‘And I know that yours were,’ replied the doctor. ‘It was a most moving service.’
‘Well, thank you,’ she said. ‘I have to admit I was a little nervous, this being my first funeral at St Christopher’s.’
‘Well, it certainly didn’t show,’ the doctor reassured her, smiling. ‘I hope you will be very happy here in Barton-in-the-Dale, Reverend Underwood.’
‘Ashley, please,’ she said. ‘I shall be very happy if we have such a large congregation on Sundays.’
‘I think many were here to see you,’ the doctor told her. ‘You will find that there are a lot of inquisitive people in the village.’
‘I do hope I can number you amongst my congregation?’ said the new curate.
‘I’m not really a churchgoer,’ replied the doctor.
‘Then I shall have to use my powers of persuasion,’ she said. ‘How is Danny?’
‘You know Danny?’ said Dr Stirling, staring at her with surprise.
‘He was visiting his grandfather’s grave and I met him in the churchyard. We got talking,’ she explained. ‘He was very upset about having to leave the village and spoke very highly of you and all you had done for him.’
‘Ah,’ laughed the doctor, ‘so you are the mystery woman in the churchyard. Danny said you were really nice and gave him some very good advice. He said you looked like the angel on the big tomb.’
She coloured a little. ‘Don’t mention the tomb, it’s a bone of contention in the Atticus household. Anyway, young Danny is a very pleasant boy, very friendly. I do hope things work out for him.’
‘Yes, so do I,’ replied the doctor.
‘I’m sure he will settle in time,’ she said, trying to put the best aspect on a miserable situation.
‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘Well, I guess I had better be making tracks. It was good to meet you.’
‘And maybe I will see you at morning service next Sunday,’ she said, giving a disarming smile.
‘Maybe,’ replied the doctor.
‘I have some very good news, children,’ said Elisabeth one morning in assembly. ‘But before I tell you about it I have asked Mr Gribbon to have a word about the boys’ toilets.’
The caretaker strode to the front of the hall. ‘Some of the boys here, and you know who you are,’ he said, stabbing the air with a bony finger, ‘have been putting foreign objects down the toilet bowls and blocking the pipes. Now, this all started when one particular pupil, and he knows who he is, put ping-pong balls down the toilets and then others started depositing other things. Whoever is responsible wants to stop it off because if I find out who the culprits are—’
‘Thank you, Mr Gribbon,’ interrupted Elisabeth. ‘I think all the boys here have got the message.’ She looked at the faces before her. ‘This will stop. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Mrs Devine,’ chorused the children.
The caretaker walked to the back of the hall where he remained, arms folded and scowling.
‘Now the good news,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I am delighted to say that several of the poems we sent in for the School Library Poetry Competition have been accepted for the anthology. Three have been shortlisted for one of the prizes: Oscar’s poem, “My Dog Daisy”, Darren’s poem, “The Trouble with Words”, and Chardonnay’s poem, “My Sister’s Baby”, have been selected.’
Chardonnay could not contain herself. ‘Mine!’ she shouted out.
‘Yes, yours, Chardonnay,’ said the head teacher.
The girl puffed out her cheeks and breathed out noisily.
‘Let’s congratulate our three talented poets, shall we?’ said Elisabeth. The children clapped and cheered. Several girls near Chardonnay prodded her or patted her on the back. ‘These three shortlisted poems,’ continued Elisabeth, ‘go through to the final, and the three young poets and Miss Brakespeare shall next week be going to the public library in Clayton for the award ceremony. So we all need to keep our fingers crossed.
‘Now it occurred to me that you might all like to hear the poems which were selected, so I am going to ask each of the lucky three to read out their poem.’
Following the readings by Chardonnay and Darren, it was Oscar’s turn. The boy came to the front of the hall, cleared his throat several times, and then, tilting his colourful glasses slightly on the bridge of his nose, announced, ‘My poem is called “My Dog Daisy”.’ Then he read his verse:
‘When my dog Daisy was a puppy,
She would leap and bound,
Run and race,
Jump and chase,
Spring and scamper,
Like all young dogs tend to do.
