‘There is something wrong with my teeth,’ said Miss Sowerbutts, moving her mouth from side to side.
‘Your teeth?’
‘My false teeth. They were taken away when I was admitted and now they’ve been returned to me they don’t seem to fit.’ She gave a twisted and rather alarming smile, displaying a set of large and ugly yellow teeth.
‘Probably because your mouth is still very swollen,’ explained the young doctor. ‘I am sure that when the swelling goes down they will be all right. Anyway, I will have a word with the sister.’ He glanced at his wristwatch, eager to be away.
‘I have already had a word with the sister and I can’t say she has been all that helpful.’
‘I shall speak to her after I have finished my rounds,’ said the young doctor. ‘And now, if there is nothing else . . .’
‘There is,’ said Miss Sowerbutts. ‘I should be in a private room. I did mention this to the sister but she has not seen fit to do anything about it. I have a private patients’ plan and should not be in a general ward.’
‘I believe that the private rooms are fully occupied,’ the doctor told her.
‘Well, it is just not good enough!’ snapped Miss Sowerbutts. ‘I pay through the nose for private medical care and should not be put in a general ward next to some destitute who clearly has mental problems. I had to endure the moaning and wheezing and coughing of the woman in the next bed all night.’
‘I will have a word with the sister about that too,’ the doctor assured her. ‘And now if you will excuse me—’
‘And the food is execrable.’ She gestured to the plate beside her.
‘I beg your pardon?’ The young doctor tried to hide his irritation.
‘Inedible. Not fit to be eaten.’ The young doctor sighed and scratched his forehead. He had thought when he was on Accident and Emergency that times were stressful, but at that moment wished he was back with the cuts and bruises and broken noses.
‘And am I to see a specialist?’ demanded Miss Sowerbutts.
‘There is really no need for that,’ he told her with an edge to his voice. ‘But I have no doubt that Mr Pennington will see you before you are discharged. You have suffered some bruising and a broken arm, which will heal given time. Now I really must get on. I do have other patients to see.’ She opened her mouth to respond but he hastened away.
Later that morning the ward sister approached the bed with a frosty expression. ‘Doctor tells me you have a series of complaints,’ she said coldly.
‘Yes,’ said Miss Sowerbutts. ‘I should be in a private room. I am not an NHS patient, which I explained to you. I am a private patient. I had a most disagreeable night having to listen to the woman in the next bed coughing and spluttering and shouting out.’
‘You won’t have to put up with that tonight,’ the ward sister assured her stiffly.
‘Good.’
‘The poor woman died this morning.’
‘Oh, well, I’m sorry to hear that, but nevertheless—’
‘You will be moved into a private room when one becomes available,’ said the ward sister. ‘Anything else?’
‘The food is inedible.’
‘It’s simple and nutritious and quite adequate,’ said the ward sister. ‘Should you wish, your relatives or friends can supplement it with something more.’ She made an effort to hide her irritation.
‘And then there’s the question of my teeth, which I have mentioned to you before.’
‘Your teeth?’
‘Yes, my teeth. They are most uncomfortable and have turned a most unpleasant colour.’ She showed a mouth full of yellow teeth.
The ward sister was quite taken aback by the ugly set of dentures she now looked upon and realised what had happened. The woman had the wrong teeth. She was sure that the set she was viewing were originally in the woman who had occupied the next bed and was now stretched out in the morgue, probably in possession of Miss Sowerbutts’s teeth. The two sets of dentures must have been mixed up when they were taken to be cleaned. The ward sister did not lose her composure but asked a nurse to bring a bowl. ‘If you would place your teeth in here,’ she said to Miss Sowerbutts, holding out the receptacle, ‘I shall ask the orthodontist to take a look.’
In the corridor the sister asked the nurse to retrieve Miss Sowerbutts’s teeth from the poor woman in the morgue and replace them with the ones in the bowl.
‘And give them a good scrub,’ she told her.
It was much later that day when Miss Sowerbutts finally got her own teeth back. It had been a difficult task extracting the false teeth from the corpse, for rigor mortis had set in and the mouth of the deceased had been firmly clamped shut.
At visiting time Miss Brakespeare appeared. She was dressed in a smart camel-hair coat, red scarf and matching beret.
