‘I didn’t know that,’ said Elisabeth.
‘Oh, I should have thought that you would have heard. Fred Massey, who owns the field the caravan is on, has told Les Stainthorpe to shift it before the week’s out. They had a right set-to in the Blacksmith’s Arms. Nearly came to blows, so I heard.’
‘Mr Stainthorpe never mentioned it,’ Elisabeth told her.
‘Well, that does surprise me. I mean the argument was about your cottage, in a manner of speaking.’
‘My cottage?’ Elisabeth asked.
‘Evidently Les Stainthorpe told old Massey that he shouldn’t be grazing his sheep on your paddock without your permission or using your track as a thoroughfare for his cattle. Fred Massey told him to mind his own business and they were at it hammer and tongs. They had a right old ding-dong, by all accounts. I’m not one for gossip myself, but Mrs Pocock, whose husband’s on the darts team, told me all about it. It ended up with Les Stainthorpe being told to move his caravan.’
‘Oh dear,’ sighed Elisabeth, ‘I’ve hardly moved into the village and I’m causing trouble.’
‘It’s not you, Mrs Devine,’ said the shopkeeper, ‘it’s that Fred Massey taking liberties. He’s a nasty piece of work and no mistake, and is so fond of hard work he lies down beside it. You couldn’t nail a smile on that face of his. Miserable old so-and-so, and as mean as they come. You want to tell him to shift his sheep.’
The following week Les Stainthorpe moved his caravan into the paddock next to Elisabeth’s cottage.
On the afternoon when Les and two of his pals were moving the caravan into the paddock, Elisabeth looked out of the kitchen window to see Danny with the small, pale-faced boy with curly blond hair she had met when she had visited Miss Brakespeare’s lesson the previous month. She went into the garden to see them.
‘Hello, you two,’ she said, brightly. Danny smiled and waved, while the other child lowered his head shyly.
‘Hello, miss,’ said Danny nervously. The other child looked up at her blankly.
‘You’re not helping your grandfather with the move then?’ she asked.
‘No, miss,’ replied the boy, ‘’e said I’d only get under ’is feet. ’E telled me to pack all my things in some boxes and ’e said to mek missen scarce. I’m showin’ Jamie my mole-traps, if that’s all right, then we’re goin’ rabbitin’.’
‘Yes, of course it is,’ Elisabeth told him, surveying the lawn. ‘I see the little gentleman in black has made an appearance again.’
‘Who?’ asked Danny.
‘Mr Mole.’
Danny had flattened the molehills the previous day, but during the night the sleek, elusive little creature had been hard at work, digging and tunnelling, and a rash of new mounds of soil had suddenly appeared.
‘Aye,’ he said sagely, ‘and t’rabbits ’ave been at your plants an’ all.’
‘So, you two are after sorting out my mole and rabbit problems for me, are you?’ asked Elisabeth.
‘That’s what we plan, miss,’ he replied. ‘You see yer mole is extremely difficult to get rid of. Did tha know that?’
Elisabeth smiled. ‘No, I didn’t.’
The boy placed his hands on his hips and nodded sagaciously. ‘Some folk think that slices of onions in t’runs will make ’em go away, or pouring bleach down, but it dunt work. Neither does flooding their tunnels, ’cos they can swim for it. In t’past they used to put earthworms full o’ poison under t’ground but tha can’t do that these days. It’s illegal, see. My granddad says yer mole is a persistent beggar. They don’t mind frost and snow and t’only creature what eats ’em is a barn owl because they taste summat rotten. Mi granddad telled me that up at t’big house, Limestone Hall, in t’past, owner had a full-time mole-catcher. I wunt mind a job like that.’
‘And how are you going to catch this persistent little mole of mine, Danny?’ asked Elisabeth.
‘Catch him!’ cried the boy, throwing his head back. ‘Catch him! I’m gunna kill him.’ He reached down, dug into a sack at his feet and produced a vicious-looking scissor-like contraption with springs. ‘I’m purrin this down ’is run. That’ll stop ’is little game.’
‘Oh no, Danny!’ exclaimed Elisabeth, ‘don’t kill him.’
