The Little Village School

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘And very nice it looks too,’ said Mrs Pocock, reaching for a slice.

  ‘I have to admit I shed a silent tear when Vera Lynn started singing “We’ll Meet Again”,’ remarked Mrs O’Connor.

  ‘I got quite choked too,’ nodded Mrs Sloughthwaite, ‘although I thought the choice of the second piece of music was not really appropriate, being in a crematorium and all.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Mrs Pocock. ‘I think it was very appropriate, the deceased being an old soldier, and I’ve always liked “Keep the Home Fires Burning”.’

  ‘I thought it was a bit rich Fred Massey making that grand entrance and hobbling down the aisle like Long John Silver on his crutch,’ said the shopkeeper, ‘and plonking himself down at the front. It’s not as if he was Les Stainthorpe’s friend.’

  ‘Probably felt guilty,’ remarked Mrs Pocock.

  ‘Would anyone like a Venetian chocolate biscuit?’ asked the host, holding up a plate.

  Her two guests shook their heads simultaneously and replied, ‘No thank you.’

  ‘Last time we were at the crematorium was for Mrs Pickles’ funeral,’ said Mrs Pocock. ‘I think you were on a pilgrimage at the time, Mrs O’Connor.’

  ‘And what a fandango that was,’ added Mrs Sloughthwaite.

  ‘Oh no, I had a lovely time,’ said Mrs O’Connor. ‘We went on a coach trip to Knock. It was very spiritual.’

  ‘I meant the funeral,’ said the shopkeeper. She looked at Mrs Pocock, who was nibbling at another slice of Bakewell tart. ‘Don’t you remember? Mrs Pickles had requested in her will that when she passed on she wanted that Judy Garland number from The Wizard of Oz played. You know the one, “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”.’

  ‘And?’ asked Mrs O’Connor.

  ‘Well, they put the wrong track on, didn’t they, and the coffin disappeared behind the red velvet curtain to: “Ding, Dong, the Wicked Witch is Dead!”’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that’s not all,’ added Mrs Pocock. ‘When they tried again, the tune changed to “I’m Off to see the Wizard, the Wonderful Wizard of Oz”. I mean, you couldn’t help smiling.’

  ‘Well, you know what my owld Grandmother Mullarkey used to say,’ said Mrs O’Connor, ‘There’s no marriage where there is no weeping, and no funeral where there is no laughing.’

  ‘Is someone getting married then?’ asked Mrs Pocock, leaning forward.

  ‘Not as I know of,’ replied Mrs O’Connor.

  Mrs Sloughthwaite rolled her eyes. ‘Another slice of Bakewell tart, anyone?’

  Miss Brakespeare’s mother sat straight-backed, enthroned in her armchair by the window, her face tight and pale above her grey dress and grey cardigan. She wore her usual martyred expression. ‘You are going where?’ she asked.

  ‘I said I am going to France, Mother,’ replied her daughter. Her hair had been freshly done and she wore a new lavender-coloured woollen suit and black patent leather shoes.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Miriam. Why ever would you want to go to France?’

  ‘To join the Folies Bergère,’ she told her mother flippantly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mrs Devine has arranged a school trip to France and she’s asked me to go.’

  ‘Oh, not that woman again,’ interrupted Mrs Brakespeare. ‘Mrs Devine this and Mrs Devine that. I’m heartily sick and tired of hearing about her. It was a sad day when that woman with all her airs and graces came here.’

  ‘No, Mother, it was not,’ retorted her daughter sharply. ‘Quite the contrary, in fact. You have not met her and therefore are not in a position to judge her.’

  Mrs Brakespeare looked at her daughter with some displeasure. She had never spoken to her in that sharp tone of voice until ‘that woman’ had become head teacher of the village school. ‘I hear quite enough about her from you and about all the changes she has been making. You talk about nothing else these days.’

