‘Hello Fred,’ she replied, laughing. ‘I see you’re still propping up the public bar, you old reprobate.’
‘You’re a sight for sore eyes and no mistake,’ said Fred.
She looked at the landlord who stood watching her, his arms folded over his chest. ‘Hello Harry,’ she said with a half-smile.
‘Maisie,’ he replied, with a small nod of the head.
She perched herself on a stool, crossed her legs and patted her hair. ‘Vodka and orange for me,’ she said to the landlord, ‘and whatever Fred’s having.’
‘That’s very decent of you,’ said Fred. ‘I’ll have a pint.’
‘And get one for yourself,’ she told the landlord.
‘No thanks,’ he replied. He gave her a cold look of disapproval.
‘So what brings you to Barton then Maisie?’ asked Fred.
‘I’ve been to see my husband’s grave,’ she told him, ‘to pay my last respects.’
The landlord began pulling a pint. He shook his head but said nothing. The last time he had seen the woman she had flounced out of the Blacksmith’s Arms having been sacked for stealing. He was surprised she had the effrontery to sweep into the pub as if nothing had happened. He was not inclined to enter into pleasantries with her.
‘I was a bit put out,’ she said, ‘that nobody bothered to tell me that Les had died.’
‘Why should anyone?’ asked the landlord. He stopped what he was doing and leaned over the bar. ‘No one thought you’d be interested or bothered enough to come to the funeral.’
‘He was my husband, Harry,’ she told him.
‘Before you ran off with the carpet fitter from Halifax,’ said the landlord. He resumed pulling the pint.
‘Frank was a senior sales executive for household appliances and he was from Rotherham, if you must know. Anyway, now that he’s passed on—’
‘He’s dead?’ interrupted Fred.
‘Frank had a serious heart condition. Coronary thrombosis it was that finished him off. Bent down to tie up his shoelaces and collapsed,’ she explained. ‘It was a blessing that he went so quickly. He didn’t feel anything, just keeled over. Left me comfortably off. I have his pension, he was insured, and he’d put a bit aside.’ She sniffed. ‘I’ve bought a new apartment in Clayton. It’s got everything – all the mod cons, double balcony, three bedrooms and a lovely view of the river and the cathedral.’
‘Bully for you,’ muttered the landlord, placing the pint of beer on the bar.
She ignored the comment. ‘And I want my grandson to come and live with me.’
‘Danny!’ he exclaimed.
‘I’ve only got the one as far as I know,’ she replied.
‘I’ve heard you’ve not seen the lad since he was a baby,’ said the landlord.
‘You’re wrong there. For your information, I’ve just seen him. It’s true I’ve not kept in touch, but that was because Frank didn’t want me to have anything to do with Les,’ she explained. ‘He was very particular about it. Course, I wanted to see Danny but what with us both working we couldn’t look after a small child. And besides, Frank wasn’t keen on kids.’ She looked suddenly indignant. ‘Anyway, I don’t see why I should explain myself to you. And how long am I supposed to wait for my vodka and orange?’
‘Well it’s good to see you, Maisie,’ said Fred as the landlord got her drink. He lowered his voice. ‘This place has not been the same since you left. It’s like a morgue, and him behind the bar has a face like the back end of a bus on a wet weekday.’
She chuckled. ‘I reckon you’re the only one in the village who is pleased to see me. You should have seen the reception I got in the village shop. Old Ma Sloughthwaite doesn’t change, does she?’
‘Your drink,’ said the landlord, placing a glass before her.
‘I’ve been down the social services,’ she told Fred, ‘and explained that I want to look after my grandson.’
‘Well, you’ve not got much chance of that,’ said the landlord. ‘The lad doesn’t know you for a start and he’s happy where he is. They’re not likely to uproot him, particularly if he doesn’t want to go.’
‘Since when have you been an expert on adoptions?’ asked Maisie sharply. ‘I told the social worker that I’ll take it to court if I have to. I’m the boy’s nearest relation and it’s only right that he should come and live with me.’
