who lives next door to me for instance, I count it a blessing that I don’t.’

  ‘From what Mr Atticus told me,’ continued the shopkeeper, leaning over the counter, ‘there’s not much of a chance of changing the minds of them at the Education. He went to the meeting at Urebank last week and said it was all done and dusted, so I don’t suppose they’ll take much notice of us.’

  ‘I hear Reverend Atticus has got a new job,’ remarked the customer.

  ‘Yes, he was telling me about it. He’s been promoted to help the bishop and has this fancy new title. He’s not a vicar any more, he’s what’s called an archdeacon and he’s not called reverend either, he’s venereal.’

  ‘He’s what?’

  ‘Evidently that’s what they call archdeacons – venereal.’

  ‘Well, it’s a new one on me.’

  ‘And me. Anyway, I shall go along to this meeting all the same, if only to see what the galloping major has to say. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.’

  ‘As I said, it’s not really any concern of mine,’ replied the customer.

  ‘Oh, but it is, Mrs Widowson, because you live in the village and what happens at the village school is everyone’s business. I mean, I’ve no kiddies at the school but it’s part of your civic duty to take an interest. So I hope you come along and give Mrs Devine some moral support.’

  ‘I shall have to see,’ replied the customer, who had no intention of giving up her bingo evening to attend the meeting. ‘I’ve not been that right lately.’ She rubbed her forehead. ‘Terrible banging headaches I’ve had. I shall have to go and see Dr Stirling.’

  ‘I think it’s the insecticide they’re putting on the fields,’ remarked the shopkeeper. ‘I’ve been getting a touch of nostalgia as well.’

  ‘No, it’s not that giving me headaches,’ said Mrs Widowson, ‘it’s that lot next door to me. Arguing all the time they are over Bianca’s baby. She won’t let on who the father is and they won’t leave her alone. I never thought I’d say this but I feel sorry for the lass. Anyway, I’d best be off.’

  ‘Oh, I haven’t told you,’ said Mrs Sloughthwaite, stopping the customer in her tracks. ‘You will never guess who walked in here yesterday.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Maisie Proctor, ex-wife of Les Stainthorpe, that’s who.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes, and she’d not changed,’ said Mrs Sloughthwaite. ‘Came in here as large as life and as bold as brass as if nothing had happened, hair all fluffed up like a peroxide bird’s nest and make-up that looked as if it had been laid on with a trowel, and she stood standing there where you’re stood standing now, as if she’d never been away.’

  ‘Well, what did she want?’ asked the customer.


  ‘You don’t need to be a brain surgeon to work that one out. Money. That’s what she was after. Hard as a witch’s thumbnail is that one. She’d heard about her ex-husband’s death and came back sniffing about to see if he’s left anything for her, I’ll warrant. Brazen madam. She spent nearly all of his money when she married Les Stainthorpe and then took the rest when she cleared off.’

  ‘With that carpet salesman from Barnsley,’ added Mrs Widowson.

  ‘No, he was a brush salesman from Rotherham, but that’s beside the point. Anyway, she walks in here asking after Danny.’

  ‘You don’t say.’

  ‘I do. Of course as you well know I can be the very soul of circumspection when I want to be so I told her nothing. Poor lad doesn’t want the likes of her turning up like a bad penny, spoiling things for him. I told her that as far as I knew the boy was being fostered and I left it at that. Then she asked me why nobody in the village had let her know that Les had died. I said to her, I said why should anyone let you know, you’ve had nothing to do with him since you ran off.’

  ‘With the brush salesman from Barnsley,’ added Mrs Widowson.

  ‘Rotherham!’ Mrs Sloughthwaite snapped. ‘Anyway, he dropped dead tying up his shoelaces.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘The brush salesman from Rotherham, him who she took up with. Heart attack it was. Evidently he left her everything and she’s selling up and moving back up here.’

  ‘What, to Barton?’ asked the customer.

  ‘No, thank the Lord, to Clayton. She’s bought some fancy flat down by the river in De Courcey Apartments or some such fancy name.’

  ‘Well I never.’

  ‘And I’ll tell you who else has one of them flats.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Miss Sowerbutts, that’s who. I’d love to see her face when she discovers that Maisie Proctor is her neighbour.’

  ‘Well, fancy her coming back after all these years,’ remarked Mrs Widowson.

  ‘I know,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘Then off she flounces out of the shop. Let’s hope that’s the last we see of her.’

  Unfortunately it was not the last the village saw of Danny’s grandmother. The following day she presented herself at the children’s department at County Hall requesting to see the social worker who was dealing with the fostering of her grandson.