  ‘Well, if you are tired of hearing about her, then in future I shall not bore you with the details about what goes on in the school. I assumed that you would be interested.’ It was sad, she thought, that her mother found the world such a harsh and unloving place. Since the death of her husband Mrs Brakespeare had become increasingly miserable and disapproving, almost revelling in playing the martyr and finding fault with most things her daughter did. Of late her offhand manner and critical comments had become more noticeable, and her daughter was wearying of it.

  Mrs Brakespeare eyed her daughter curiously. ‘Go to France, indeed,’ she mumbled to no one in particular.

  ‘Yes, mother, go to France.’ Miss Brakespeare’s eyes shone with the excitement of it all. ‘I shall be accompanying a group of the older children to Brittany early next year. I have seen precious little of the world and this is an opportunity I do not intend to pass up.’

  ‘If the school is here next year,’ observed her mother pointedly.

  ‘Oh, it will be here all right,’ replied Miss Brakespeare, not rising to the comment. ‘And of course, if the school does close then I shall be redeployed somewhere else in the county and shall, no doubt, have to move to live somewhere near the school.’

  ‘Move! I don’t want to move.’

  ‘Then let us hope the school doesn’t close,’ said her daughter.

  Her mother looked chillier than ever. ‘And who will look after me while you’re gallivanting in France?’ she asked, putting on a pained face.

  ‘You can either stay in Oakview, the residential home at Urebank, for the week or—’

  ‘A residential home!’ snapped her mother. ‘Over my dead body! Living with all those senile old women sitting around the television all day and old men snoring in their armchairs.’ She wore the miserable expression habitual to those who feel themselves badly done to in life.

  ‘You can either stay in the residential home for the week,’ repeated her daughter, ‘or I will arrange for a carer to call in each day.’

  ‘Well, I never thought I would hear a daughter of mine say that. I suppose that is what I’ve got to look forward to now, is it – pushed into a home or with other folk looking after me? I might as well be dead.’ She began to sniff theatrically and dab her eyes with a small handkerchief which she had produced from the sleeve of her cardigan.

  ‘Please, Mother, you are talking foolishly,’ said her daughter. ‘I am not pushing you into a home, and as for other people looking after you, it would only be for a week.’

  ‘You’ve become very selfish and ungrateful, Miriam,’ moaned her mother. Her face was mutinous, like a spoilt child’s.

  ‘No, I have not,’ replied Miss Brakespeare, looking directly at her. ‘If anyone is selfish and ungrateful, it is you. It seems that there is no pleasing you. Whatever I say or wear or do you always manage to find fault. I am going to France and there’s an end to it. I have a life outside this house. I am happy to cook and clean and get your medicines and I do try to make your life as comfortable as possible as well as hold down a full-time job, but I am no longer prepared to be at your beck and call all the time. Now would you like some fish for tea?’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ said her mother. Her voice was stiff. ‘I couldn’t eat a thing.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll just get myself something,’ said her daughter, leaving the room.

  James was waiting outside the staff-room door the following Monday morning.

  ‘Hello, James,’ said Elisabeth.

  He gave a small smile.

  ‘Did you want to see me?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Let’s go into the entrance where it’s quiet and we won’t be disturbed and then you can tell me what’s on your mind.’ They sat on the small bench beneath the brass plaque. Elisabeth took a small notebook and a pencil from her handbag and gave them to the boy. This was the means by which the boy communicated with her in class. ‘Now you can write down what you would like to say,’ she said.

  The boy shook his head and passed the noteboo
k and pencil back.

  ‘You don’t want to write things down?’

  He shook his head again.

  ‘Right, well, I suppose I shall have to ask a few questions to find out what it is. Let me see. Is something upsetting you?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Is someone picking on you, calling you names? Are you being bullied?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Are you unhappy about something?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Well, you know, James, I can’t help you unless I know what it is that’s making you unhappy. Why don’t you write down what’s worrying you?’

  The boy, looking at his feet, thought for a moment. She could see him struggling to speak, twisting his small fingers and mouthing words. Then he took a deep breath and whispered, ‘It’s Danny.’

