‘Well, you can do something about that later when you’ve got your story down on paper,’ Elisabeth told him. ‘The content of what you write is very interesting. The main thing is to write your story. It’s very amusing.’
‘Not really, miss,’ he said.
‘It is. It’s very entertaining. I enjoyed reading it. It’s a bit difficult to read at the end, though.’
‘When I start off I take my time, miss,’ he said, ‘but then, when I get going, all these ideas come into my head and I rush things and then it gets more and more untidy.’
‘I know all about that,’ said his neighbour, a boy with ink-stained fingers. ‘I sometimes think my pen’s got a life of its own.’
Elisabeth laughed. ‘It happens to me too,’ she said.
Miss Brakespeare, at the other side of the room, raised her voice suddenly. ‘I’ve told you twice now, Malcolm, to start writing and you’ve sat there and not put pen to paper yet.’
‘Well, it’s boring,’ grunted the boy truculently. ‘Anyway, I don’t know what to do.’
‘I’ve explained what you have to do,’ the teacher told him.
‘Well, I don’t want to do it,’ the boy said, folding his arms.
‘In that case, I suggest you go and stand outside Miss Sowerbutts’ room and think about it for a while.’
The boy got to his feet and shuffled out of the room.
Chardonnay turned around. ‘I told you, miss,’ she said nodding. ‘He’s often sent out. He’s a real nuisance.’
‘May I look at your reading book?’ Elisabeth asked a small boy with spiky hair that stood up like a lavatory brush and large pale eyes between almost colourless lashes. He was wearing glasses with thick lenses like the bottom of a milk bottle and had been exploring his nose with an index finger until Elisabeth bent down at his side. He produced an old and dogeared reader from his desk entitled Fisherman Fred. ‘Are there any newer or more modern books for you to read?’ she asked. ‘Novels, short stories, poetry anthologies?’ The boy shook his head. Elisabeth asked the boy to read from the arid text, which he did: ‘Fisherman Fred is getting ready to go to sea. He is wearing his big fisherman’s boots. He likes the sea. He likes to sail in boats. He likes to catch fish.’ The boy looked up. ‘Crap, innit?’ he observed.
Elisabeth moved on and arrived at Danny’s desk. ‘Hello,’ she said.
The boy looked embarrassed. ‘Hello, miss,’ he replied quietly.
The boy sitting next to Danny was a small, pale-faced boy with curly blond hair, his head bent over his work.
‘Hello,’ Elisabeth said to him.
The child lowered his head further and closed his exercise book with a snap, before placing both his hands firmly on the top. It was clear he was not going to share his work.
‘And what is your name?’ she asked.
The boy looked up at her furtively with deep-set eyes that seemed in search of something. There was an air of vulnerability about him which she guessed set him apart from the other children.
‘James dunt say owt, miss,’ said Danny. ‘He never does.’
‘Well, there are quiet people in the world,’ Elisabeth said, just as Miss Brakespeare raised her voice again in reprimand.
‘And if you don’t get on with your work, Ernest Pocock, you can join Malcolm Stubbins outside Miss Sowerbutts’ room.’
At morning break Elisabeth joined the teacher of the lower juniors, who was on playground duty. She had been invited by Miss Brakespeare to join her and Miss Sowerbutts for coffee in the head teacher’s room at morning break but had declined, saying she was keen to meet the teachers and the children. She wished to see as little as possible of Miss Sowerbutts and she guessed the feeling was mutual.
Mrs Robertshaw was a broad, ruddy-complexioned woman with a wide, friendly face and steely-grey hair gathered up untidily on her head. She was dressed in a brightly coloured floral dress and a shapeless pink cardigan beneath her raincoat, and wore a rope of pearls and matching earrings.
‘We are being observed,’ confided the teacher, her lips almost pressed together, as she walked with Elisabeth around the playground. ‘They’re both watching us from the head teacher’s room, no doubt wondering what we’re talking about.’ Elisabeth had noted herself that the head teacher and her deputy were peering through a window. ‘Having spoken to Miss Sowerbutts,’ continued Mrs Robertshaw, ‘it will come as no surprise to you that I don’t get on with her.’
