The Little Village School

by Gervase Phinn

  Councillor Smout, leaning back expansively on his chair and sucking in his teeth, announced, ‘The thing is, this is a small school and expensive to maintain and t’Local Education Authority ’as to make financial savings.’

  ‘Are you saying you want to close the school?’ demanded Mrs Pocock.

  ‘We are considering it,’ replied the councillor.

  ‘You close this school, Cyril Smout, over my dead body!’ she cried.

  ‘It’s outrageous!’ said the vicar.

  ‘What’s outrageous?’ asked Mrs Bullock, leaning forward.

  ‘They want to close the school,’ Mrs Pocock shouted.

  ‘They can’t do that,’ replied Mrs Bullock. ‘We have our Countrywomen’s meetings here.’

  ‘Might I ask, Mr Chairman,’ enquired Dr Stirling, ‘if Mrs Devine has been consulted on this matter or indeed given any indication that the school might close? As far as I remember there was no mention of this at her interview, and we governors have certainly heard nothing before this afternoon.’

  ‘No, this is the first occasion it has been raised,’ the major told him.

  ‘And were you aware of the proposal?’

  The major was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. The Chairman of Governors, true to his time in the army, had no intention of standing in the firing line. ‘Councillor Smout might have mentioned it.’

  ‘Look,’ said the councillor, ‘I don’t like the idea of closing t’school any more than anyone ’ere, but we ’ave to face the ’ard facts. We need to cut t’education budget and t’savings must come from somewhere. Now I know that some people will be upset—’

  ‘Upset!’ huffed Mr Atticus. ‘I think “upset” is something of an underestimation, councillor. The people in the village, if they think their school is to close, will not be merely upset, they will be up in arms. I tell you now, it will not be countenanced.’

  ‘If I could finish, vicar,’ said Councillor Smout. ‘I appreciate, I really do, that there will be some strong feelings, but small schools like this are very expensive to maintain and, as I ’ave said, we need to make savings.’

  ‘Well, make the savings somewhere else,’ said Mrs Pocock, ‘because you are not closing this school. My Ernest is really coming on here now. He’s working harder, likes coming here, got in the football team and sings in the choir and what is more he’s a gifted artist. I am not sending him on a bus to Urebank or any other a school out of the village. I’ve never heard the like.’

  ‘May I ask what the chairman has to say on the matter?’ asked the vicar. He brought his long fingers together, flexed them and rested them on his lap.

  ‘Well, I … er … quite understand the … er … governors’ reaction, and indeed I share them, but er … it does seem to me that, we need to … er … consider what the Education Department is suggesting.’

  ‘It sounds, major,’ said Dr Stirling, ‘as if you are in favour of considering this proposal, and if you are, it seems to me that your position as the chairman of the governing body at this school is untenable.’

  ‘I never said I was in favour of the proposal,’ replied the major weakly.

  ‘If I might come in here, Mr Chairman,’ said Mr Nettles loftily, ‘the governing body is obliged to consider this proposal.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Mrs Pocock, ‘I for one don’t intend considering anything. This school has improved no end since the beginning of term and it’s madness to think of closing it.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said the vicar raising his voice, ‘Mrs Devine has made a tremendous difference since her arrival. I think you will find a great deal of opposition to any attempt to close the school.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ echoed Mrs Bullock.

  ‘And what is more,’ added the vicar, ‘to appoint a head teacher and then announce that the school might close as soon as she is in post is tantamount to gross dishonesty.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ echoed Mrs Bullock in an even louder voice.

  The major looked appealingly at Mr Nettles, who sat stony-faced.

  ‘I would hope,’ said Dr Stirling, ‘that we are unanimous on this governing body in resisting all attempts to close the school. I suggest we put it to the vote with the motion that we, the governors of Barton-in-the-Dale Primary School, strongly oppose any effort on the part of the Education Authority to close the school.’

  ‘I think we are a little premature in this,’ observed Mr Nettles. ‘I would urge you to consider what the Education Department is suggesting before taking any such premature and impulsive action. After all, we haven’t discussed the proposal yet.’