  ‘Danny,’ Elisabeth repeated. ‘Are you worried about Danny?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I see. Well, I’m worried about Danny too. He’s had a very difficult time lately and I know how upset he is about his grandfather, but we are doing our very best for him and we’ll see he is all right. He’s got a lot of people, like you and your father and me and many other people, looking out for him.’

  The boy shook his head. He struggled to find the words. ‘He doesn’t want to leave,’ he whispered, still looking down at his feet. He began to tremble. He raised his voice. ‘He wants to stay here. He doesn’t want to go away. I don’t want him to go away.’

  ‘James,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I don’t want Danny to go away either, but he will need to be looked after and it may mean that he is going to go to a family that lives away from here. I know he doesn’t want to leave the village and the school, but there’s nothing I can do. I wish I could change things, but I can’t.’

  The boy looked up and stared at her for a moment. Then he gripped her arm. ‘Please,’ he said.

  18

  After school, Elisabeth called at Dr Stirling’s. The last time she had visited the large stone villa at the end of the long gravel drive, it had been in darkness. Now, in daylight, she saw how neglected it was. Thick green ivy climbed up the walls and covered part of the two bay windows at either side of the door, and some of the blue slates on the roof were missing. The garden was overgrown. Weeds grew amongst the rough spiky grass which had once been a lawn, and the borders were clotted with a thick mass of dead roses, thorns and holly bushes. The trees with their intricate mesh of smaller branches had grown wild.

  She was shown into the dark narrow hall by Mrs O’Connor and followed her into the sitting room.

  ‘Look at the state of this place,’ said the housekeeper, tut-tutting. ‘I wish he’d let me give this room a good going over but he says he likes it the way it is. Excuse the mess, Mrs Devine.’ She moved a pile of medical journals off a chair and brushed the material with the back of her hand. ‘Doctor’s not back from the surgery yet, but he’ll be here any moment. You make yourself comfortable and I’ll get you a cup of tea.’

  ‘That’s kind of you, Mrs O’Connor,’ replied Elisabeth, ‘but it might be better if I called back.’

  ‘Sure, he won’t be long. He’s usually in by this time. You sit yourself down and rest your legs.’ She waddled off to the kitchen.

  Elisabeth sat by the window and looked out over the neglected expanse, thick with weeds and overgrown bushes. It was like the garden at the cottage when she had first moved in – wild and abandoned – but with some care and attention it could be restored to its former state. She glanced around the room. Like the garden it was uncared for. It had a dusty, stale smell to it. The carpet was a muddy brown and the pale walls had a few dull prints and an insipid watercolour of a mountain and a lake. A bookshelf was crammed with books, journals and papers, and on a large oak desk were an old-fashioned blotter, a mug holding an assortment of pens and pencils and more papers stacked untidily. Near her, on a small walnut table, several photographs in small silver frames had been arranged. One showed Dr Stirling with his arm around a striking-looking woman, another was a more formal portrait of the same woman posing before a horse. Elisabeth picked up the photograph and looked at the happy face. She replaced it quickly on the table when Mrs O’Connor bustled through the door with a tea-tray.

  ‘Now I’ve mashed it nice and strong, just the way the doctor likes it. My owld Grandmother Mullarkey couldn’t stand the sight of weak tea. It should be strong enough to trot a mouse across it, she would say.’ She chuckled. ‘And that’s the front door now. I told you he wouldn’t be long.’

  ‘Oh, hello,’ said Dr Stirling, coming into the room.

  ‘I’ve just made Mrs Devine a cup of tea,’ the housekeeper informed him. ‘Upstairs has all been cleaned, ironing done and the boys have been fed and your dinner’s in the oven. Now I’m off.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs O’Connor,’ he said, as she shuffled through the door.

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve called at a bad time,’ Elisabeth began.

  ‘No, no, not at all. Would you like a cup of Mrs O’Connor’s tea? She must use half a packet. I must warn you it’s like treacle.’

  ‘She said you like it strong.’