‘I thought I would call in and see how you are,’ she told her former colleague.
‘“Bearing up”, as my mother would say,’ replied Miss Sowerbutts.
‘So how are you feeling?’
‘About as well as I look: sore, bruised, aching and desperate to get out of this place.’
‘I’ve brought you some biscuits and a bunch of grapes.’
‘Thank goodness for something edible. The food in here is unfit for human consumption. Put them in the bedside cabinet, will you.’
‘Well, we’ve had a right carry-on in the village,’ Miss Brakespeare told her.
‘Really.’ Miss Sowerbutts nodded and gave a thin smile that conveyed little more than feigned interest.
‘Someone tried to rob the village store and post office,’ she said. ‘He threatened Major Neville-Gravitas with a knife, so Mrs Sloughthwaite sprayed him in the face with oven cleaner.’
‘Who, the major?’
‘No, the robber. They trussed him up. Thankfully nobody was hurt – well, apart from the robber, who was nearly blinded. Fancy though, such a thing happening in Barton. We’ve never had anything like it before in the village. Everybody’s talking about it and we’ve had newspaper reporters and television cameras. It’s been really exciting.’
Miss Sowerbutts laughed in a mirthless way. ‘Well, that’s one more reason for me to go and live elsewhere,’ she remarked. ‘Fortunately De Courcey Apartments have a very sophisticated security system.’
‘Then, you know Mr Massey’s nephew, young Clarence? I taught him some years ago. He’s not the shiniest apple in the orchard but he’s a nice enough lad, well—’
‘Don’t mention that foolish young man to me,’ interrupted Miss Sowerbutts. ‘I have never met anyone so lacking in common sense, and that useless uncle of his is a most idle and unreliable individual. Only covered my lawn in bleach to kill those moles I had, and the only thing he succeeded in killing was the grass.’
‘Well, his nephew has up and gone with that Bianca, the young woman who had the baby. Evidently the child is his. They’ve got themselves a council flat in Clayton – actually it’s not too far from where you’re going to live – and Clarence is working at the bread factory—’
‘Miriam,’ said Miss Sowerbutts, with a faint twist of the thin lips, ‘might I stop you. I am not really interested in the carryings-on of an unmarried girl who has managed to secure a council flat by dint of having a child and who is no doubt receiving every state benefit she can get her hands on.’
‘I see,’ said Miss Brakespeare. ‘I just thought you might be interested.’ She breathed in and glanced at her watch. ‘Is there anything you want?’ she asked her former colleague eventually.
‘I want a private room, that’s what I want,’ said Miss Sowerbutts crossly, ‘but they’ve put me in this general ward with all manner of unsavoury people. There was a down-and-out in the bed next to me last night shouting out and making all manner of noises. I didn’t get a wink of sleep.’
‘So, there’s nothing I can get you?’ asked Miss Brakespeare, wishing to escape.
‘Well, you could stock up on a few provisions for me – milk, bread, bu
tter, that sort of thing – for when I get out. I’ve made a list. It’s in the drawer on my bedside cabinet. Go to the supermarket, not the village store. I don’t patronise that establishment. I find the proprietor very sharp and offhand.’
‘She did very well tackling the robber as she did,’ said Miss Brakespeare.
Miss Sowerbutts made no comment. ‘And you could call into the chemist’s for my prescription and pop in at my cottage to make sure everything is all right. I’ll give you the keys before you go. If it’s cold turn up the heating. While you are there give the plants a water. If I think of anything else, I’ll give you a ring.’
‘Well, I’d like to be of help,’ said Miss Brakespeare, smiling awkwardly, ‘but I’m off to Scarborough for the weekend. I just popped in before we set off. We’re going straight on from the hospital.’
‘You’re going to Scarborough in this weather? Sooner you than me.’
‘We like it at this time of year. It’s very bracing, and we’ve booked to see a Gilbert and Sullivan at the Spa. Mother is quite excited.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Miss Sowerbutts with a hard stern expression on her face.
There was an embarrassed silence. ‘It must have been a terrible shock for you.’
‘What was?’
‘Falling down the stairs like that. One has to be very careful at your age.’
