The Little Village School

by Gervase Phinn

  The boy stared at her with wide eyes and a serious expression. ‘You have a son at Forest View,’ he said.

  ‘I do,’ Elisabeth replied.

  ‘My father told me. He visits the school. He’s there this morning.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had a son, Mrs Devine,’ said Danny in a loud and cheerful voice.

  ‘Yes, I have a son, Danny. His name’s John and he’s about your age. He has special needs. I go to see him every Saturday.’

  ‘My father said he doesn’t speak,’ said James shyly.

  ‘No, he doesn’t, and sadly, he probably never will.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that, Mrs Devine,’ he said. There was a genuine concern in his voice.

  ‘Fancy you ’avin’ a son, miss,’ said Danny putting his hands on his hips. ‘I was only saying to James last week that you’d make a super mam.’

  Elisabeth smiled at the small boy with his floppy fringe of mousy hair, small pointed chin and bright brown eyes. It was good to see him so happy. ‘You’re a little charmer, Danny Stainthorpe,’ she said, ‘and when you grow up you’ll have all the girls running after you if you start flattering them like that.’

  The boy screwed up his face. ‘I don’t want any lasses running after me,’ he said. ‘I’m ’appy as I am wi’ mi ferret. You know where you are wi’ ferrets. There’s them two lasses at t’school who won’t leave me be. Everywhere I go there’s that Chardonnay, and t’other ’un, Chantelle, is allus sending me notes. They’re drivin’ me barmy.’

  ‘You’ll have to introduce them to your ferret,’ said Elisabeth laughing. ‘That might put them off, but I don’t want it bringing into school again.’

  ‘Danny Stainthorpe!’ came a voice from the track down the side of the cottage.

  ‘Hey up, miss,’ said Danny tilting his head to one side, ‘it’s Mester Massey. I wonder what ’e’s after.’

  ‘Danny Stainthorpe!’ shouted the man again. ‘I wants a word with you.’ The boy ambled over to the gate. ‘Now then, young fella-me-lad, I hear you’ve got a ferret.’

  Danny eyed him suspiciously. ‘I might have,’ he replied.

  ‘Well, is this any good to you?’ He pointed down to a fancy-looking cage.

  ‘For me?’ asked Danny.

  ‘Well, I don’t reckon Mrs Devine has much use for it unless she keeps ferrets. Do you want it?’

  ‘Yes please,’ said Danny. ‘Thanks very much, Mester Massey.’

  ‘And if you’ve a mind, you can come up to the farm. I’ve a few jobs wants doing. You can help my Clarence out. He needs it. Paid work, mind you. I don’t want owt for nowt.’ The old man wiped his nose on the back of his hand. ‘He were a grand man was your granddad. I can’t say as how we always saw eye to eye, but he was a grand man. I wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for him.’ He waved at Elisabeth. ‘Now then Mrs Devine, I was glad to hear that the school’s stopping open,’ he shouted. ‘You’ll be pleased to know I’m here to move my sheep from your paddock.’

  ‘About time as well,’ muttered Danny, walking towards Elisabeth. ‘Should have shifted ’em ages ago.’

  ‘You sound just like your granddad,’ Elisabeth told him.

  The boy grinned.

  James followed Elisabeth as she headed for the cottage. She stopped. ‘Is there something else you wanted to say, James?’ she asked.

  The boy nodded.

  ‘What is it?’

  He touched her hand and looked up into her eyes. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  The Reverend Atticus sat at his desk in his study that afternoon. His half-finished sermon had been put aside and he was in a thoughtful mood. The theme of his homily was self-interest and the unwillingness of some people to see the other’s point of view. He felt a twinge of guilt as he thought of his wife and her desire to move to the city, something he had refused to contemplate. He had been obdurate in turning down preferment, he thought, never even considering the bishop’s offer of having his name submitted for the dean’s position. He had been deceitful in not mentioning it to his wife, knowing full well that had he done so she would have persisted endlessly in trying to pressure him into being considered for the position.