Now my dog Daisy is older,
She growls and grumbles,
Snaps and snarls,
Scratches and smells,
Sleeps and snores,
Like all old dogs tend to do.
Puppies and children,
Old dogs and old people,
They have a lot in common.’
Resuming his place, Oscar glanced in the direction of the caretaker, who was glowering at him from the back of the hall.
At the end of school, Elisabeth sat with Mrs Robertshaw in her classroom. She was interested to hear how Roisin was getting on.
‘Well, it’s early days,’ said the teacher, ‘but she seems to be settling in nicely. She’s a delightful child, very quick on the uptake and interested, and a very good reader.’
‘Her father will be pleased to hear it,’ said Elisabeth.
‘Oscar has taken quite a shine to her,’ said Mrs Robertshaw. ‘He seems to have taken her under his wing. You should see them in the playground, chattering away like some old married couple.’
‘And how are the other children treating her?’ asked Elisabeth.
‘Very well, as far as I can tell.’
‘Evidently there’ve been a few unpleasant comments from some children in her previous schools. As you know, children can be a delight but sometimes they can be cruel, particularly to someone who is a bit different.’
‘About her being a gypsy you mean?’
‘Well, she’s not really a gypsy,’ Elisabeth told her. ‘Her father describes himself as an itinerant. She travels with him and they don’t stay in the same place for too long. I don’t expect that Roisin will be with us for much longer.’
‘Pity, she’s a nice little girl,’ said Mrs Robertshaw, ‘and very pretty. Her father looks too young to have a child of her age, don’t you think? He looks more like a brother.’
‘Oh, he must be in his early thirties,’ said Elisabeth.
‘Do you think?’ asked the teacher. ‘He looks a lot younger to me.’ Then she added, ‘I must say, he’s very dishy.’
‘Yes, he is very striking looking,’ agreed Elisabeth.
‘Do you know what happened to the mother?’
‘No, he’s not said.’
A face appeared around the door.
‘Miss, can I have the key to the games cupboard, please?’ asked Malcolm. He was wearing a red and white football strip.
‘Come in, Malcolm,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I want to have a word with you.’
The boy looked worried. He was used to being told off. ‘What about, miss?’ he asked.
‘To say how pleased I have been with you lately.’
The boy shifted uneasily. He was clearly embarrassed by praise, something he rarely received at home.
‘Since you have returned to this school you have kept out of trouble and—’
‘Miss, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a football match,’ the boy interrupted. ‘They’ll be starting.’
‘I’ve nearly finished,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Now as you have seen, we have had some new pupils starting here at Barton this term and you know yourself how difficult it can be for new pupils to settle in.’
‘Yes, miss,’ said the boy impatiently.
‘I think you had quite a difficult time when you started at Urebank.’
The boy nodded. ‘Yes, it was horrible, miss. I was picked
on.’
‘So you know what it can be like starting at another school. Well, I want you to keep an eye on the new children and make sure nobody picks on them. I want you to be a sort of monitor. Will you do that for me?’
‘What do I have to do?’ asked the boy.
‘Just make sure that no one is unkind to them. Can you do that?’
‘OK.’ The boy looked at his watch. ‘Can I go now, miss?’
‘Yes, off you go, and remember I’m relying on you.’
The boy ran off.
Mrs Robertshaw turned to Elisabeth. ‘Poacher turned gamekeeper,’ she said. ‘Clever.’
Chapter 16
Elisabeth arrived home from school later that afternoon to find her garden had been transformed. The previous month Danny had tidied everything: he had cut back the dead flowers, dug up the weeds, pruned the bushes and trimmed the hedges, but since he had gone the lawn had gathered a fresh carpet of dead leaves, part of the paddock fence had blown down, and the gate leading to the track by the side of the cottage had come off its hinges. Elisabeth had meant to do something about these things but had been so busy she just had not had the time. She had been minded to ask Fred Massey to take on the task, but he could not be relied upon, and anyway she did not like the grouchy old man, who was forever complaining and out for what he could get.