Miss Sowerbutts pressed her lips together in a tight thin line. ‘I am not senile, Miriam. It was the stupid cat, stretched out like that. I could have broken my neck.’
‘Where is the cat, by the way?’
‘Dr Stirling is looking after it until I get home, so you don’t need to worry. I’ll not be asking you to look after it.’
‘I couldn’t anyway. Mother’s allergic to cats,’ said Miss Brakespeare meekly. They sat in silence for a while. ‘And fancy Malcolm Stubbins of all people coming to your rescue.’
‘Yes, for once in his life he acted very sensibly,’ admitted Miss Sowerbutts. ‘I shall send him a book token when I get out of here, though I very much doubt he will ever use it. I always found that boy to be a wayward child, self-willed and perverse, but I have to confess that what he did was commendable.’
‘He seems to have settled down lately,’ said her former colleague. ‘I think the starting of a football team at the school was the making of the boy. He heard last week that he’d been spotted at one of the matches by a talent scout who works for the football club in Clayton, and he will be attending some sort of sports academy one evening a week. And you remember Chardonnay, well—’
‘Miriam, may I stop you there? I am not really interested any more in matters related to the village school,’ said Miss Sowerbutts. ‘I am now moving on to pastures new and a life in Clayton.’
‘And are you looking forward to your move?’ asked Miss Brakespeare. ‘I believe you’ve sold the cottage.’
‘Yes, and they’re supposed to be moving in next month. I am certainly not looking forward to the upheaval,’ replied Miss Sowerbutts. ‘However I am going to manage on my own, the state I am in at the moment, I do not know.’ Miss Brakespeare resisted the temptation to say she would help. ‘I shall just have to delay moving until I am good and ready.’
‘So will Dr Stirling have the cat when you move into your flat?’
‘Apartment,’ she corrected. ‘No, he won’t. It’s merely a temporary measure until I get out of hospital.’
‘Well, I don’t think they allow pets in the flats – apartments, I mean.’
‘Of course they allow pets, Miriam. Whatever gave you that idea?’
‘Well, Mrs Sloughthwaite was saying that Danny Stainthorpe, who’s gone to live with his grandmother, wasn’t allowed to take his pet ferret with him.’
‘What have Daniel Stainthorpe and his grandmother got to do with me?’
‘His grandmother’s living in the same block of flats – apartments – as you.’
Miss Sowerbutts jolted up in her bed as if she had been bitten. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! The apartments are part of the prestigious waterfront development and are well out of her league.’
‘De Courcey Apartments, overlooking the river and the cathedral,’ said Miss Brakespeare. ‘She was telling Mrs Sloughthwaite in the village store and post office that she’s moved in.’
‘That dreadful woman who served behind the bar at the Blacksmith’s Arms and ran off with the salesman, her with the peroxide hair and the cigarette dangling from her mouth, a neighbour of mine?’
‘That’s what Mrs Sloughthwaite told me, and she said they don’t allow pets.’
Miss Sowerbutts leaned back on her pillow and closed her eyes. ‘This is just too much,’ she moaned.
‘Well, I’m only telling you what I heard,’ said Miss Brakespeare.
‘Does it give you some perverse pleasure, Miriam,’ said Miss Sowerbutts, ‘to tell me such depressing news?’
‘Of course not, I just thought you ought to know, that’s all,’ she said. After a few silent and uncomfortable moments Miss Brakespeare glanced at her watch. ‘Well, I must be off,’ she said cheerfully, getting to her feet. ‘We want to get to Scarborough and check into the hotel before it gets dark. Then we’ve got a meal booked before the theatre. I’ll call in to see you again when I get back and you’re out of hospital.’
‘I really wouldn’t bother,’ whispered the patient in the bed, who had been thoroughly depressed by the visit.
‘Oh, and a bit of news,’ said her former colleague. ‘I’m retiring at the end of next term.’
Miss Sowerbutts opened her eyes. ‘Retiring?’ she repeated.
‘Well, what with all this amalgamation and such I thought it was time. I’ve looked into it and I get full enhancement on my salary, a lump sum and my full pension, so I’ll not be badly off. I shall be moving to Scarborough. Mother’s always liked that part of the coast. And, of course, George likes it there too.’
