Trouble at the Little Village School

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘I am travelling north,’ he told her, ‘so it was of little inconvenience for me to break my journey here.’

  ‘Tea?’ she asked.

  ‘Thank you, no,’ he replied. ‘Time is of the essence and I must be away. May I see the picture in question?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she replied. ‘I should tell you that I have already had an art specialist look at the painting and he is of the opinion that it is not an authentic work of art by George Stubbs.’

  ‘So mine will be a second opinion,’ replied Mr Markington coldly.

  ‘Indeed,’ replied Lady Wadsworth.

  The fine art expert adjusted his cuffs and gave a thin smile. ‘Shall we take a look?’ he said.

  He was shown into the drawing-room. It was a cheerless, ill-lit and draughty chamber full of furniture draped in white dust-sheets. They approached the great white marble fireplace, before which was a small stool. Mr Markington stared up at the picture for an inordinate amount of time, all the while sucking his upper lip in a portentous manner. It was a shrewd, considering gaze which gave nothing away. The expression on his flat face was impassive. He then climbed up on the stool, took a small eyeglass from his pocket and examined the picture, occasionally touching the canvas with the tip of a finger.

  Lady Wadsworth watched intently, a quiver briefly distending her mouth.

  The fine art expert descended, put his eyeglass back in his pocket, straightened his suit and breathed in deeply through his nose. Then he gave a dismissive grunt.

  ‘It’s a copy,’ he said simply. His face was as blank as a figurehead on the front of a ship.

  Lady Wadsworth tried to control her emotions but her voice betrayed the extent of her disappointment. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked.

  ‘Unquestionably,’ he replied in a flat tone of voice.

  ‘And the value?’

  The man shrugged. ‘A few hundred guineas at most.’

  ‘Well, Mr Markington,’ said Lady Wadsworth, ‘I am, of course, very saddened to hear that. I am very much obliged to you for making this visit. I shall bid you good day. Watson will see you out.’ She swept from the room.

  The man nodded dully, his face still expressionless.

  ‘I had some kid gloves,’ the visitor told the butler as he put on his coat and scarf in the hall.

  ‘Ah, yes sir,’ replied the butler. ‘I must have left them in the anteroom. I shall get them.’

  Mr Markington stared up at the ornate ceiling, noticing where bits of plaster had crumbled away; he saw the damp patches on the walls, the scuffed floor, the chipped tiles and the old knitted draft-excluder like a fat grey snake beneath the door. How many times had he been called upon by some impoverished Lord this or Lady that to value a supposed painting or antique thought by them to be worth a small fortune, and how many times had he had to inform them the item in question was virtually worthless? It would not be long, he thought, before this cold, neglected mausoleum of a place was turned into a fancy five-star hotel.

  ‘I appear to have mislaid your gloves, sir,’ said the butler, emerging from the small room.

  The visitor sighed and rubbed his forehead. ‘I’ll help you look,’ he said.

  It was a cluttered room with an ornate carved oak bench underneath the window, various walking canes and brollies in an elephant’s-foot stand, a stack of coloured prints, an ancient black bicycle resting against a wall, a huge pram with a torn hood and various cardboard boxes crammed with all manner of bric-a-brac. Along the walls was a row of brass coat-hooks.

  ‘They’re here,’ said Mr Markington, discovering the gloves on the floor behind a crate. ‘They must have fallen out of the coat pocket.’ As he stooped to retrieve them he froze when behind the crate he caught sight of a shapely white marble foot poking out from under a dust-sheet. He stood and, leaning over, slowly uncovered the figure beneath the sheet like a mortician gently uncovering a corpse. When all was revealed he staggered back to the door and steadied himself on the architrave. ‘I think I am about to swoon,’ he murmured.

  ‘I’ll get a glass of water, sir,’ said the butler.

  ‘Fetch Lady Wadsworth immediately!’ cried Mr Markington.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir?’ said the butler.

  ‘Now, man! Fetch her now!’

  ‘Really sir, I—’

  ‘Quickly, man! Quickly!’ ordered the visitor.

  Watson hurried off.

  When Lady Wadsworth arrived at the anteroom she found her visitor on his knees like a supplicant. He was stroking the reclining statue.

  ‘Are you not well, Mr Markington?’ she enquired, startled by the scene before her.

