There was a knock at the bedroom door. ‘May I come in?’ asked Dr Stirling.
‘Yes,’ replied Danny.
The boy looked up and gave a weak smile when Dr Stirling walked in.
‘Have you packed?’
‘Yes,’ he said quietly.
The doctor sat next to him and put an arm around his shoulder.
‘You know, it might not be too bad living with your grandmother.’
‘Naw,’ Danny nodded.
‘You never know, you might really like life in the town. There’s lots more to do there than in sleepy old Barton. You’ll make new friends at the school and soon forget about us.’
‘I won’t. I never will.’
‘You know you can always come and visit any time. We’d all love to see you. You’re not a hundred miles away and there’s the bus from Clayton. Maybe you could stay over some time. I know James would really like to keep in touch.’
Danny nodded.
‘You know, Danny,’ said Dr Stirling gently, ‘sometimes in life decisions are made for us, things we find hard to accept at the time, things which might seem pretty bad now but they somehow, sometimes have a way of turning out for the best.’
‘That’s what t’woman in t’churchyard said,’ Danny told him.
‘Woman in the churchyard?’
‘Yea, she were really nice. She looked a bit like that hangel on that big tomb, an’ she said she thought mi granddad would ’ave told me that things might not be as bad as they seem at t’moment an’ that they ’ave a way of turning out for t’best.’
‘Sounds pretty good advice to me.’
‘I just wish I could believe it.’
They sat there in silence for a moment.
‘Dr Stirling,’ said Danny at last.
‘Yes?’
‘Thanks for all you’ve done for me.’
‘It’s been a pleasure.’
‘I din’t know what to do when mi granddad died. If it ’adn’t been for you an’ Mrs Devine—’
‘There’s no need to say anything, Danny,’ said the doctor. ‘We were happy to do it. You know—’ The doorbell rang. The boy got up from the bed and picked up his small case.
‘That must be mi grandmother now,’ he said.
‘Yes, it probably is,’ said the doctor.
‘Best not keep ’er waitin’.’
At the sight of Mrs Stainthorpe on the doorstep, Mrs O’Connor’s face took on a stony expression. If looks could maim, the woman standing before her would be on crutches.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said.
‘Yes, it’s me and you don’t need to look at me like that, Bridget O’Connor. Anybody would think I was kidnapping the boy.’
‘Some would say you are,’ replied the housekeeper sharply. ‘He was happy here before you showed up after all these years.’
‘You’ve never liked me, have you?’ asked Mrs Stainthorpe.
‘No, I haven’t,’ replied the housekeeper tartly. ‘I never liked you when you lived in the village and I’ve not changed my mind. Only out for what you can get, that’s you.’
‘And tell me what am I getting out of this?’ she asked.
‘Family allowance and any money Danny’s grandfather might have left,’ replied Mrs O’Connor bluntly.
Mrs Stainthorpe gave a dismissive grunt. ‘I was left very well provided for if you must know. Frank left me a tidy sum and he was insured, so you’re wrong on that count. Well, am I coming in or am I stopping out here taking root on the doorstep?’ she asked. Mrs O’Connor moved out of the way to let the woman enter. ‘Is he ready?’
‘As he’ll ever be.’
Dr Stirling came down the stairs accompanied by Danny.
‘Good morning, Mrs Stainthorpe,’ said the doctor.
‘Morning,’ she replied sharply. ‘Hello, Daniel.’
‘’Ello,’ said the boy almost inaudibly.
‘Don’t look so miserable,’ she said. ‘Take your case out to the taxi. I’ll be with you in a minute.’
‘There’s mi ferret,’ said Danny.
‘Your what?’
‘Mi ferret. Can I tek ’im wi’ me?’
‘A ferret!’ exclaimed the woman. ‘Certainly not. There’s no room for a ferret at the apartment, dirty smelly creature.’
‘But I’ve—’ began the boy.
‘Anyway, they don’t allow pets,’ he was told sternly.
‘Don’t worry, Danny,’ said the doctor, ‘we’ll take good care of Ferdy.’
‘Well, go on,’ said his grandmother, ‘don’t just stand there. Put the case in the taxi.’