Now, she looked at her neat and tidy garden with satisfaction. During the day someone had been very busy. The lawn had been raked clean, the fence repaired and painted an olive-green and the gate to the track repaired. Even the porch had been swept. She had an idea who was responsible.
She tapped on the door of the caravan.
‘Hello, Mrs Devine,’ said Roisin, poking out her head.
‘Hello, Roisin,’ said Elisabeth. ‘May I speak to your father?’
‘Come in, come in,’ came a voice from inside.
The caravan was warm and comfortable and there wasn’t a thing out of place.
Elisabeth was surprised to see how clean and tidy everything was. Something that smelled very tasty was simmering in a pan on the small stove.
‘I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ she said.
‘Not at all,’ he replied.
‘I guess it was you who has been busy in my garden,’ she said.
‘Well, I like to keep busy,’ he told her, ‘and it did need sorting.’
‘You really shouldn’t have bothered, but thank you all the same. It looks a whole lot better.’
‘There’s a big branch on the horse chestnut tree that wants coming off,’ he said. ‘It’s been hit by lightning by the looks of it, it’s split and charred, and in a strong wind you might be in bed one night and find it comes crashing through your roof. I’ll get it sorted tomorrow.’
‘Yes, I know it needs doing,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Danny, the young man who used to live in the caravan and look after my garden for me, kept mentioning that the branch was dangerous and wanted cutting off. But I really don’t expect you to do that.’
‘It’ll be a pleasure,’ he replied.
Elisabeth looked over to where Roisin was curled up on the bed, her nose buried in a book. ‘I hear from her teacher that your daughter is settling in well at Barton-in-the-Dale?’ she asked.
‘Yes, very well,’ the girl’s father replied. ‘I can’t remember when she has taken so well to a new school.’
‘Mrs Robertshaw tells me she’s very bright, a very good reader and clever with numbers, and Mr Tomlinson, who comes in to teach music, says she is a talented flautist. I sometimes hear her in the evening.’
‘It doesn’t disturb you, I hope.’
‘Not at all,’ said Elisabeth. ‘She plays beautifully. Is it you who plays the violin?’
‘I try,’ he replied.
‘I’m very pleased Roisin is happy at the school. You mentioned to me when we first met that it is sometimes not that easy for her settling in, meeting new people and making friends.’
‘Touch wood, she’s fine.’
‘That’s good.’
‘She has a boyfriend, you know,’ he said in a hushed voice, ‘a little boy called Oscar. She’s been invited for tea next Sunday. He’s going to show her his fossil collection.’
‘Are you talking about me, Daddy?’ asked Roisin, looking up from her book.
‘And why in the world would I be doing that?’ replied her father.
Elisabeth shook her head and smiled.
‘The thing is, Mrs Devine,’ said the man quietly. ‘I’ve a mind to stay on here a bit longer than planned. It’s a lovely part of the country, Roisin seems settled and tells me she’d like to stay, I couldn’t get a better place to put the caravan and people seem really friendly hereabouts. Would that be all right with you?’
‘You are welcome to stay as long as you like, Mr O’Malley,’ Elisabeth told him. ‘I said to you when we first met that I do value my privacy, and as you promised you have not disturbed me at all. I hardly know that you are there.’
‘Except for the music,’ he said.
‘Which I like,’ she replied. ‘You know, one of the reasons why I bought this cottage was that it is off the beaten track. In winter I like to go out into the garden at night, crunch through the snow, look at the stars and feel the cold air on my cheeks. Then in summer I love to sit on the old bench and hear the leaves rustling and smell the scents. I might see the white bobtail of a rabbit in the bushes or the sly fox watching from the footpath. One March I saw two hares in the field. They had these long, lean bodies and great erect ears, and they squared up to each other. I watched fascinated as they punched and pummelled. I had never seen anything like that before.’ Roisin had stopped reading to listen, her head on one side. ‘I just love the peace and quiet of this place,’ said Elisabeth.