‘I’m with you there Maisie,’ agreed Fred. ‘Blood’s thicker than water in my book. I mean, when my sister died, didn’t I take Clarence in?’
‘He was twenty-three,’ observed the landlord. ‘And I don’t think you did him any favours either.’
‘Anyway,’ continued Fred, ignoring the remark, ‘they’ll probably not think Dr Stirling is suitable to look after the lad.’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Maisie.
‘Well, he’s never at home is he? Always out seeing his patients. He leaves that son of his in the house by himself all the time. You can imagine if he adopts young Danny what two lads can get up to when they’re left unsupervised. And of course, Dr Stirling’s had his problems with his own son.’
‘Has he?’ asked Maisie, leaning forward.
‘Ran away from home, didn’t he?’ said Fred. ‘Police were called out and there was a big search in the village before the lad turned up late at night all cold and wet and crying his eyes out in the head teacher’s garden.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘Now, you’re not telling me that things are right at home when your son runs off like that.’
‘Thank you Fred,’ said Maisie, finishing her drink in one great gulp and easing herself off the bar stool. ‘That’s very interesting to know.’ She glanced at her flashy watch. ‘I must be making tracks. Things to do.’
When she had left, the landlord leaned over the bar and thrust his face into Fred’s. ‘Why don’t you keep your big nose out of other people’s business?’ he barked. ‘See what you’ve stirred up now with your interfering.’
‘I was only saying—’ began Fred, getting up from the stool. ‘Anyway, I shall have to go as well. I’ve got things to be getting on with.’
‘Well don’t let me keep you,’ said the landlord, ‘but before you do, Fred Massey, you can dig into that purse of yours and pay for the drinks. She left without settling up.’
Chapter 11
‘Well, Danny,’ said Dr Stirling at breakfast the following Thursday, ‘I have received a letter this morning from Miss Parsons at the Social Services.’ Danny stopped chewing and looked up apprehensively. James, who was sitting at the other side of the breakfast table, stopped eating too and looked up. The doctor passed Danny the official-looking letter. ‘You can see your name is at the top. You remember Miss Parsons, don’t you? She’s the social worker we met who arranged for you to be fostered here.’
‘Yes, Dr Stirling,’ the boy replied, staring at the letter. He bit his lip.
‘Well, as you can see, she wants us to go down to see her in her office tomorrow morning. I’ll give Mrs Devine a ring and say you won’t be in school and explain where you’ll be.’
Danny nodded. He managed a smile but the doctor could see it was an effort. The boy could feel his heart beating in slow thumps. ‘Why does she want to see us?’ he asked.
‘Well, I guess she wants to make sure that you are getting on all right here and if you’re happy staying with me and James.’
‘I am,’ said Danny quickly. ‘I’m really ’appy.’ The boy didn’t sound it. He looked anxious.
The doctor smiled. ‘That’s good to hear. We’re happy having you here, aren’t we, James?’
His son nodded. ‘You bet.’
‘I don’t want to go anywhere else,’ said Danny.
‘There’s not much chance of that,’ said the doctor.
‘Are ya sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure. The meeting will be just what’s called a formality, to make sure everything is as it should be.’
‘So I won’t ’ave to move?’ asked Dan
ny.
‘No, you won’t have to move,’ Dr Stirling replied. ‘Don’t look so worried. Everything will be fine, I promise you.’
Danny swallowed nervously. He didn’t look convinced. ‘Mi granddad din’t like letters what came in brown envelopes,’ he said. ‘’E reckoned that they allus spelled trouble.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t worry your head about this one. It may be that Miss Parsons wants me to sign some papers to make everything legal, so that you can stay here for good.’
‘So I can be adopted,’ asked Danny, ‘an’ stay ’ere for ever?’
‘Could be,’ said Dr Stirling, ‘and once those papers are signed, Danny, you’re stuck with me and James for good and we’re stuck with you and this will officially be your home.’
‘That’s great,’ said James. ‘Can I come as well when you go and see Miss Parsons?’
‘No,’ said his father, ‘she just wants to see Danny and me, and anyway you can’t go missing school.’