‘’Bye, Mrs O’Connor,’ said the boy, his eyes filling with tears.
‘’Bye darlin’.’ She gave him a hug. ‘You come and see us, won’t you?’
‘’Bye, Dr Stirling,’ said Danny.
‘Goodbye Danny,’ said Dr Stirling. He put both hands on the boy’s shoulders and looked into his eyes. ‘You be a good boy, won’t you?’
‘Oh, he will,’ said Mrs Stainthorpe.
When Danny had set off down the path his grandmother turned to Dr Stirling. ‘I know you don’t think much of me,’ she said, ‘and I know them social workers didn’t either and that all of you didn’t want him to come with me. You made me out to be the wicked fairy at the christening, but I know what’s right for my grandson and what I’m doing is best for the boy.’
‘I hope so, Mrs Stainthorpe,’ replied Dr Stirling calmly. ‘I do hope so.’
Chapter 14
It was a cold, crisp Saturday morning. Elisabeth braved the chilly weather to put food out for the birds. She was thinking of Danny. Every Saturday morning bright and early he would arrive at her cottage and she would watch him from the kitchen window, filling the trays and the feeders with nuts, seeds and currants, and on seeing her he would smile that broad smile of his and wave. He was such a sunny, good-natured boy, full of life and so at home in the country. She wondered what he would be doing now, cooped up in his grandmother’s flat in Clayton. She recalled his grandfather’s words when she’d gone to visit him in hospital a few days before his death.
‘I’m not feared o’ dying,’ he told her. ‘I’ve known that there’s been summat up wi’ me for a while. What does worry me is what’ll ’appen to Danny.’ The old man’s eyes began to fill with tears. ‘’E’s a bit of a free spirit, is Danny, likes t’sun on ’is face, rain in ’is ’air. ’E lives for t’outdoors. ’E’s a country lad. Tek ’im away from t’country and ’e’ll be like a caged bird beating its wings agin t’bars to try an’ get out.’
Elisabeth looked up now to see the sparrows squabbling and chattering in the bare branches of the trees, the shy thrush waiting for his breakfast and the blackbird sweeping down on to the dark earth in search of worms. All free spirits.
She remembered when she had first met Danny the previous summer, the day when she had seen for the first time the cottage she was to buy. Beyond the five-barred gate at the end of the track she’d seen a small boy lifting a dry cowpat with a stick and disturbing a buzzing cloud of yellow horseflies. He stopped when he caught sight of her and, having watched her for a moment, came over.
‘’Ello,’ he said cheerfully, climbing up on to the gate, sitting on the top and letting his spindly legs dangle down. He was about ten or eleven, with large low-set ears, a mop of dusty blond hair and the bright brown eyes of a fox, and was dressed in a faded T-shirt, baggy khaki shorts and wellington boots that looked sizes too big for him. The child’s face and knees were innocent of soap and water.
As she made her way back to the cottage now, shivering a little in the cold, she jumped as she caught sight of a figure leaning over the gate. He was a tall broad-shouldered young man with a mass of unruly black curls and a wide-boned weathered face the colour of a russet apple.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Did I startle you?’
‘I was daydreaming,’ replied Elisabeth.
‘It’s good to dream,’ he replied.
She smile
d. ‘Yes, it is,’ she said.
The young man breathed in deeply. ‘’Tis a lovely cottage,’ he said, ‘with a beautiful view.’
‘It is,’ she replied. ‘The garden’s a bit of a mess at the moment, I’m afraid. The trees need pruning and the dead plants want cutting back. I did have a young man who looked after it for me.’ She thought of Danny again. ‘Anyway, may I help you at all?’ As she approached the man Elisabeth noticed his striking eyes, the fine high nose and the shining hair as black as jet.
‘Hope so,’ he replied. ‘I’m after looking for a Fred Massey. The woman at the village store told me he lived somewhere over here.’
‘Come through,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I’ll point out his farmhouse. It’s a bit of a walk but you can cut across the fields from here.’
The man was wearing a heavy, thick close-fitting jacket, shapeless corduroy trousers worn at the knees and black boots which had seen better days. Around his neck was wound a colourful kerchief. A heavy earring was fastened to his ear like a small gold manacle.