‘George?’
‘George Tomlinson. He plays the organ at the Bethesda Chapel. Didn’t I say? We’re getting married.’
‘All I’m saying, Mrs Scrimshaw,’ said the caretaker as he stood at the door of the school office, ‘is that it looks as if there’s another woman on the scene.’
‘And where did you hear this nugget of gossip?’ asked the school secretary, peering over her glasses.
‘René Holroyd who runs the café in the high street was telling Mrs Sloughthwaite and she told Mrs Widowson, who mentioned it to my wife.’
‘The jungle telegraph has been busy,’ remarked Mrs Scrimshaw.
‘They were seen in the café very lovey-dovey by all accounts,’ related the caretaker. ‘Holding his hand she was. So it looks as if something’s going on with Dr Stirling and that new vicar.’
‘And what is your point?’ asked the school secretary.
‘I’m just saying that they seem to be getting on very well together,’ said the caretaker. ‘Mrs Widowson, who’s big in the Mothers’ Union, told my wife that Dr Stirling has been giving talks down at the church for her.’
‘And?’
‘And that they’ve been seen in his car together, so perhaps the good doctor’s affections are elsewhere now, or he’s playing fast and loose with Mrs Devine.’
‘And what’s it got to do with me?’ she asked, ‘Or with anyone else for that matter, where Dr Stirling’s affections are?’
‘Nothing,’ said the caretaker. ‘I’m just saying.’
‘Is Dr Stirling married to Mrs Devine?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘Engaged?’
‘No.’
‘Are they going out together?’
‘Not as I know of.’
‘Then why shouldn’t Dr Stirling be in a café with the new curate?’
‘If you put it like that—’ began the caretaker.
‘Really, Mr Gribbon,’ she sighed. ‘You’re worse than the woman in the post office when it comes to tittle-tattle. Now I’ve got better things to do than listen to what Dr Stirling m
ight or might not be getting up to, and I’m sure Mrs Pugh could do with a helping hand buffing the floors.’
Elisabeth, who had heard the conversation from outside, walked slowly down the corridor to her classroom.
As soon as she arrived back at her cottage Miss Sowerbutts was on the telephone to the estate agents. The dapper young man in the smart grey suit, slicked-back hair and designer glasses arrived the following day as she had requested. He sat on the edge of a chair clutching a sheaf of papers, with one foot masking the other to hide the hole in his sock. The visitor had been asked to leave his shoes in the hall so as not to mark the pale cream carpet in the lounge. He had not been offered a drink.
‘So, it’s just a matter of your signature, Miss Sowerbutts,’ he said, ‘and then we can proceed.’
‘I did not ask you here for me to sign anything, Mr Raddison,’ said Miss Sowerbutts, ‘I asked you here to inform you that I do not intend to move, that the cottage is no longer for sale.’
‘Not move!’ exclaimed the young man. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘After careful consideration,’ she told him, ‘I have decided to stay in Barton-in-the-Dale, certainly for the foreseeable future.’
‘But Miss Sowerbutts, the price was agreed, the contracts have been drawn up and the purchasers are ready to move in. They have sold their house and are just waiting now for you to complete.’
‘Well, I don’t intend to “complete”, as you put it,’ she replied.
‘But everything is arranged,’ he pleaded. ‘You accepted their offer. It was agreed.’
‘I have signed nothing, and until I append my name to the contract of sale nothing can proceed.’
‘But Miss Sowerbutts—’
She held up a hand. ‘Young man, let me repeat myself. I am not selling the cottage.’
‘But why?’
‘Because I have changed my mind,’ she told him.
‘May I ask the reason?’
‘Because I was unaware that pets are not allowed in the De Courcey Apartments, and as you can see’ – she gestured to the lazy Siamese cat stretched out on the carpet – ‘I have a cat.’
Of course the principal reason for the change of mind was not the cat. Following her fall down the stairs the creature was not in her best books, and the idea of finding another home for it was not so unthinkable. It was the thought of having a neighbour of the ilk of that dreadfully common Mrs Stainthorpe that made her shudder. She had been led to believe that the residents of the state-of-the-art apartments would be of the educated, professional, genteel class, like herself.
Trouble at the Little Village School Page 31