‘Please may I come with you?’ pleaded James.
‘You have had my answer, young man,’ said his father, putting on a mock-serious face.
‘Ahhh,’ sighed his son.
‘Did I hear it’s a special day for a certain wee fella tomorrow?’ said Mrs O’Connor, coming into the kitchen to brew a fresh pot of tea.
‘Danny’s going to be adopted tomorrow,’ said James.
‘Let’s not count our chickens,’ said the doctor. ‘Adoption takes a very long time.’
‘Well now,’ said the housekeeper, ‘isn’t that just grand. I’ll make one of my special coffee and walnut cakes this morning, so I will, and we can celebrate when you get back.’ She looked over to the doctor. ‘Sure, wouldn’t it be a nice thing to ask Mrs Devine around to join us for tea after school?’
‘It may be a little premature, Mrs O’Connor,’ he told her. ‘Let’s just wait and see what Miss Parsons has got to say before we crack open the champagne.’
Danny looked up at the doctor. There was sadness and perplexity on the boy’s face, something the doctor could not fathom. He would have thought the boy would look really happy at the prospect of staying at Clumber Lodge, rather than seeming sad and thoughtful, but he dismissed any misgivings and ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately. ‘Come along, Danny, don’t look so down in the dumps. There’s really nothing to worry about.’
‘Miss, where’s Danny?’ asked Chardonnay.
Elisabeth had just finished marking the register on the Friday morning Dr Stirling and Danny were at the Social Services when the girl, waving her hand in the air, asked the question.
‘He’s not in today,’ the teacher replied.
‘Is he ill, miss?’
‘No, he’s not ill.’
‘Because if he is ill,’ persisted the girl, ‘we could send him a get-well-soon card.’
‘No, Chardonnay, Danny is not ill. He just has somewhere important to go to this morning.’ She caught sight of James smiling conspiratorially.
‘Is he at the dentist’s, miss?’
‘Chardonnay,’ said Elisabeth, ‘it’s not really anyone’s business where Danny is this morning. I am sure he appreciates your concern but we need to get on with the lesson. Now can we all sit up smartly and look this way. This morning we have a very important visitor in school.’
‘Miss, we’re always having visitors,’ said Chardonnay. ‘Nobody ever came into school when Miss Sowerbutts was head teacher.’
‘I think it’s good to have people coming in to see what we are doing,’ Elisabeth told her.
‘Is it that Mrs Stickleback again?’ asked Chantelle.
‘No, and her name is Ms Tricklebank,’ said Elisabeth. ‘This visitor is called Mr Steel and he is a school inspector. He will be coming into our classroom to see what we are doing. He is at present with the infants but he will be joining us before too long. So you all have to be on your very best behaviour, answer his questions clearly and politely and when he leaves he will, I hope, have a really good impression of our school.’
‘He’s been here before, miss, hasn’t he?’ asked Eddie Lake.
‘Yes, he has.’
‘Is it that funny man with squeaky shoes who looks like somebody out of a horror film?’ asked Chantelle.
As if on cue, Mr Steel entered the classroom. He was a tall, cadaverous man with sunken cheeks, greyish skin and a mournful countenance, and was dressed in a black suit. He was wonderfully funereal. The HMI carried a black briefcase with a gold crown embossed on the front.
The children stood.
‘Good morning,’ said the school inspector. His voice had the dark and solemn tones appropriate to a funeral.
‘Good morning, inspector,’ chanted the children.
‘Good morning, Mr Steel,’ said Elisabeth. ‘There’s a chair in the corner of the classroom if you would care to take a seat.’
The school inspector nodded and strode to the back of the room. His shiny black shoes creaked when he walked.
Chardonnay pulled a face and nudged Chantelle, who put her hand over her mouth to stop herself giggling.
‘Perhaps, Darren,’ said Elisabeth, ‘you might like to tell Mr Steel what we are doing today.’