‘Look, Mrs Devine, if you don’t get rid of ’im, you’ll never ’ave a flat lawn.’
‘I don’t like the idea of killing him,’ she said. She turned to his pale, solemn-faced friend, who was listening. ‘What do you think, James? Do you think we should let Danny put his trap down?’
The boy looked up and shook his head. What a sad child, Elisabeth thought, wrapped in his protective shell, never speaking, never smiling. He was like a small timid creature, deep in a world in which it seldom showed its face.
‘It’s t’only way. I’m tellin’ thee, miss,’ said Danny, returning the trap to the sack and putting it down.
‘Pardon?’
‘I was just sayin’, miss,’ said Danny, placing his hands back on his hips, ‘that t’only way of sortin’ out your mole problem is to kill ’em.’
‘Well, I think your friend and me have outvoted you, Master Stainthorpe,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Haven’t we, James?’ The boy gave a slight smile and nodded. ‘Now you take that dreadful piece of equipment away, Danny Stainthorpe, and I’ll get you two some lemonade and one of the special chocolate biscuits I bought at the village store.’
‘Not that Venusian selection?’ asked Danny, shaking his head and laughing. ‘She’s been trying to get rid of them for weeks.’
‘Is there something wrong, James?’ asked Elisabeth, seeing the boy wriggling as if he had chronic worms.
‘It’s me ferret, miss,’ laughed Danny. ‘He gets a bit lonely if ’e’s left in t’dark for too long. Ger ’im out, Jamie.’
James reached into his pocket and produced a little sandy-coloured, pointed-faced creature with small bright black eyes. He held the animal under its front chest, his thumb under one leg towards the ferret’s spine, and using the other hand he gently stroked the creature down the full length of its body.
‘I’ve shown Jamie ’ow to ’old ’im, miss,’ explained Danny. ‘They have to be held special like so as they feel relaxed and comfortable. ’E’s champion, i’n’t ’e?’
‘I’m not so sure I agree with you about that,’ replied Elisabeth, looking at the creature suspiciously. ‘Isn’t he vicious?’
The boy laughed. ‘Nay, miss. Yer ferret meks a gradely pet. ’E don’t bark, ’e’s clean as a whistle and is a reight mischievous little beggar.’
‘But they smell,’ added Elisabeth.
‘Only when they’re frightened or when they come into t’breeding season. Yer hob – ’e’s t’male – gives off a smell to attract t’jill – she’s t’female. It’s a bit like men purrin on aftershave.’
‘Rather a different smell, I should imagine,’ remarked Elisabeth.
‘Well t’jill likes it, miss, and that’s all as matters, i’n’t it?’
‘Does he bite?’ she asked.
‘Only a bit,’ replied Danny, nonchalantly. ‘Do you want to ’old ’im, miss?’
‘Not on your life!’ exclaimed Elisabeth. She turned to Danny’s friend. ‘And what about you, James? Do you like ferrets?’ The boy looked up shyly and nodded but didn’t speak.
‘I’ve ’ad this ferret since he were a kit. That’s a babby,’ Danny explained. ‘’E gets really tame if thy ’andles ’im a lot and are really patient wi’ ’im. Mind you, thy ’as to look after ferrets, clipping their nails regularly, cleaning their ears, bathing ’em and givin’ ’em plenty of exercise.’
Listening to this boy, Elisabeth appreciated just how knowledgeable the country child could be and how ignorant she was in country matters.
‘So you’re giving your ferret some exercise this morning?’ she said, smiling at him warmly.
‘I am that,’ replied Danny. ’E’s a workin’ ferret as well as a pet and ’e’s goin’ down t’rabbit ’oles today. ’E’ll stop them ra
bbits, I can tell thee, won’t ’e, Jamie?’
Danny’s friend nodded and continued to stroke the ferret gently.
‘Poor rabbits,’ said Elisabeth. She decided not to enquire what the ferret would be doing but she had a good idea. ‘Well, when you two have finished come and have some lemonade,’ she said.
As she walked towards the house, Elisabeth heard Danny whisper to his friend, ‘I telled thee she were all reight, Jamie. She’s really nice is Mrs Devine.’