  ‘I’m lost for words,’ he told her.

  ‘Perhaps you might like to rest somewhere a little more comfortable?’

  ‘The sculpture, Lady Wadsworth,’ he whispered, getting to his feet. ‘From where did you acquire the sculpture?’

  ‘Oh, it was brought back by that rascally forebear of mine, the one who probably sold the Stubbs,’ she told him, ‘that young Tristram Wadsworth. He gallivanted around the Continent on the Grand European Tour that so many idle young men with more money than sense went on in the past and brought it back. My grandmother refused to have it on show. It’s disgracefully revealing and leaves little to the imagination.’

  ‘It is a nude study,’ pronounced Mr Markington haughtily. ‘Nude sculptures are perforce revealing.’

  ‘Well, my grandmother had it removed to where it is now, out of sight and covered up. She felt it might corrupt the servants. As a child I was never allowed to view it, although as most curious children would have done I did occasionally take a peep.’

  ‘Lady Wadsworth,’ said Mr Markington in measured tones, ‘what you have in your possession is Hermaphrodite.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘This is one of the most beautiful sculptures it has been my pleasure to behold. It is probably a sixteenth- or seventeenth-century study of the reclining Hermaphrodite, executed in the finest Carrara marble. The sculptor captures the very essence of her beauty with dramatic naturalistic realism. It’s a masterpiece.’ He caressed the figure.

  ‘That may be, but it is not the sort of thing one displays in the entrance to one’s home.’

  ‘Lady Wadsworth, you are right,’ he replied, misconstruing her meaning. ‘This magnificent piece should be displayed for the entire world to see. I think this might very well be the work of one of Giovanni Lorenzo Bernini’s students or indeed be by the master himself. He was one of the greatest sculptors of the sixteenth century. This life-size reproduction of the classical Roman figure—’

  ‘Another copy,’ huffed Lady Wadsworth.

  ‘Yes, but not at all like the Stubbs painting. The first-century representation of the reclining Hermaphrodite now in the Museo Nazionale Romano in the Palazzo Massimo alle Terme in Rome was frequently an inspiration for the great sculptors of the sixteenth and seventeenth century. There are many versions, the most famous being the Borghese Hermaphroditus in the Louvre and the one at the Vatican. This, Lady Wadsworth, could be a work of great significance, a lost treasure.’

  ‘And worth something?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he replied, smiling for the first time and displaying a set of formidable teeth.

  ‘How much?’ she asked bluntly.

  ‘It is difficult to put a figure on such an object. Sadly there is some damage, which will affect the price but—’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘As I said, it is very difficult to put a price on such a work of art as this.’

  ‘Try.’

  ‘Certainly several hundred thousand pounds,’ he replied. ‘Possibly a deal more.’

  ‘You hear that, Watson?’ said Lady Wadsworth, showing her own set of formidable teeth.

  ‘Of course, had there not been the damage I could not venture to put a price upon it.’

  ‘I don’t think the other one has any damage,’ said Lady Wadsworth. ‘Does it, Watson?’

  ‘I
believe not, your ladyship.’

  ‘The other one?’ repeated Mr Markington, steadying himself on a chair. ‘You have another one?’

  ‘In the stable block,’ Lady Wadsworth told him. ‘Would you care to see it?’

  Danny, on his way to the graveyard with some flowers for his grandfather’s grave, was passing Miss Sowerbutts’s cottage when a strident disembodied voice came from behind a large bush.

  ‘Daniel Stainthorpe!’

  The boy jumped and dropped the flowers.

  The former head teacher of the village school appeared.

  ‘Daniel Stainthorpe,’ Miss Sowerbutts repeated. ‘Come here. I want a word with you.’

  ‘I ’aven’t done owt, miss,’ the boy said defensively.

  ‘I didn’t say that you had. I would like you to take a message to Mr Massey. Tell him I am still waiting for him to come and deal with the moles on my lawn. I have asked the man umpteen times to get rid of these annoying little creatures. I might as well talk to a brick wall. Tell him I need them dealt with immediately. Is that clear?’

  ‘I can sort out yer moles for ya if you like, miss,’ said Danny.

  ‘I think it is best left to those who know what they are doing,’ Miss Sowerbutts replied stiffly.