  He pressed his fingers to each temple like a mind reader. Perhaps he should have agreed. With hindsight, he felt he had failed in his obligation to his wife. It had been selfish of him, he thought, to deny Marcia the life she craved, a life she had been so used to in the cathedral city where she had grown up, with its narrow medieval streets, the jade green river curving beneath the ancient walls, the pale stone cathedral with its vivid stained glass, a beautiful, tranquil place. The more he thought about life at the cathedral the more attractive it sounded. He had been so wrapped up in his own life, he thought, that he had neglected hers; he had been so concerned with tending to his parishioners’ needs and fighting their battles that he had failed to give attention to the one he should have cared for the most, namely his wife. Were the situation to present itself again, he thought, he would agree to have his name put forward, but it was unlikely that the opportunity would arise. Dr Peacock was a relatively young man and would, no doubt, remain as dean for many years to come. He sighed and turned his attention back to his sermon.

  Then, as if in answer to a prayer, came the telephone call from the bishop.

  When he heard what his lordship had to say, the vicar did not have to ‘give the matter some serious thought’ or ‘talk it over with his wife’. He was told by the bishop that his name had been put forward as the most suitable candidate for the position of archdeacon.

  Bishop Bill was surprisingly complimentary.

  ‘A man of your abilities, Charles,’ he was told, ‘with a firm grasp of ecclesiastical law, a deep knowledge of theology and someone who has great experience at the parish level is most acceptable to myself, the dean and chapter and all at the cathedral. You are a man of strong principles and an inspiration to us all and you are greatly respected and admired, just the sort of person to take on such a demanding role. Indeed your name has been mentioned to me so many times I have stopped counting.’

  ‘My lord,’ the Reverend Atticus replied, ‘I am, of course, deeply honoured that you should deem me suitable—’

  ‘Now, don’t go turning this down, Charles,’ the Bishop interrupted sharply. ‘I won’t hear of it. We need someone of your calibre, so I want you to give the matter some serious thought and to talk it over with your wife.’

  ‘My lord,’ the vicar replied, ‘I don’t need to give it any serious thought. I should be honoured to accept.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said the bishop, rather taken aback at the speed of the vicar’s acceptance. ‘I shall be in touch. Oh, by the way, I sorted out the matter of the school closing. I had a word with the right people.’

  ‘We are all very grateful, my lord,’ said the Reverend Atticus.

  The sermon could wait, the vicar told himself. He needed to tell his wife the good news.

  Marcia Atticus was arranging some flowers when he entered the drawing room. She looked in a particularly good mood and was humming to herself.

  ‘Oh, there you are, Charles,’ she said brightly. ‘I think these will be the last of the roses. Sermon finished?’

  ‘Not quite,’ her husband replied. ‘My dear, I wanted to have a word, if I might,’ he said.

  ‘Before you do, let me tell you my good news. I would have told you earlier when the post arrived, but I know how you don’t like to be disturbed when you are writing your sermons.’

  ‘Good news?’ repeated her husband.

  ‘I have just received a letter from St John’s College informing me that I have been accepted to do teacher training. Isn’t that wonderful?’

  ‘Congratulations,’ said the vicar, bending to peck at her cheek.

  ‘I’m really quite excited about starting,’ she trilled, ‘and I must go into the city on Monday to get the books on the reading list. I didn’t think I woul
d ever take to teaching, but the days I have spent in the village school have convinced me that I would be a good teacher and would enjoy it. Indeed, Mrs Devine said that if I succeeded in gaining a place at St John’s, I could do my teaching practice at the village school. It’s all worked out so well. You know, you were quite right, Charles, going into the village school each week has given me a new lease of life. I have felt useful and valued.’ She linked her arm through his. ‘I know I go on about you being more ambitious and assertive but I have come to realise that I have been rather selfish.’