  ‘And we are not going to,’ announced Mrs Pocock.

  ‘Mr Nettles,’ said Dr Stirling, ‘as I understand it, your function in attending the governors’ meetings is to advise. You are an officer of the authority and not a governor, and, as such, you do not have a vote.’ He glanced at the major, who looked bewildered. ‘I propose we vote on the matter.’

  And so it was that, with one abstention from the chairman and one against from the councillor, the motion was carried.

  14

  The following week Elisabeth received two unwelcome letters in the post. The first was from Mr Richardson, expressing his anger with regard to Elisabeth’s refusal to take Malcolm Stubbins back, accusing her of unprofessional conduct and informing her that he was seeking legal advice from his union. Elisabeth dropped it in the waste paper basket. The second was from Mr Nettles, informing her curtly that a public meeting was to be called at which a representative of the Local Education Authority would address ‘governors, parents and teachers and any others who might have an interest in the school’. At the meeting the suggested plans and the possible timetable for closure would be outlined and the representative would answer any questions that might be raised. He regretted that the governors had not seen fit to at least discuss the proposals and pointed out that the motion proposed by Dr Stirling carried little weight, as the authority had the power to institute proceedings. He went on to assure her that, should the school close, she would be offered ‘a suitable position’ within the authority.

  Elisabeth threw this letter down on the desk. ‘There is no way that I am going to be intimidated by that odious man,’ she told the school secretary. ‘If he thinks he can ride rough-shod over everyone he is making a big mistake.’

  ‘What does the letter say?’ enquired Mrs Scrimshaw.

  ‘You can read it for yourself,’ said Elisabeth, red with anger. ‘He will have his public meeting all right but he will not be prepared for the reaction.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’ asked the school secretary, scanning the letter.

  ‘We will make a plan of action,’ Elisabeth told her. ‘We will rally support, display posters throughout the village, write letters and get items in the local papers. We shall fight this tooth and nail.’

  ‘I have an idea what’s in this other letter,’ said Mrs Scrimshaw, holding up an official-looking brown envelope with an elaborate crest on the rear. ‘It’s them. They’re coming back. I knew they would. They said they would be calling again after the holidays and they couldn’t be coming back at a worse time.’

  Elisabeth too knew only too well what the second brown envelope contained when she examined it herself. It would be a letter informing her of an impending visit straight after half-term by one or two of Her Majesty’s Inspectors of Schools. ‘Not necessarily,’ she said. ‘This could very well work to our advantage.’

  ‘In what way?’ asked Mrs Scrimshaw.

  ‘If we come out of this visit with a good report, which I don’t doubt we will, we will have some powerful ammunition.’

  ‘But why are they coming back so soon?’ asked the secretary. ‘That’s what I want to know.’

  ‘There’s really nothing to worry about, Mrs Scrimshaw,’ she told her. ‘It is common practice for one or two of the inspectors to return to a school some weeks after an inspection to see how things are going and whether the issues which were identified
in the report have been addressed. I have been through it before at my last school and it’s not that onerous. There will probably only be a couple of inspectors at the most and they will be here just for the day. We have to carry on as normal and make everything available for them to look at. I have an idea we will come out of it all right.’

  ‘That’s as may be, Mrs Devine,’ said the secretary, looking ill at ease, ‘but it’s still very stressful and I could well do without it.’

  ‘When the inspectors visited before,’ Elisabeth reminded her, ‘they found a lot wrong, hence the poor report, but since then, and I think you will agree, things have changed for the better. We have all pulled together and worked hard to turn this school around, and I think the inspectors will see this and we will receive a good report.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said the secretary. ‘And I do hope we don’t get that inspector with the face like one of those gargoyles on the church and with the dandruff and the bad breath. He looked as if he’d been dug up. I don’t think he knew how to smile. As I said to Mr Gribbon when he showed his face on the first morning of the inspection, if he died with a face like that nobody would want to wash the corpse.’

