Prince Rupert, on his way to Marston Moor to fight Oliver Cromwell, was reputed to have stayed at the Blacksmith’s Arms, and it was said that Emily Brontë once spent a weekend at Limebeck House, but these were probably fanciful tales. There had been the fire up at the rectory a century before, when the rural dean, a seasoned drinker and notorious gambler, had set himself and the building alight, and the time during the last war when Mr Osbaldiston had discovered a German pilot hiding in his barn and handed him over to the Home Guard at the point of a pitchfork, but that was about it.
The village had a timeless quality about it that suited Mrs Sloughthwaite. Former inhabitants long since dead and buried in St Christopher’s churchyard, were they to be resurrected, would recognise it immediately, for little had changed. And this is how Mrs Sloughthwaite and the villagers of Barton-in-the-Dale wanted it. Change was regarded with deep suspicion, for it inevitably meant a change for the worse. The Parish Council, supported by the older and more vociferous residents and the few commuters who wished to escape the hectic life of the city after a hard day’s work, actively discouraged any sort of development, wishing to preserve the peaceful and unhurried lifestyle. Newcomers were regarded by Mrs Sloughthwaite from a distance at first, and their behaviour was meticulously observed until she had decided whether or not they were acceptable to her. Should she take a dislike to a person, not only would the unfortunate recipient of her displeasure get yesterday’s bread but their character would be well and truly traduced over the counter later on.
Mrs Sloughthwaite looked down the high street and breathed in noisily. She waved to Mrs Siddall, setting up her fruit and vegetable stall outside the greengrocer’s, and to Mr Farringdon, who stood at the door of his hardware shop, broom held like a bayonet over his chest ready for a charge. Mrs Sloughthwaite had lived here all her life, and she loved this village with its surrounding scattered conifer plantations, pale stone and pantile-roofed cottages, the old walls of greenish white limestone enclosing the solid Norman church with its square tower spearing the sky, the black yews and elms in the graveyard, the two pubs and the proud monument built in honour of the second Viscount Wadsworth, a long-dead local squire. Nothing of any real note happened here, but that was the way she liked it – predictable and undisturbed, well away from the noise and the bustle of town and city life. Mind you, she thought, folding her arms under her substantial bosom, there was a bit of interesting news. A new head teacher had been appointed up at the school. A glimmer of private amusement passed across her face as she thought of Miss Sowerbutts, the present holder of the post. That long beak of a nose had been well and truly put out of joint, or so she had heard.
It was as if the very thought of the said woman had conjured her up, for there she stood, body stiffly upright and wearing that silly knitted hat and mothball-scented skirt, with a battered canvas shopping bag hanging loosely from her arm.
‘I take it you are open?’ asked Miss Sowerbutts, without a smile.
‘Oh, I didn’t see you there, Miss Sowerbutts,’ replied the shopkeeper in an overly friendly way. She smiled insincerely at the customer with the curled lip, hooded brow and heavy, judgemental eyes. ‘I was in a world of my own. Yes, indeed we are open.’ She moved out of the doorway to let the first customer of the day pass into the shop, following her and smoothing her hands down the front of her nylon overall. ‘I was miles away.’ She positioned herself behind the counter. ‘It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ replied Miss Sowerbutts, scanning the shelves.
‘I love this time of year when all the buds come out and the flowers appear. June is my favourite month, although I have to say—’
‘Are these the only biscuits you have?’ interrupted Miss Sowerbutts stiffly.
‘I’m afraid so. We don’t have much call for any others. The custard creams are nice and there’s a Venetian selection box which is very popular.’
‘They are not to my taste,’ replied the customer. ‘I don’t have a sweet tooth. I want rich tea or plain digestives. I shall have to go into town next week.’
Suit yourself, you miserable old crone, thought Mrs Sloughthwaite. It wouldn’t hurt her to be pleasant once in a while. That face of hers could have been hacked out of wood with a blunt axe.
‘I gather they’ve appointed the new head teacher up at the school,’ said the shopkeeper casually. It was a carefully and cleverly aimed provocation. She had heard from Mrs Pocock how displeased Miss Sowerbutts had been at not being consulted in the appointment of her successor and how she had stormed out of the school without even meeting her.