  ‘No, no, not at all, my dear,’ began the vicar. ‘In fact—’

  She placed a finger over his lips. ‘Yes, Charles, I have,’ she said determinedly. ‘I now realise that being a country parson is your vocation and it is what you are so good at. I know how very well regarded and respected you are in this community and that you would be very unhappy with all the politicking and social gatherings at Cathedral Close. So, in future, I won’t go on about you not becoming a dean or an archdeacon or a bishop. I know that it wouldn’t suit you. You would be like a fish out of water.’

  ‘Thank you, Marcia,’ said the prospective Archdeacon of Clayton, with a wan smile.

  ‘Now, you wanted to speak to me about something.’

  Elisabeth was leaving Forest View after visiting her son when the head teacher approached.

  ‘I was hoping to catch you before you left,’ he said.

  ‘Nothing’s wrong, I hope?’

  ‘No, no, it’s just that I wanted you to be one of the first to know. I had a telephone call from the Education Office yesterday and they have decided on the special school they are intending to close.’

  ‘It’s not this one?’ Elisabeth asked with a sinking heart.

  ‘No, no, we are safe, thank goodness.’

  Elisabeth sighed, ‘What a relief.’

  ‘And I hear you have a reprieve too?’

  ‘That’s right. Mr Preston came to see me personally. Any decision on the future of Barton-in-the-Dale has been put on the back burner.’

  ‘You must be very pleased.’ Mr Williams beamed.

  ‘More than I can say, but I am even more pleased that this school is not going to close and that John is going to stay on here.’

  ‘Perhaps …’ started Mr Williams, ‘er … perhaps you might like to take me up on that offer.’

  ‘Offer?’ Elisabeth repeated

  ‘For a drink – as a way of celebrating our two pieces of good news. You mentioned that you would allow me to take you out. Perhaps this evening?’

  ‘Well, I—’ she began.

  ‘Of course, you may be busy and—’

  It seemed churlish of Elisabeth to refuse. ‘Well, yes,’ she replied.

  ‘You’re busy?’

  ‘No, I should like to go for a drink. Thank you.’

  Mr Williams smiled widely. ‘Excellent. Shall we say seven-thirty? I could drive over and meet you in the Blacksmith’s Arms in Barton, or the other pub.’

  ‘I should prefer somewhere outside the village, if you don’t mind,’ said Elisabeth.

  ‘Yes, of course. What about the Royal Oak at Gartside?’

  ‘That would be fine,’ said Elisabeth. He was a pleasant enough man was Mr Williams, good-humoured, chatty and a dedicated and hard-working head teacher. He was easy to talk to and good company. She knew that after his divorce, he had moved to live alone near the school and must sometimes feel lonely. What harm could there be, thought Elisabeth, in having a drink with a colleague?

  Those standing at the public bar stopped talking when Major C. J. Neville-Gravitas breezed into the Blacksmith’s Arms that Saturday lunchtime.

  ‘Good day, one and all,’ he said cheerfully.

  There were few nods of response from the men at the bar.

  ‘Your usual, major?’ asked the landlord.

  ‘Just the ticket,’ he said, ‘and make it a double. And one for yourself, my good man.’ He stroked his moustache and looked around smiling.

  ‘Thank you kindly, major,’ said the landlord, getting the single malt which was the major’s tipple.

  ‘And how are you, landlord, on this bright, crisp and beautiful day?’ asked Major Neville-Gravitas.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you, major. How about you?’

  ‘Tip-top.’

  ‘Ready for Christmas?’

  ‘As ready as I’ll ever be,’ the major replied. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘It’s good news about the school,’ said the landlord.

  ‘Yes, great news that it is to stay open,’ replied the major approvingly. He stroked his moustache again. He was in a particularly buoyant mood.

  ‘No thanks to you,’ observed Fred Massey, who had been watching the major with a sour expression on his face.

  ‘I don’t follow your drift, old man,’ said the major, turning in the speaker’s direction.

  ‘Well, you were all for the school closing, from what I’ve heard,’ said Fred.