  ‘Can you recall the name of that inspector?’ asked Elisabeth, tearing open the envelope and scanning the contents.

  ‘Mr Steel,’ Mrs Scrimshaw told her.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Elisabeth.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The letter’s from Mr Steel,’ Elisabeth told her. ‘He will be coming in on the thirty-first of October.’

  ‘Hallowe’en,’ remarked Mrs Scrimshaw. ‘That figures.’

  They both burst out laughing.

  The half-term holiday came. Danny appeared in Elisabeth’s garden for the first two days to help his grandfather clear away the dead flowers, dig over the soil, weed the borders and prune the bushes, but then wasn’t seen again for the rest of the week.

  ‘He’s gone off with ’is pal and ’is dad,’ explained Les to Elisabeth when she asked where Danny was. ‘Doc Stirling’s arranged some trips out for ’is lad an’ asked if our Danny wanted to go along. ’E were as chirpy as a songbird this morning. They’re goin’ swimmin’ and being tekken to t’cinema in Clayton.’

  On one such outing – a trip on a riverboat down the canal at Skipton – who should the doctor and the boys see pedalling merrily down the towpath but Mr Gribbon. Dr Stirling shouted to him from the boat and nearly caused the startled cyclist to fall headlong into the water.

  ‘Ahoy there, Mr Gribbon!’ called the doctor. ‘It’s good to see your back is on the mend.’

  ‘Oh yes, doctor,’ the caretaker shouted back, still pedalling furiously, ‘it’s in remission.’ And he shot off down the path.

  It was inevitable that the meeting would eventually take place. On the Wednesday Elisabeth entered the village store to collect her weekly shopping to find Miss Sowerbutts at the post office counter. She took a deep breath.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said cheerfully.

  ‘Morning, Mrs Devine,’ said the shopkeeper. It was clear from the expression that came on to her round face that Mrs Sloughthwaite was going to relish this confrontation.

  The former head teacher swivelled around. Her face was hard and set. She fixed Elisabeth with a piercing stare but managed a cool acknowledgement before turning back to the counter.

  ‘I was just telling Miss Sowerbutts here,’ said the shopkeeper, ‘about all the changes at the school. She wouldn’t recognise the place now, would she, Mrs Devine?’

  Elisabeth gave a weak smile but felt it politic to say nothing.

  ‘No, I don’t suppose I would recognise it,’ said Miss Sowerbutts in the penitent tone of the aggrieved, ‘and to be quite frank, I am not that interested.’

  ‘Oh, there’s all sorts of things going on now,’ continued the shopkeeper, deliberately trying to provoke her customer. ‘They’ve got an art class, chess club, football and rounders teams, a choir, a drama club—’

  ‘Yes, well, that’s all very well,’ said the former head teacher, with a downturn of her mouth, ‘but I never allowed my professional priorities to be distracted by frills and furbelows when I was in charge.’ Her features were alien and hostile.

  Elisabeth felt her throat tightening. She did not wish to get into a heated argument with her predecessor but could not remain quiet in the face of such antagonism.

  ‘I must take issue with you there, Miss Sowerbutts,’ she retorted, her voice calm and measured. ‘Such activities are not frills and furbelows as you call them, they are an essential part of a broad and balanced curriculum and are very important in a school. Indeed, they add immeasurably to the richness of a child’s experience.’

  Miss Sowerbutts turned and faced Elisabeth. She gave a small cynical smile. ‘Please don’t lecture me, Mrs Devine,’ she said. ‘I have heard all this before and I am not oblivious to the deleterious changes you have made in the school. No doubt such changes go down well with some, but I have been in education long enough to believe that such things – art and drama and choirs and such like – decorate the margins of the more serious business of teaching children how to read and write and add up.’

  It was pointless arguing with this woman, thought Elisabeth. ‘Well, let us agree to differ,’ she said.