Elisabeth pointed across the fields. ‘If you go through the paddock at the side of the cottage and take the path, it will bring you to Tanfield Farm, Mr Massey’s place. Go carefully; he has two rather lively dogs.’
‘I guess you’ll be knowing Mr Massey,’ said the young man.
‘He’s my nearest neighbour, but I see little of him.’
‘And what sort of man is he?’ she was asked bluntly.
Elisabeth was non-committal. ‘Interesting,’ she replied. She recalled the words of Danny’s grandfather, who had described the old farmer as ‘a tight-fisted old so-and-so and allus on t’make’. She had had one or two skirmishes with the curmudgeonly Fred Massey, and the less she saw of him the better.
‘Do you think he might be letting me park my caravan in his paddock?’ asked the young man.
‘Actually the paddock belongs to me,’ Elisabeth told him.
‘Belongs to you?’ repeated the young man. ‘Well, there’s a stroke of luck. You’re the very person I wish to speak to.’
Elisabeth shook her head. ‘If you are looking for somewhere to put your caravan,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you.’
‘No?’
‘No. I really value my privacy.’
‘I’d be no trouble at all.’ He looked appealingly at her.
‘I’m sorry, but I have to say no,’ replied Elisabeth. ‘I am sure Mr Massey will let you put it on one of his fields.’ And at a price, she thought to herself.
The young man smiled and tilted his head to one side. ‘And I can’t persuade you?’ He had a soft, strangely compelling voice.
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
The young man persevered. ‘It wouldn’t be for too long. Just a few weeks and then I’ll be travelling on. I never stay for too long in one place. And I would be no trouble, no trouble at all.’
‘I do like my privacy,’ Elisabeth told him.
‘So do I,’ said the man. ‘I’d keep well out of your way.’
‘I really must say no.’
‘But sure, isn’t there a caravan there already?’ said the man, speaking softly and insistently.
‘Ah yes. I was doing a favour for a friend. He lived there with his grandson. Sadly the old man died last year. The caravan’s empty now.’
‘I’d be as quiet as a mouse and invisible as a ghost,’ said the man.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Elisabeth.
He smiled and placed his hands on his hips. ‘Now you don’t look like the kind of woman who would turn a poor, cold and weary traveller away on such a bitter miserable day as this,’ said the young man. ‘Sure don’t you have the kind face and the shining eyes of the Good Samaritan himself?’
‘And you sound as if you could charm the birds off the trees,’ replied Elizabeth, amused by the man’s doggedness, ‘but I really think you need to talk to Mr Massey.’
‘Ah well,’ he chuckled. ‘No harm in asking. I will bid you good day. Goodbye now. Take care.’
A small girl with large wide-set eyes and long rust-coloured hair, curly and shining, appeared at the gate. She was wrapped up in a thick coat too large for her and wore yellow rubber boots.
‘Now didn’t I tell you to wait for me in the van?’ said the young man in a gentle voice.
‘But you’ve been gone for ages and ages,’ she replied. ‘I was getting worried.’
‘This is my daughter,’ the man told Elisabeth. ‘A young lady who doesn’t do as she is bid.’ His voice was soft and kindly.
‘Hello,’ said Elisabeth brightly.
The child’s smile was wary and uncertain. ‘Hello,’ she replied quietly.
‘And what’s your name?’
‘Roisin.’
‘A lovely name.’
The child gave a small smile. ‘It means rosebud,’ the child told her. ‘It’s Irish.’ She looked at her father. ‘Have we found somewhere, Daddy?’ she asked.
‘Not yet,’ he replied, ‘but we soon will. Now come along and say goodbye to the nice lady. We have a short walk across the fields to the old farmhouse you can see.’
Elisabeth watched as they set off, the child skipping and swinging her small arms.
‘Wait!’ she called. ‘Just a moment.’ She followed them into the paddock. ‘I don’t suppose it would do any harm to let you put your caravan here for a short while.’
‘Aren’t you a saint,’ the man said, smiling widely. ‘We will be no trouble at all and keep ourselves to ourselves, and any odd jobs you want doing, I’m the man to ask.’