‘Yes, so I hear,’ was the murmured reply. The thin smile conveyed little more than feigned interest. ‘I’ll take a jar of that coffee, the special roasted blend.’
Mrs Sloughthwaite reached up to the shelf behind her. ‘Yes, Mrs Pocock called in for her order yesterday afternoon and said the governors had appointed.’
‘Did she? I’ll have a packet of brown sugar as well.’
‘Very colourful character by all accounts.’
‘Who is?’
‘The new head teacher.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t know,’ Miss Sowerbutts told her with quick indifference. ‘I’ve not met her. Are those scones freshly baked? The ones I had last week were on the stale side. You might mention that to your supplier.’
‘These are fresh as a daisy,’ replied the shopkeeper, with the fixed and artificial smile she had perfected over the years when faced with an objectionable customer. ‘You’ll be able to put your feet up now, won’t you, and enjoy your retirement,’ she added. It was a comment guaranteed to annoy.
Miss Sowerbutts stiffened, fixing Mrs Sloughthwaite with a piercing stare. ‘Retirement?’ she repeated.
‘Well, now that you’ve finished at the school you’ll have time on your hands, I should imagine.’ The shopkeeper’s smile was a mask on her face.
‘Mrs Sloughthwaite,’ Miss Sowerbutts replied with a bleak smile, ‘I am not the sort of person who puts her feet up and I will most certainly not have time on my hands. I shall be as busy as ever.’ She dug into her canvas bag for her purse. ‘I’ll leave the scones,’ she said. ‘How much for the coffee and the sugar?’
Marcia Atticus was digging in the herbaceous borders of the rectory garden when she caught sight of the lone figure wandering among the gravestones, pausing here and there to examine the inscriptions on the weathered stones. The visitor was a striking-looking woman with bright blonde hair, dressed in a stylish cream raincoat and a pale silk scarf of eau-de-Nil.
‘Are you looking for someone in particular?’ asked the vicar’s wife, leaning over the low stone wall that surrounded the rectory garden.
Elisabeth turned and smiled broadly. ‘No, I was just looking. I find epitaphs fascinating. Some are quite small and rather sweet but others are so huge and elaborate, like that huge marble mausoleum in the centre of the graveyard. It dwarfs every other.’
‘It was meant to,’ the vicar’s wife told her. ‘That’s the tomb of the notorious Dean Joseph Steerum-Slack. He was quite an unpleasant and outrageous character by all accounts. Spent most of his time hunting and drinking and gambling. Burnt the rectory to the ground with himself and his dogs inside during the last century. The Reverend Steerum-Slack was the only notable figure the village has ever had. He was larger than life when he was alive and he certainly intended to be larger than life when he was dead and never to be forgotten – hence that ridiculously over-the-top monstrosity with more Latin on it than in a Roman missal. He designed it himself, and left sufficient money in his will to have it erected. If it was up to me, I’d knock the thing down.’
Elisabeth smiled. ‘Are you the vicar?’ she asked.
‘Gracious me, no!’ exclaimed Mrs Atticus. ‘I’m his wife. My husband closets himself away on Saturday mornings to write his sermons. He spends hours in his study, working out what he will say on the Sunday. It’s a pity so few seem to listen to or indeed understand him.’ Th
ere was a hint of disapproval in her voice.
‘ I am sure that is not the case,’ replied Elisabeth diplomatically.
‘Oh, but it is,’ the vicar’s wife confided. ‘My husband feels he should give everyone the full benefit of his extensive knowledge, but I fear it falls upon stony ground.’
‘It’s a beautiful church, and so peaceful here,’ said Elisabeth, changing the subject tactfully.
‘A little too peaceful for my liking,’ said Mrs Atticus, smiling ruefully.
‘And your garden is quite delightful. I’ve never seen such a variety of plants.’
‘One tries one’s best. It’s such an effort keeping the lawn in this condition. The dandelion seeds blow over from the graveyard. Such a nuisance. I do so wish Mr Massey would do something about the weeds. He is supposed to keep it tidy but he spends most of his time in the Blacksmith’s Arms and comes and goes as he pleases.’