  But Miss Sowerbutts had not finished, and played her trump card with great satisfaction. ‘And of course, should the school close, and I have it on good authority that it may very well do so, all these changes will have been for nothing. I’ll just have the two second class stamps,’ she told the shopkeeper.

  Mr Steel, HMI, arrived at the school the following week on an overcast drizzly morning. Mrs Scrimshaw’s description was apt, for Mr Steel was a tall, cadaverous man with sunken cheeks, greyish skin and a mournful countenance. He was dressed in a black suit, wore shiny black shoes that creaked when he walked, and carried a black briefcase with a gold crown embossed on the front.

  Mr Gribbon, who was on lookout the morning of the visit, saw the black car pull up in the car park at morning break and hurried down to Elisabeth’s classroom.

  ‘The Gestapo have arrived,’ he informed her.

  Mr Steel spent the first part of the morning looking through the various documents: guidelines, lesson outlines, teaching strategies, development plans, pupil profiles, attainment details and test results, which had all been carefully presented in a series of folders. Elisabeth had spent every evening that week making sure everything was in place. The previous report had mentioned that the documentation in the school was ‘demonstrably inadequate’, so as soon as she had taken up her post she had worked hard to produce the necessary documentary evidence, which Mr Steel now scrutinised.

  The school inspector’s first port of call was the infants at morning break. He found the children, unable to go out into the playground on such a rainy day, involved in various activities in their classroom. Some were playing in the sand tray, others were measuring water in jugs and beakers, some were sitting looking at the picture books in a corner and others were creating buildings with wooden blocks. A small group was in the home corner, dressing up and acting out parts.

  One small boy, hidden inside a huge cardboard box, was brumming and screeching.

  The inspector peered over the top.

  ‘Are you in your racing car?’ he asked the infant.

  The child looked up with a quizzical expression on his small, round face. ‘No,’ he replied, ‘I’m in a cardboard box.’

  Miss Wilson smiled. The inspector didn’t.

  Following the morning break, Mr Steel made notes in a small black book while Miss Wilson read the children a story. She found it quite unnerving seeing him sitting in the corner of the classroom scribbling away, and wondered what he could possibly find to write about, but she carried on with the story and the class listened attentively and behaved impeccably. When she had set the children writing, the inspector looked through her lesson plan, questioned the children and selected several to read to
him.

  One small, pale-faced, crop-headed boy sat by himself by the window. He had cheeks like a gerbil, round and bulging and clearly full of something.

  ‘Have you something in your mouth?’ asked the inspector.

  The boy nodded.

  ‘Now you shouldn’t be eating in class,’ he was told.

  The boy shook his head.

  ‘I think you should take out whatever it is in your mouth,’ Mr Steel told him. ‘Come along now, spit it out.’

  The boy did as he was told and covered the inspector’s shoes with vomit.

  ‘I’m not feeling very well,’ moaned the child.

  The inspector made no further notes and left without a smile or a word.

  Having cleaned his shoes as best he could, the inspector headed for Miss Brakespeare’s classroom. He was particularly interested in the work the lower junior children were undertaking, since it was their teacher of whom the inspectors had been most critical on their last visit. With a smaller, younger and better-behaved group of children and minus the one difficult pupil, Miss Brakespeare felt she had taught a very good lesson. She had discussed the topic with Elisabeth and planned it carefully, and this time when she was observed by the inspector did not resort to the artifice which had been suggested by the former head teacher and which Chardonnay had described to Elisabeth.

  In Mrs Robertshaw’s class, the lower juniors had settled down quietly to write their description of a Viking settlement. The inspector decided to examine the children’s work and question them. The first child he quizzed was a bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked child of nine with a thatch of straw-coloured hair and very colourful glasses. Oscar was staring out of the window, his elbow on the desk and his chin cupped in his hand.

  ‘Have you finished your work?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘No,’ replied Oscar seriously. ‘Actually, I’ve not started yet. I’m contemplating.’ He scrutinised the man in the dark suit. ‘There’s rather a strange smell,’ he said. The school inspector’s face reddened. ‘Can you smell something?’