Elisabeth smiled, but thought to herself what a sad and nervous little boy Danny’s friend was, and so quiet; she felt certain, though, that with time and patience she could bring him out of his shell.
At the governors’ extraordinary meeting, held at the beginning of the school’s summer holidays, Major Neville-Gravitas apologised for the absence of so many of his colleagues.
‘Mr Nettles, the education officer, and Councillor Smout are both on holiday,’ he explained. ‘Mrs Bullock, the foundation governor, is not well and Mrs Pocock is also indisposed, so that just leaves myself, Dr Stirling and the vicar and, of course, your good self, Mrs Devine.’
‘I quite understand,’ Elisabeth replied, rather disappointed with the turnout. At her last school the governors had been keen and supportive and attended meetings religiously. ‘It is a busy time of year. I do appreciate you giving up your time.’
‘I hope we are not going to be too long,’ said the major, glancing at his watch. ‘I have an important appointment scheduled later today.’ He had arranged to play a round of golf that afternoon.
‘No,’ replied Elisabeth, ‘I shouldn’t think this will take too long.’
‘Well now, Mrs Devine,’ said the major, ‘perhaps you would like to tell us why we are here.’
‘As I outlined in my letter to you, Mr Chairman,’ Elisabeth told him, ‘I felt it would be prudent to let the governors know early on my intentions and seek their approval for the changes I wish to make. I intend to keep you all fully informed about the life of the school and will not make any major decisions until I have consulted you.’ She looked in the direction of a serious-faced Dr Stirling, who sat impassively but listening intently. ‘I have already outlined to Major Neville-Gravitas in my letter what I would like to do, and here is a copy of my proposals.’ She passed around a folder containing a sheaf of papers. ‘First, I intend to convert the head teacher’s room into a staff-room. I think you will agree that the teachers should have somewhere to take a break and have a little privacy. This room will house all the confidential material, documents, guidelines and files, which will be moved from the school office to give the secretary more space. It is very cramped in there at the moment.’
‘Where will you go?’ enquired the vicar.
‘This brings me on to the next change I wish make. I intend to teach, and shall use the spare classroom. The top juniors, which will number over forty at the start of the next term, is too large a class in my opinion. I would like to split this with Miss Brakespeare.’
‘You’re going to teach?’ asked the major.
‘Yes, Mr Chairman, that is my intention. I shall ask Miss Brakespeare to take the nine-year-olds and I shall teach the ten- and eleven-year-olds.’
‘That’s all very well,’ said the major, ‘but when will you do all the administration and deal with the letters and such?’
‘At home, before and after school,’ Elisabeth told him. ‘I shall be the first to arrive at the school and the last to leave. Parents, should they wish to see me, can make an appointment for when I am not teaching.’
‘I see,’ he murmured.
‘I think that is a splendid idea, Mrs Devine,’ said the vicar, rubbing his long hands. ‘I have always been of the opinion that the junior classes are far too large, and indeed this was observed by the inspectors.’
The major sighed audibly. ‘Can we not go over yet again what the inspectors said?’ protested the Chairman of Governors. ‘I am heartily tired of hearing about the report at every meeting we have.’
‘I am merely pointing out, major,’ the vicar told him, ‘that this was a real concern, and indeed the large class size is a significant reason for so many parents choosing to send their children to Urebank school. Is that not so, Dr Stirling?’
‘Yes, I believe it is,’ the doctor replied without elaborating.
‘I do hope, however, that Mrs Devine is not taking too much on,’ continued the vicar.
‘Thank you for your concern, Reverend Atticus,’ she said, ‘but I am used to working hard and putting in the time.’
‘I noted,’ said the major, flicking through the folder, ‘that in your letter to me there are some resource implications. I guess the Local Education Authority will baulk at expending any money, if you follow my drift.’
‘That is why I am hopeful, Mr Chairman, that the governors will lobby the Local Education Authority for such resources. The old desks must go, as they are entirely unsuitable. Some of the big boys can’t get their legs under them.’
‘Miss Sowerbutts liked the desks,’ the major told her.