‘Yes, I got that impression,’ Elisabeth told her.
Before they turned the corner of the building Mrs Robertshaw twisted around and looked back in the direction of the head teacher’s window. ‘I can guess what those two are saying and you can bet it’s not about the weather.’ She stared defiantly at the figures peering at her. ‘Miss Brakespeare’s pleasant enough, well-intentioned and harmless, but she’s well and truly under the thumb of Miss Sowerbutts and can’t sneeze without asking her permission. I’ve been too long in the profession to be browbeaten by that sort of head teacher. I suppose I’m speaking out of turn, but I’m the kind of person to speak my mind.’ Elisabeth could tell that but didn’t reply. ‘Anyway, things were made even worse for me after the inspection,’ she continued, ‘particularly when Miss Sowerbutts came in for most of the criticism and Miss Wilson and myself received some very positive comments from the inspectors. Miss Sowerbutts was not best pleased. The inspectors said that there needed to be a lot of changes here, but I guess you already know that. You will be like a much-needed breath of fresh air.’
‘I believe you are thinking of leaving?’ said Elisabeth.
‘I am leaving, yes,’ Mrs Robertshaw replied. ‘My contract terminates at the end of term, so I am looking for another position. I shall miss the children but little else.’
‘Would you consider staying if there were a permanent job?’
Mrs Robertshaw stopped and faced Elisabeth. ‘Are you serious?’ she asked.
‘Yes, of course I am.’
‘Well, it’s not something I have given a lot of thought to.’ Mrs Robertshaw fingered the pearls at her throat. ‘I had assumed that at the end of the term I would be leaving. Miss Sowerbutts made it quite clear that you would probably be keen to bring in some new teachers – “a clean sweep”, as she termed it.’
‘Then Miss Sowerbutts is mistaken,’ Elisabeth replied. ‘There needs to be a period of stability, and appointing new teachers at this stage would be very disruptive, to say the least. I should like to ask you to delay applying for any posts until after I start here. I can’t promise that I will be able to make your post permanent, but there is every likelihood that I can. Give me a chance to settle in and see how we like working together. Will you do that?’
‘Well,’ said Mrs Robertshaw smiling, ‘that’s come as a bit of a shock. I was thinking of applying for a post at Urebank, the neighbouring school, but after I had a look around I decided not to. It would be out of the frying pan and into the fire. I can’t say that I was overly impressed with the head teacher when I visited the school. Mr Richardson’s not a friend of yours, is he?’ she asked guardedly.
‘No. I’ve never met him,’ Elisabeth replied.
‘Blew his own trumpet all the time I was there. “Me, me, me” all the way around, and he kept on referring to the school as “my school” as if it was his own personal property. You are aware that he’s been poaching children from this school?’
‘No, I wasn’t.’
‘He even put an advert in the local paper singing Urebank’s praises and saying there were plenty of spare places at his school. Cheek of the man.’
Elisabeth decided this was neither the time nor the place to enquire into this with a woman she had only just met. ‘ So you will think again about applying for other jobs?’ she asked.
‘Thank you, Mrs Devine,’ Mrs Robertshaw replied. ‘I will.’
Elisabeth suddenly became aware of a small boy standing next to her. He was a bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked child of about eight or nine, with a thatch of straw-co
loured hair and dressed in an old-fashioned outfit. His hands were clasped behind his back. He looked like a little old man.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt your conversation, Mrs Robertshaw,’ he said, ‘but I thought I would come and introduce myself to the new head teacher.’
The teacher shook her head, smiled and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘This is Oscar, Mrs Devine,’ she said, ‘and he’s one of my star pupils. Aren’t you, Oscar?’
‘I should like to think so,’ said the child, seriously. ‘I have been identified as one of the G & T pupils after we did the verbal reasoning tests, haven’t I, Mrs Robertshaw? G & T means gifted and talented, you know.’
‘Hello, Oscar,’ said Elisabeth, trying to restrain herself from laughing.
‘Good morning, Mrs Devine,’ he replied seriously.
‘And how are you today?’ she asked.