‘You had better come into the cottage and out of the cold,’ Elisabeth told him, ‘and I’ll tell you where things are.’
‘And the rent?’ asked the young man with a twinkle in his dark eyes.
‘We’ll talk about that later,’ said Elisabeth, smiling and wondering what she had let herself in for this time.
‘It’s nice in here,’ said the little girl as she followed her father and Elisabeth into the cottage. She took off her boots in the hall and placed them outside the door. Her father did the same. Elisabeth noticed the child’s woollen socks were heavily darned, as were her father’s. Roisin stared wide-eyed at the long-case clock ticking loudly and rhythmically. ‘You’ve a grandfather clock!’ she cried. ‘I love grandfather clocks.’
‘It was my grandmother’s,’ Elisabeth told her. ‘It stood in the sitting-room in her house and when I was little I liked to listen to it ticking away and look at the coloured figures on the clock face. I used to imagine when I was in bed at night that they came to life and danced on the carpet when we were all asleep. One day the clock stopped. My younger brother Giles used to put his cricket bat inside and I don’t think it liked that too much and the pendulum stopped swinging. When I moved here it started working again. It was like magic. I think it felt at home.’
‘If we ever stopped travelling,’ said the child thoughtfully, ‘I think I would like a cottage like this one. It’s nice and cosy. I’d have a big grandfather clock like yours with little dancing figures and a fat cat and I’d grow lots of flowers and I’d feed the birds like you.’
‘She’s one for the words, is Roisin,’ said her father, gently touching the child’s head.
‘Well, come into the kitchen,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. I’m sure you could both do with a warm drink.’
As they sat around the old pine table drinking tea, Elisabeth asked about the girl’s schooling.
‘If we stop in a place,’ her father told her, ‘Roisin goes to the local school, that’s if we like the look of it. It’s sometimes not that easy for her settling in, meeting new people and making friends and then having to move on again, but she’s used to it. Of course, there have been a few unkind comments about the sort of life we lead, and some head teachers are not all that welcoming. We are quite used to that as well. I’m not your conventional traveller, of course, more of an itinerant. I’m not a gypsy or a tinker and I have no Romany blood and I don’t tr
avel around with others. It’s just that I’ve never been a one to settle. I like to be on the road. I’d feel cooped up in a house. I like the open spaces, the changing countryside, the freedom to go where I want and stop where I want and move on when I want.’
Elisabeth nodded and thought again of Danny.
‘I teach Roisin myself,’ said the man. ‘She’s a good little reader and writer, she plays the flute and can sing and she has a good general knowledge. There’s no child who knows more about the animals and birds or the countryside.’
There is one child, thought Elisabeth, picturing Danny striding across the fields. ‘And will you send her to the village school in Barton while you are here?’ she asked.
‘I will have to see it first,’ the man replied, ‘but I think I will. It has a good reputation.’
‘Really?’
‘I was speaking to the woman in the village store and she told me it’s a very good school. The head teacher is quite a formidable woman, I believe, but is good-natured and knows what she’s about.’
‘Is she?’ said Elisabeth, giving a wry smile.
‘Pretty strong-minded by all accounts and a bit out of the ordinary. She’s evidently turned the school around. Do you know her at all?’
‘Oh yes, I know her,’ said Elisabeth.
‘And she seems all right?’
‘Oh yes. I think you could say that.’
‘Well, thank you for the tea,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘We’ll get settled in. I’ll park the caravan well out of sight so as not to spoil your view.’
‘Will you be warm enough?’ Elisabeth asked. ‘It’s going to freeze tonight.’
‘Sure we will,’ he told her. ‘We have a paraffin heater, a bit smelly but it keeps us warm, and we have a small stove. All a person could want.’
‘Well, if you do need anything you know where I am.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, shaking her hand. ‘I really do appreciate your kindness. Come along now, Roisin. Say thank you and goodbye to the lady.’
‘Thank you,’ said the child. ‘Goodbye.’
‘I’m called Elisabeth, by the way.’
‘I’m pleased to meet you, Elisabeth,’ said the young man, smiling and showing a set of remarkably white even teeth. ‘I’m Emmet, Emmet O’Malley.’
Trouble at the Little Village School Page 22