‘Is the church open?’ asked Elisabeth.
‘Oh yes, my husband never locks it. I have told him that one day when the brass candlesticks disappear from the altar, and the poor box goes missing, he will finally decide to lock the door. My husband is a very trusting man. He tends to see the good in everyone.’
‘Well, he is a priest, after all,’ Elisabeth commented. ‘I think that is what priests are supposed to do.’
‘That is exactly what he says,’ said the vicar’s wife wryly. ‘And, speak of the devil – if you will pardon the expression – here he comes.’
The Reverend Atticus emerged from the rectory, rubbing together his long white hands. He was a tall man with a thin-boned face, skin as smooth as parchment, high arching brows and a long prominent nose. When she had first set eyes upon him at her interview the day before, Elisabeth had thought he had the appearance of someone who was likely to be a severe and uncompromising individual, but he had proved very different. As soon as he had opened his mouth, she decided that she liked the Reverend Atticus, with his soft voice and solicitous and kindly manner. Unlike the stony-faced doctor who never said a word and the bellicose, red-faced councillor with the loud voice, the Reverend Atticus had smiled a great deal throughout her interview and listened attentively to her answers. He had been the first to extend a hand to congratulate her when she had been offered the job, and he had expressed the hope that she would settle into the school and be happy in her new role. She had met his type before: honest and courteous, an other-worldly man of calm and calming disposition. The clergyman’s smile broadened when he caught sight of her talking to his wife.
‘Ah,’ he said breezily, addressing his wife, ‘you have become acquainted with our new head teacher, my dear?’
‘Oh!’ exclaimed Mrs Atticus. ‘I didn’t realise.’
‘I’m Elisabeth Devine,’ said Elisabeth, extending a hand across the wall.
Marcia Atticus removed a gardening glove. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you,’ she said.
‘I thought I would spend a day in the village, have a look around and get a feel for the place,’ Mrs Devine explained. ‘It’s quite a delightful spot, so unspoilt and tranquil.’
‘We like it,’ replied the vicar, glancing at his wife. ‘Don’t we, my dear?’
His wife gave a small and unconvincing smile, but didn’t reply.
‘I’m just about to have an interlude from writing tomorrow’s sermon,’ continued the cleric cheerfully. ‘I’m considering the Parable of the Lost Sheep. Sheep always go down well in this part of the world. I feel sure my wife would enjoy a cup of coffee and a break from her labours in the garden. Perhaps you might like to join us, Mrs Devine?’
‘I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble,’ replied Elisabeth.
‘Oh, no trouble,’ replied the vicar. He had the gentle look of a domesticated cat.
‘Then I should very much like to join you,’ she said.
‘Good, good,’ cooed the vicar.
The rectory was an unprepossessing building that had been erected in the late nineteenth century to replace an imposing grey stone Georgian mansion. With its shiny red brick walls, greasy grey slate roof, small square windows, towers and turrets and enveloping high black iron fence, the building resembled more of a workhouse than a vicarage. Inside it was cool and unwelcoming, with its black and white patterned tiles in the hallway, plain off-white walls, high ceilings and heavy oak doors. The place smelt of old wood and lavender floor polish.
‘Come through into the sitting room, Mrs Devine,’ urged the vicar. ‘It’s a little more homely than the drawing room. My wife will entertain you while I get the coffee.’
Elisabeth wondered what the drawing room could look like when she followed Mrs Atticus into a sombre and spartan space with heavy old-fashioned furniture, dark faded carpet and thick, plain green curtains. Her eyes were immediately drawn to a large watercolour painting of St Christopher’s church which hung above the mantelpiece. It was one of the rare bits of colour.
‘So what brings you to Barton-in-the-Dale?’ asked the vicar’s wife, gesturing to her visitor to take a seat in a heavy and threadbare armchair.
Elisabeth Devine did not know the questioner sufficiently well to confide in her why she had decided to leave such a comfortable, well-paid and rewarding position in the city to move to a small village in the Yorkshire Dales. She knew that whatever she divulged would spread like wildfire throughout the small community. It was best, she thought, to be evasive.