‘You’re a romantic, Mrs Devine,’ he told her.
She smiled. ‘Maybe I am. Anyway, yes, you may stay. Oh, and I think it’s about time you called me Elisabeth – out of school anyway.’
‘We are very happy here,’ he told her, ‘so we would love to stay. I just need to find a bit of work to keep the wolf from the door and I’ll be as content as I’ll ever be.’ He looked over to his daughter. ‘Did you hear that, Roisin?’ he said, ‘We can stay.’
The girl clapped her hands gleefully and beamed. ‘Thank you, Mrs Devine,’ she said.
‘I suppose the word which comes to mind would be dramatic,’ said Miss Brakespeare. She was sitting with her colleagues in the staffroom the following lunchtime, regaling them with an account of the award ceremony of the School Library Poetry Competition, which had taken place that morning. Elisabeth was, as usual, supervising the school dinners before patrolling the school.
‘Go on,’ urged Mrs Robertshaw. ‘This sounds interesting.’
‘Well,’ said the deputy head teacher, becoming quite animated, ‘we arrived at the public library and everything went really smoothly at first. The chief librarian, Mrs Twiddle, introduced the judges: Philomena Phillpots, “the Dales poetess”, a strange-looking woman in a sort of flowered smock and purple lipstick, the editor of the Gazette and the mayor of Clayton. The children from the different schools in the area took it in turns to read out their entries. Chardonnay gave a most dramatic rendering of her poem about the baby, illustrating it with various actions which left the judges open-mouthed, and of course Oscar delivered his poem like a seasoned actor taking centre stage.’
‘What about Darren?’ asked Mrs Robertshaw.
‘He really surprised me,’ said Miss Brakespeare. ‘He had learned his poem off by heart and recited it beautifully. I could see the judges were much moved. Anyway, the last to stand up was a boy from Urebank and he read this poem called “The Colour of My Dreams”. It was very good, and I thought to myself at the time that it was a bit too sophisticated to have been written by a child of ten. Anyway, this boy had no sooner finished than Oscar came over to me and said it wasn’t his poem. I said, “How do you mean, Oscar?” and he said, “He didn’t write it,” and I said,
“How do you know?” and he said, “Because I’ve seen it in a poetry book,” and I said, “You must be mistaken,” and he said he wasn’t. “Actually, it’s a poem by Peter Dixon,” he said.’
‘He’s his favourite poet,’ interposed Mrs Robertshaw.
‘Well, anyway, I said, “Maybe the boy has based his poem on the one written by Mr Dixon,” and he said, “No, he hasn’t.” Then he reached into that big leather briefcase he always carries around with him and produced this book of verse. There it was – the very same poem, word for word, which the boy from Urebank had read out as his own.’
‘So what did you do?’ asked Miss Wilson.
‘What could I do?’ replied the deputy head teacher. ‘I went with Oscar and we informed Mrs Twiddle, who told the judges.’
‘Good for you, Miriam,’ said Mrs Robertshaw.
‘At first they were not inclined to believe me. The poetess in the floral tent pulled a face and pointed at Oscar and said, “I think he must be mistaken,” and, “How old is this child?” and Oscar piped up, “Old enough to talk!” Well, you should have seen her face. Then he told her he was surprised she hadn’t heard of such a famous poet as Peter Dixon and showed her the poetry book and the poem published in it. The judges couldn’t do anything other than disqualify the boy from Urebank.’
‘Good grief!’ exclaimed Mrs Robertshaw. ‘The boy’s teacher won’t have been best pleased.’
‘Oh no, he wasn’t,’ said Miss Brakespeare. ‘He glowered at me and then, as I was leaving, he came over and said, “I suppose you’re satisfied.” I said that it wasn’t me who had copied out someone else’s poem and if he was angry with anyone it should be his pupil.’
‘You did right,’ said Mrs Robertshaw.
‘Then this teacher said that things would change at Barton when his head teacher was in charge.’
‘He said what?’
‘That Mr Richardson would be taking over.’
Trouble at the Little Village School Page 25