  ‘I know wor I’m doin’, miss,’ the boy told her. ‘I cleared all t’moles from Mrs Devine’s garden.’

  At the mention of the name, Miss Sowerbutts pursed her thin lips. ‘Did you indeed?’ she said.

  ‘They ’aven’t been back after I set t’traps.’

  ‘Mr Massey poured some bleach down their holes.’

  ‘Dunt work,’ said Danny.

  ‘You are quite right, it doesn’t. I imagined that this cold weather would put a stop to all their digging and burrowing but it hasn’t. The lawn looks worse than it ever has. It’s most distressing.’

  ‘Moles don’t mind frost an’ snow, an’ they can swim so it’s no good tryin’ to flood ’em out,’ said Danny. ‘Only way to get rid of ’em is by layin’ traps.’

  ‘And you have such traps?’ asked Miss Sowerbutts.

  ‘Oh aye,’ said the boy. ‘They used to be mi granddad’s.’

  ‘And you know how to use them, do you?’

  ‘Aye, I do. Mi granddad showed me.’

  Miss Sowerbutts thought for a moment. She had arranged for several couples to visit with the estate agent the following week to view the cottage. An unsightly lawn full of molehills would not give a very good impression. And, of course, she could never be certain when Mr Massey might stir himself to visit and rid her of the creatures.

  ‘You won’t make a mess of the lawn?’ she asked Danny.

  ‘Well, it’s in a bit of a mess now, miss, in’t it? I can’t mek it look much worse.’

  ‘And how much will this cost me?’ she asked.

  ‘Nowt.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Nowt,’ repeated the boy. ‘It won’t cost you owt. Mi granddad used to say, “It’d be a sorry world if you din’t do somebody a good turn now an’ again”.’

  ‘Well, Daniel, I suppose I could let you try. When could you set these traps of yours?’

  ‘Later this mornin’ if ya want. I’ve just got to tek these flowers to mi granddad’s grave, then I can sooart out yer moles.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Miss Sowerbutts, ‘but mind you don’t make too much of a mess.’

  ‘I’d keep yer cat inside when I’m setting t’traps if I were you, miss. I don’t want it gerrin ’urt.’

  ‘I don’t let her out,’ he was told. ‘I keep her in the house all the time.’

  A pity, thought the boy, but he said nothing.

  On his way to the church Danny met Malcolm Stubbins and Ernest Pocock. Malcolm was wearing the red-and-white football strip of Clayton United, with the name of the team captain, DWYER, displayed prominently in large black letters on the back.

  ‘Hey up,’ said Malcolm. ‘Off to see your girlfriend, are you?’

  ‘No,’ replied Danny.

  ‘Who are the flowers for then?’

  ‘I’m purren ’em on mi granddad’s grave if you must know.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘What do ya mean “why”?’

  ‘Well, he’s dead, isn’t he? He won’t know they’re there.’

  ‘’E might do, an’ anyroad it’s a sort o’ way o’ rememberin’ ’im when I visit ’is grave.’

  ‘I don’t visit my granddad’s grave,’ Malcolm told him. ‘He was a miserable old bugger.’

  ‘Well, mine weren’t,’ said Danny.

  ‘Do you want to come for a game of footie later?’ asked Ernest.

  ‘Naw,’ said Danny. ‘I said I’d get rid o’ some moles in Miss Sowerbutts’s lawn after I’ve been to t’churchyard.’

  ‘Huh!’ snorted Malcolm, ‘I wouldn’t do anything for her. Miserable old bat. She’s horrible. She used to make me stand outside her room for ages and shout at me when she was head teacher. I pass her cottage every morning on the way to school and she stands at the window making faces at me. I pull faces back at her. She once came out to tell me off and I told her she couldn’t order me about because she wasn’t the head teacher up at the school any more. You should have seen her face.’

  ‘I didn’t like her either,’ agreed Ernest. ‘Mrs Devine’s a lot better head teacher.’

  ‘She is,’ agreed Malcolm.

  ‘Tha din’t say that when she first come t’school,’ said Danny. ‘Yer mam took yer away.’

  ‘That was because my mam and her had a ding-dong and I was moved to Urebank, but it were worse up there and that’s why I moved back. Anyway I get on with Mrs Devine now.’

  ‘I hope she’s the new head teacher when the two schools join up,’ said Ernest. ‘My mum reckons that the head teacher at Urebank will be in charge.’