‘Oh, I felt like a change,’ she replied, casually. ‘City life has become increasingly hectic and noisy and I decided it was time to move on.’
Mrs Atticus stared for a moment at her visitor, studying her carefully. Those penetrating pale blue eyes of hers, she thought, revealed nothing. She was certain there was more to it than merely a change of scenery and the desire for a quiet life. ‘You will certainly find it very quiet here,’ she said. ‘Things move very slowly in Barton-in-the-Dale. It’s a very close-knit community and you will find there’s a real resistance to outside influences and to any changes. It’s a pretty enough village, of course, and if you are seeking a peaceful, rural existence then I am sure you will find it to your liking. I, for one, would quite welcome the hectic, city life.’
‘I’m sure I will be very happy here,’ Elisabeth replied, with a small smile.
‘Of course,’ continued the vicar’s wife, ‘although it might not be as quiet and uneventful as you imagine. You will be well aware that the school is in something of a crisis.’ Elisabeth had not known things were quite that bad, but decided to remain quiet. ‘As you will know, it had a dire report from the school inspectors,’ continued Mrs Atticus, ‘and parents are taking their children away and sending them to the school at Urebank. It will be a real challenge for you.’
Elisabeth felt it had been rather underhand of the governors that the report had only been mentioned by the vicar at her interview the day before, but she maintained her composure and smiled. ‘I like a challenge,’ she said.
Yes, thought the vicar’s wife, I bet you do. This woman was intriguing. She was certainly very different from the people she usually came across in the village, who talked about nothing more interesting than the recipes for chutney or the price of sheep.
‘Here we are with the coffee.’ The vicar arrived carrying a tray. ‘I am afraid it’s only of the instant variety.’
‘I was telling Mrs Devine, Charles,’ said his wife, ‘that she will have her work cut out taking on the village school. It will be a real challenge turning it around.’
‘I am sure Mrs Devine is most capable of doing that, my dear,’ said the vicar.
‘I hope so,’ replied Elisabeth.
‘And tell me, Mrs Devine, have you met the redoubtable Miss Sowerbutts yet?’ asked Marcia Atticus.
‘Very briefly,’ replied Elisabeth, ‘but, as your husband knows, I mentioned to the Chairman of Governors after the interview that I would like to call in to the school on Wednesday to meet the staff and the children. I am sure Miss Sowerbutts will fill me in on wha
t I need to know when I visit.’
Mrs Atticus gave a hollow laugh. ‘Oh, I am sure she will do that. She is very adept at filling people in.’
The vicar ignored such an uncharitable observation, even though he knew there was more than a ring of truth about it. He had crossed swords with the head teacher on a number of occasions, and found Miss Sowerbutts to be intransigent and difficult to deal with. He remained shiftily silent.
‘Wouldn’t you say so, Charles?’ asked Mrs Atticus, with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
Her husband smiled the tolerant, patient smile of the sort a teacher might employ when explaining things to a small child, and decided to disregard the question.
‘Milk and sugar, Mrs Devine?’ he asked.
‘Just milk, please,’ she replied.
‘Of course,’ continued Mrs Atticus, quite enjoying her husband’s discomfiture. ‘Miss Sowerbutts is something of a sad figure. She’s taught in the school all her career. They made her head teacher, I reckon, as some sort of long-service award. I guess there has been little passion in her uneventful life, and numerous disappointments. Why else should she be so ill-tempered with people, and so crotchety?’
The vicar raised an eyebrow in wordless contradiction.
Marcia Atticus reached for her coffee and took a small sip from the china cup. ‘She has lived in the same cottage in the village where she grew up, a place where nothing ever happens, ruling the roost in the school like some Victorian school ma’am and—’
‘My dear,’ interrupted the vicar, shuffling on his chair with obvious embarrassment, ‘I feel sure Mrs Devine does not wish to hear this.’
There was a distinct coldness in his wife’s reply. ‘I am merely telling Mrs Devine what everyone in the village thinks and preparing her for meeting Miss Sowerbutts. If she is expecting the red carpet treatment and a warm welcome then she is in for a rude awakening.’
The Little Village School Page 5