  ‘Not quite as strong as this,’ he said, pouring a cup.

  ‘I have some good news,’ Elisabeth told him.

  ‘They are not going to close the school!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I’m afraid things have gone very quiet in that direction. It’s about James.’

  ‘James?’

  ‘We had a conversation this morning.’

  ‘He spoke to you!’ He put down the cup with a clatter, causing the tea to spill over on to the saucer. ‘Good gracious. Whatever did he say?’

  ‘It was Danny, in effect, who prompted him to speak. James came to see me to tell me how unhappy Danny was about leaving the village and the school. I think he felt that speaking to me rather than writing it down as he usually does would have greater effect.’

  ‘That’s wonderful news,’ said Dr Stirling. ‘I can’t tell you how happy that makes me feel. I mean about James speaking. That’s something of a breakthrough, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is. James asked me,’ she said, ‘if I could do something to get Danny to stay in the village but I had to tell him that I couldn’t.’

  ‘But I can,’ said Dr Stirling, smiling. ‘James had the same conversation with me yesterday and told me what I guess he told you. I said very much the same as you to him, but then I got to thinking and this morning I got in touch with Social Services and asked if it was possible for Danny to stay here on a more permanent footing, for me to become his foster carer initially but, if things work out, to adopt him.’

  ‘Adopt him? You mean you would adopt him?’ She was stunned.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s a good idea?’ Dr Stirling asked. He looked worried.

  ‘Yes, yes, I think it’s a wonderful idea,’ she said, ‘but—’

  ‘But what? You don’t look all that convinced.’

  ‘Michael, it’s a very big step to take,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Perhaps you ought to think about it for a while.’

  ‘I have thought about it,’ he told her. ‘I’ve got quite attached to the boy since he’s been here. He’s a frank, good-natured lad and I know James likes him around.’

  ‘I can see that,’ agreed Elisabeth. ‘Danny is a very likeable and considerate young man and he obviously gets on well with you and James. It’s just that maybe you should give it a little more thought.’

  Dr Stirling looked peeved. ‘Really, Elisabeth, I should have thought that you would be all for it.’

  ‘I am, of course I am,’ she said. ‘It would be ideal for Danny to have a stable home and he’s clearly very happy here, but have you looked into exactly what adoption involves?’

  He looked irritated. ‘Of course I have. It might appear a spur of the moment decision to you, but I have discussed things pretty thoroughly with Social Services.’

  ‘And what did they say?’

  ‘They thou
ght it was an excellent idea. They usually like to place children with couples, of course, but they said it was really hard to find homes for adolescent boys. Most people want babies. To be honest, I’m really excited about having him here and I don’t think I’ll make too bad a father.’

  ‘You’ll make a great father and you know it.’

  ‘There will be a sort of trial period,’ Dr Stirling explained. ‘It’s quite a long process. At first, as I said, I become his official foster carer and, after a period of time when we have both got to know each other, then Danny can become my adopted son, that’s of course if he agrees.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll agree all right,’ said Elisabeth.

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Well, I really hope things work out. After all he’s been through Danny deserves a good home and I know he’ll get it here.’

  ‘Good.’ Dr Stirling gave a big smile. He ran his hand through his untidy hair. ‘I know Mrs O’Connor will be pleased. She’s been fussing around him like a mother hen since he arrived and moaning to me like a banshee about “the poor, wee orphan child” who has nowhere to go. I’ve not mentioned anything to Danny or to James yet, because there are a few formalities that have to be taken care of before it is agreed. They also need to speak to Danny, to make sure he’s happy about the arrangement. I meant to phone you to let you know I’ll be going to the children’s department at County Hall with Danny tomorrow to sort things out. So Danny won’t be at school. I think they might want a reference from you.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Elisabeth. She felt like reaching over and hugging him. You’re a good, good man, Michael Stirling, she thought.

  The next morning Danny stood in the hall looking clean and smart in a crisp white shirt, tie, grey jumper and polished black shoes.