‘Well, I don’t, major,’ she replied. ‘We need tables, and the dreadful linoleum in the corridor needs replacing. A carpet would be good. There are also damp patches on the ceiling and I wish to refurbish the entrance hall. All this is outlined in my report. Finally I come to the most important request, and that is to make the two teachers, Miss Wilson and Mrs Robertshaw, permanent members of staff. As you will be aware, they are at present on temporary contracts.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ said the vicar. ‘Were you aware of that, Dr Stirling?’
‘No, I wasn’t,’ the doctor replied. His expression remained blankly impersonal.
‘Yes, yes,’ said the major quickly. ‘Miss Sowerbutts felt they should be offered temporary contracts to see how well they got on and if they were suitable. Indeed, Mr Nettles was very much for not making the teachers permanent and said there was really no need to bother with an appointment panel.’
‘I feel we might have been consulted,’ said the vicar, sounding annoyed.
‘As I said, there was really no need,’ said the major, brushing the comment aside. ‘Mr Nettles, the education officer, was in full agreement.’
‘Nevertheless—’ began the Reverend Atticus.
‘It’s water under the bridge now, vicar,’ said the major irritably.
‘As to the question of the teachers’ suitability,’ said Elisabeth, ‘both Miss Wilson and Mrs Robertshaw seem very suitable and I should be sorry to lose them. They are looking for jobs at the moment, and I think it would have an adverse effect on the school if there was a change of staff at this time. They have proved themselves and I think they should be offered permanent positions.’
‘At the risk of raising your blood pressure again, major,’ said the vicar, ‘the school inspectors spoke most favourably of their teaching.’
‘I shall have to talk this over with Mr Nettles at the Education Office before making any decision on this,’ said the major. ‘And now I have this important meeting to attend, so I will close the meeting.’
‘Before you do, Mr Chairman,’ said Elisabeth, ‘I take it then that you and the governing body are supportive of the proposals and you will inform the Education Department at County Hall?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said the major, in a less than enthusiastic tone of voice, which indicated that this woman might be a little too forceful for his liking.
7
Dr Stirling was waiting for Elisabeth as she made her way out of the school. He was a tall, not unattractive man, aged about forty, with a firm jawline and a full head of dark hair greying at the temples and parted untidily. What was most striking about him was his pale blue eyes. Elisabeth noticed that he stooped a little, that his suit was unfashionable and had seen better days, that his shirt was frayed around the collar and that his shoes could do with a good polish. He spoke in a quiet, sometimes almost inaudible voice, not that he had said much that morning. He had been less than fr
iendly at the interview and it was clear to Elisabeth that he found something about her that he did not like.
He shifted nervously in the small entrance area of the school, like a schoolboy sent to the head teacher for misbehaving. ‘Might I have a word with you, Mrs Devine?’ he said.
‘Yes, of course, Dr Stirling,’ she replied.
‘I felt it only fair to let you know that my son will not be returning to Barton-in-the-Dale school after the summer holidays and that I shall be resigning as a parent governor.’
‘I see,’ said Elisabeth.
‘I can assure you that it’s nothing personal. I have been thinking about it for some time but I didn’t want to move James mid-term.’ When Elisabeth didn’t reply he swallowed, his gullet rising and falling like a frog’s. ‘My son is a quiet, rather sensitive boy and I feel that St Paul’s Preparatory School in Ruston will suit him better. The classes are smaller, there are more specialist teachers and it has better facilities.’
So the small, pale-faced boy with curly blond hair who never spoke was the doctor’s son. ‘Well, Dr Stirling,’ said Elisabeth, ‘I am obviously disappointed with your decision but you are entitled to do what you feel is best for your son. I might have hoped that you would have kept him here and given me a chance to make the changes necessary. Maybe I could have brought James out of his shell.’
The doctor bristled. ‘Bring him out of his shell?’ he retorted. ‘There are people in the world, Mrs Devine, who are quiet. James is one of them. He is a thoughtful child, a little withdrawn at times, but he is intelligent and interested in things around him. He reads avidly, and his artwork I think is extremely good. He is indeed a quiet boy but that is understandable. He still misses his mother a great deal. You probably are not aware that he lost his mother a couple of years ago. My wife had a riding accident and, of course, her death distressed him greatly.’
The Little Village School Page 11