‘Well, to tell you the truth, I’m not a hundred per cent,’ he said. ‘I woke up with quite a nasty headache this morning. My mother thinks there’s a bug going around and suggested that I stay at home, but I knew you were coming into school this morning and didn’t want to miss you.’
‘Oscar likes to know what’s going on,’ explained the teacher, giving Elisabeth a significant look.
‘I do like to keep up to speed with things,’ said the boy. He looked up at Elisabeth. ‘I painted a poster over the weekend welcoming you, but Miss Sowerbutts wasn’t too keen on the idea when I asked her if I could put it up in the entrance. If you are coming into our class later this morning I’ll give it to you.’
‘That was very nice of you, Oscar,’ said Elisabeth, amused by his curiously adult way of speaking.
‘And I’ve also written a short poem,’ he told her. ‘I’m good at rhythms and rhymes, aren’t I, Mrs Robertshaw?’
‘You are good at most things, Oscar,’ replied the teacher.
‘Well, I’ll let you continue your conversation,’ said the boy. ‘Maybe I will see you later, Mrs Devine.’
‘He keeps me on my toes, does Oscar,’ Mrs Robertshaw confided. ‘Quite a little character, isn’t he?’
Elisabeth left Mrs Robertshaw and went in search of Miss Wilson. The infant classroom was neat and tidy, and children’s paintings, collages and poems had been carefully mounted and displayed. A large, bright alphabet poster and a list of key words for children to learn decorated one wall, and an attractive reading-corner contained a range of colourful picture and reading books and simple dictionaries. She learnt later that the young teacher had purchased most of the books herself.
Elisabeth thought how very youthful-looking Miss Wilson was. A slender woman with short raven-black hair, a pale, delicately boned face and great blue eyes, she looked decidedly nervous as she stood at the classroom door.
‘Your classroom is delightful,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I always think the environment in the early years should be particularly bright and cheerful.’
The great blue eyes surveyed her for a moment. ‘Thank you. Do come in.’
‘And this is your first year of teaching?’ asked Elisabeth.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘I wasn’t aware that you and Mrs Robertshaw were both on temporary contracts,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I mentioned to Mrs Robertshaw that she might like to stay on. Perhaps you might consider that too. I can’t promise anything until I’ve discussed it with the governors and been in touch with the Education Office, but it may be possible to make your contract a permanent one. Would you like to stay if I can arrange it?’
‘I should love to,’ replied the teacher quickly. ‘It’s just that I imagined that you would want to appoint some new staff.’
‘Why should I want to do that?’ asked Elisabeth.
‘Mrs Sowerbutts said—’
‘Ah yes,’ interrupted Elisabeth, ‘I think I know what Miss Sowerbutts has said.’
Noise in the corridor indicated that the children were returning from morning break. The little ones lined up outside the classroom chattering excitedly.
‘Come along in, children, quickly and quietly,’ Miss Wilson told them.
When the infants were settled at their tables, the teacher turned to Elisabeth.
‘This is Mrs Devine,’ she said, ‘our new head teacher.’
Elisabeth decided to call into the school office before departing but paused for a moment in the drab entrance hall to consider what she had seen that morning. Through the door the magnificent oak tree seemed to embrace the building with its spreading branches. The ancient Norman church, illuminated by a bright sun and beneath a cloudless azure sky, looked like the backdrop for a medieval drama. A lone sheep grazed by the village green and from some distant field there came a curlew’s fitful cry. Barton-in-the-Dale, she thought, had much to offer.
There was a great deal to be done, of course, but she felt confident she could turn this school around and would welcome the challenge. She was much happier having met the staff. The success of a school, she knew, depended on the calibre of the teachers as much as on the strong and purposeful leadership of the head teacher. Elisabeth felt in her heart that she could provide that firm direction and that she could work with Mrs Robertshaw and Miss Wilson, who seemed personable, committed and enthusiastic teachers. Their lessons, which she had observed that morning, were interesting and well taught and the children responded well to instructions and to questions. Miss Brakespeare, however, was a different matter. She seemed a pleasant enough woman, rather like a frightened little mouse to be honest, and so staid and stolid. How she had managed to become a deputy head teacher was a mystery. She appeared amenable and good-natured, unlike the head teacher, but the lesson Elisabeth had observed that morning was one the inspectors would undoubtedly have described as less than satisfactory.