The boy stood, turned to face the inspector and, as if performing on a stage, took a deep breath and declaimed loudly, ‘Today we are finishing off writing our poems, sir.’ Elisabeth opened her mouth to explain a little more but the boy continued, as if reciting something rehearsed. ‘For the last few weeks we have been looking at a range of poetry and then writing our own. We are going to enter some of them for the School Library Poetry Competition. They can be on any subject we like, they can rhyme but they don’t have to and they can be sad or funny, long or short.’
‘May I hear some, Mrs Devine?’ asked the inspector. He gave a wide smile, like a vampire preparing to sink its teeth into a victim.
‘I am sure the children would be delighted to read some of their efforts,’ Elisabeth told him.
‘Perhaps we might start with this confident young man,’ said the inspector, looking at Darren.
‘I would prefer someone else reading my poem,’ the boy told the inspector. ‘It’s just that I’ve got a few problems with my reading.’ The inspector raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ve got a kind of dyslexia,’ the boy went on to explain, ‘which means I find reading and writing quite difficult. It’s the spelling and handwriting which cause me problems. But I’m working on it. Have you heard of dyslexia, sir?’
‘I have,’ replied the HMI. ‘In fact I have a son who has the same difficulty with his writing.’
‘Does he?’ asked Darren. He took another deep breath. ‘It’s quite a problem, isn’t it?’
‘It is,’ replied the school inspector.
‘Is he getting special help?’ asked the boy.
‘Come along, Darren,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Now that you’ve explained things to Mr Steel’ – she smiled and exchanged a glance with the visitor – ‘he won’t be too worried if you take your time and read it slowly.’
The boy read his poem, ‘The Trouble with Words’, in a slow halting voice to a hushed classroom and to the HMI, who leaned forward in his chair and listened intently.
‘Excellent,’ said Mr Steel when the boy had finished. ‘It’s very well written. Perhaps you might let me have a copy?’
Darren beamed. ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied.
‘Can I read mine now, miss?’ asked Chardonnay, standing up and shouting out excitedly.
Elisabeth looked a little apprehensive, knowing that the girl’s poem, which she had not had the chance to read, was about the new baby. She could imagine all the gory details of the birth being put into verse. ‘Come along then,’ said Elisabeth.
Chardonnay coughed theatrically and announced, ‘Bianca’s Baby’. She then recited the poem.
‘Our Bianca’s had a baby.
It’s round and red and fat.
It’s got tiny tufts of ginger hair
Like our neighbour’s noisy cat.
Our Bianca’s had a baby.
It’s red and fat and round.
It’s like a little sumo wrestler
And weighs only seven pounds.
Our Bianca’s had a baby.
It’s fat and round and red.
With big green eyes and tiny toes
And a birthmark on its head.
Our Bianca’s had a baby.
It’s round and red and happy.
And when it’s had its dinner
It always fills its nappy.
Our Bianca’s has a baby
It’s red and fat—’
‘Thank you very much, Chardonnay,’ interrupted Elisabeth. ‘That was very good and I thought you did really well getting all those rhymes.’
‘I’ve not finished yet, miss,’ the girl told the teacher. ‘There’re another three verses.’
‘Well, I think we will give some of the other children in the class a chance.’
The girl looked at Mr Steel. ‘Do you want a copy of my poem as well?’ she asked.
‘Indeed I do,’ replied the school inspector. ‘It was most interesting.’ He turned to Malcolm Stubbins. ‘Would you like to read your poem, young man?’ asked the inspector.
‘No,’ came the blunt reply.
‘Come along, Malcolm,’ said Elisabeth.
‘I don’t want to, miss,’ he mumbled. ‘It’s daft.’
‘I’m sure it’s not,’ said Mr Steel.
‘It is,’ said the boy.
‘I would really like to hear it,’ said the inspector.
‘Please, Malcolm,’ said Elisabeth.
The boy sighed and read his poem slowly, head down over the desk and with a finger under each word.
‘When I play football
I feel different.
I can’t explain it.
I forget about everything around me.
I just go loose.
When I’ve got the ball
And I’m running down the pitch
And I see the goal
And I hear people cheering.
Trouble at the Little Village School Page 17