  ‘Richardson!’ exclaimed Malcolm. ‘He’s as bad as old Sowerbutts. He used to make me stand outside his room all day and shout at me as well.’

  ‘My mum went to this meeting about the schools,’ Ernest told them, ‘and she said everybody there said the head teacher at Urebank would get the job and Mrs Devine would be made his deputy.’

  ‘That’s not reight,’ said Danny. ‘She’s a really good ’ead teacher.’

  ‘Well, it won’t matter to any of us, will it,’ said Malcolm, ‘’cos we’ll be up at the secondary school by then. Anyway, do you want to come and have a game of footie or not?’

  ‘Naw,’ said Danny. ‘I promised Miss Sowerbutts.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Malcolm. ‘Come on, Ernie.’

  Danny was busy raking up the leaves in the churchyard when a ruddy-complexioned man in a greasy cap and dressed in soiled blue overalls strode between the gravestones.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing, Danny Stainthorpe?’ asked the man angrily.

  ‘I were just doin’ a bit of tidyin’ up, Mester Massey,’ replied the boy.

  ‘Well, that’s my job, so leave off.’

  ‘It needed doin’,’ Danny told him. ‘It’s all overgrown.’

  ‘Don’t you go telling me what needs doing. I shall do it when I think it should be done and not before.’

  ‘But all these leaves—’ began Danny, kicking a pile at his feet.

  ‘Never mind them leaves. Just leave them leaves alone and take your tools and get off home. Our Clarence will fettle this when I tell him to do so.’

  ‘How can ’e do it wi’ a broken arm?’ asked Danny.

  ‘He’s got another arm, hasn’t he? Anyway, it’s not your concern, so leave off what you’re doing.’

  ‘But t’vicar’s wife said—’ started Danny.

  ‘I’m not bothered what the vicar’s wife said or anyone else for that matter. That’s my job and it shall be done when I do it.’

  ‘I don’t mind doin’ it, Mester Massey,’ said Danny.

  ‘Well, I do, so go and dig the doctor’s garden if you want something to do. When I get back I don’t want to see you here.’
/>   Danny began picking up his tools. He felt it better not to mention that he would be dealing with Miss Sowerbutts’s moles when he had finished in the graveyard.

  ‘Go on, look sharpish,’ said Mr Massey, making his way to the gate between the grey stone slabs. When he had got to the road Danny shouted after him mischievously, ‘How are yer sheep gerrin on, Mester Massey?’

  ‘I’ll come back there and give you a thick ear in a minute, you cheeky little devil,’ the man shouted back, before walking off grumbling to himself.

  Having packed away his tools, Danny was heading for home to get the mole traps when he noticed a figure standing in front of his grandfather’s grave. She was a large blonde-haired woman in an olive green coat and long tan-coloured leather boots. A cigarette smouldered in her hand. He went over.

  ‘’Ello,’ he said.

  The woman turned and considered him for a moment. She put the cigarette to her lips and drew upon it, then blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘Hello,’ she replied without smiling.

  ‘That’s mi granddad’s grave,’ said Danny.

  The woman looked at him with a sudden interest. ‘Is it?’

  ‘’E died last year. I come ’ere every week.’

  ‘So you must be Daniel then,’ said the woman.

  ‘Yea, but most people call me Danny.’

  The woman looked at the inscription on the tombstone. ‘“Les Stainthorpe, dearly-loved grandfather”,’ she said and gave a dry smile. ‘He never liked the name Leslie. Always Les. “Call me Les,” he would tell people, “never Leslie. I hates the name Leslie,” he used to say. “Can’t understand for the life of me why my mother called me such a name. Leslie! Sounds like somebody out of a romantic novel”.’

  Danny cocked his head and looked up at the woman. ‘Did ya know mi granddad?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh yes, I knew him all right,’ she replied. She drew on the cigarette. ‘I was married to him.’ She looked down at Danny, who had dropped the tools. ‘I’m your grandmother.’

  ‘Well, well, well,’ said Fred Massey. ‘Look what the wind’s blown in.’

  Maisie Stainthorpe, former barmaid at the Blacksmith’s Arms, walked through the door of the village pub like a VIP arriving at some grand reception. She looked around as if she were waiting for someone to greet her.