‘Pensive.’
Elisabeth’s thoughts were interrupted by a small voice.
‘That’s what my mother says,’ said Oscar, ‘when I look out of the window day-dreaming.’
‘Well,’ said Elisabeth, smiling down at the bright face which looked up at her, ‘I was lost in thought. I was just thinking how beautiful it is – the trees and the sky and the church.’
‘Yes, it’s very picturesque, isn’t it,’ agreed the child, cocking his head and following her gaze. He turned and looked up. ‘I hope you have had a pleasant morning, Mrs Devine.’
‘Very pleasant, thank you, Oscar.’
‘You forgot your poster and the poem I wrote for you,’ he said, holding out a rolled up piece of paper with a pale blue ribbon around it. ‘I did it especially.’
‘That’s very kind of you. I shall treasure it.’
‘Miss Robertshaw said I might come out of class to give it to you,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ she said, reaching out for the paper in the boy’s hand.
‘Would you like me to read my poem to you?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I should really like to hear it.’
Oscar unrolled the paper, looked at the writing for a moment, gave a small theatrical cough and read in a clear and confident voice.
‘The birds are twittering in the trees,
And leaves are rustling in the breeze,
The sun is shining in the sky
And fluffy clouds are floating by.
This is a very special day,
So clap your hands and shout, “Hooray!”
Put out the flags and give a cheer
For a new head teacher’s coming here.
I hope that she will not be cruel
And like it at our village school.’
‘I had a bit of a problem with the last two lines,’ Oscar admitted. ‘I couldn’t think of a good rhyme for “school”. I thought I might write “cool” – “I hope the new head teacher’s cool” – but that’s slang, isn’t it? My father says you should avoid using slang.’
‘You are a very good little poet,’ Elisabeth told the boy, taking the paper from his hands. ‘It was a lovely thought, and when I start next September i
t will be first thing I shall put up on the wall. It will make me feel very much at home.’
Oscar smiled widely. ‘You know, Mrs Devine,’ he said, nodding sagely like a professor in front of his students, ‘I think that you and I are going to get along famously.’
‘I’m sure we are, Oscar,’ Elisabeth replied.
‘I hope you’ve had a pleasant morning,’ said the secretary cheerfully when Elisabeth entered the school office.
‘Very pleasant, thank you, Mrs Scrimshaw,’ she replied, laughing.
‘Something’s amused you, anyway,’ said the secretary.
‘I’ve just been having a conversation with Oscar and he asked me exactly the same thing.’
‘Oh, you’ve met our Oscar, have you? Old beyond his years is that young man. Some would say too clever by half. His mother’s a psychologist and his father’s a barrister, so you might guess where he gets it from.’
‘Well, if all the children at the school are so well-mannered and interesting, I think I shall be more than happy here,’ Elisabeth told her.
‘They are not all like Oscar,’ said the secretary. ‘We have our share of difficult ones.’
‘I thought I might just say goodbye to Miss Sowerbutts before I leave,’ said Elisabeth, changing the subject.
‘Oh, she’s gone out,’ said the secretary. She smiled, in an attempt to cover her embarrassment. She had thought to herself how blatantly rude it had been of Miss Sowerbutts to leave the premises before the newly appointed head teacher had left, but of course that was just like her. She was making a point. ‘She often pops out at lunchtime,’ she lied.
‘I see,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Well, perhaps you would thank her for the generous reception I have received.’ The sarcasm was not lost on the school secretary.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I wonder if I might have a copy of the school report?’ asked Elisabeth. ‘I would like to see what the inspectors said.’
The secretary looked decidedly uncomfortable. She smiled awkwardly. ‘Miss Sowerbutts keeps the report in her room,’ she replied. ‘She doesn’t like me going in when she’s not there. I think I would need to ask her before I let you see it.’
The Little Village School Page 9