  ‘Not at all,’ replied the major irritably. ‘I exercised discretion. Being the chairman of the governing body, I felt it appropriate in the first instance to abstain from the vote.’

  ‘Running with the hare and hunting with the hounds, you mean,’ said Fred.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Sitting on the fence.’

  ‘I did not sit on the fence!’ the major told him forcefully. ‘I took a neutral position, not that it is any of your business.’

  ‘Same thing,’ said Fred.

  ‘It is not,’ said the major angrily. ‘And having assessed the situation and seen how successful the village school has become and how well regarded is its head teacher, I campaigned strongly in favour of keeping the school open.’

  ‘Well, you were last in the village to do so,’ said Fred, ‘and you only did it then because you saw the strength of feeling.’

  ‘Don’t you tell me what I did and what I didn’t do!’ exclaimed the major.

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you this—’ began Fred mulishly.

  ‘She’s a very good head teacher,’ said the landlord, trying, by changing the subject, to cool a situation that was getting increasingly heated.

  ‘Aye, she is,’ agreed Fred Massey, ‘but what I want to ask the major here—’

  ‘Hang on, Fred,’ interposed Albert Spearman, tapping his arm, ‘you’ve changed your tune. You hadn’t a good word for Mrs Devine a few weeks back.’

  ‘Aye, well,’ replied Fred impatiently. ‘She’s mellowed. It’s true we didn’t start off on the right footing but we get on right well now. We’ve come to some accommodation about that track and she says I can keep my sheep on her paddock. Anyway, what I want to ask the major here,’ he continued obstinately, ‘is this.’

  ‘How’s your foot then, Fred?’ asked the landlord, in a vain attempt to distract him.

  ‘Bloody painful. What I wanted to ask the major here—’ he started again, turning to the object of his vilification, but Major C. J. Neville-Gravitas had downed his whisky and left the pub.

  ‘He went without paying for his drink,’ said Albert.

  ‘Typical,’ said Fred.

  ‘What were you going to ask him anyway?’

  ‘I was going to ask him if he’d signed the petition,’ said Fred. ‘You can bet your life his name’s not on it, fence-sitter that he is.’

  ‘I’ve told you before, Fred Massey,’ said the landlord, ‘you have a nasty habit off driving my customers away.’

  ‘You said it were a talent before,’ said Fred chuckling. ‘Any road, you were asking me about my foot.’

  ‘Oh, don’t start that again, Fred,’ groaned Albert.

  ‘Well, I’ve been asked and I’m telling him. It was a terrible ordeal,’ Fred said, raising his voice so those inclined to listen could hear. ‘I could have lost a foot, nay, a leg or even bled to death. As it is I lost two toes and half my heel. The doctor at the hospital said it was a wonder I didn’t go into shock. He said it was me remaining calm and not panicking what sa
ved my life.’

  ‘That and Les Stainthorpe,’ added Mr Spearman.

  ‘Oh yes, he came to the rescue right enough and very grateful I am to him too.’

  ‘So, who’s looking after the farm until you’re back on your feet?’ asked the landlord.

  ‘My nephew, young Clarence. And if I don’t watch him like a hawk he makes a pig’s ear of everything he touches. I don’t know, youngsters these days. He’s not got a brain cell in his head. Doolally most of the time. He has about as much gumption as a dead fish.’

  ‘Well, there’s a real vote of confidence for the lad,’ said the landlord sarcastically.

  ‘He tries his best, I won’t deny that,’ said Fred, ‘but he has no common sense.’

  Albert Spearman gave a knowing look in the direction of the landlord. The speaker did not display much common sense, he thought, sticking his leg down a machine used for cutting up sugar-beet, but he said nothing.

  ‘I mean,’ continued Fred, ‘take what happened last week. I got the vet out to look at six of my cows which were down with rampant diarrhoea.’

  ‘Must you?’ groaned Albert, a pork scratching poised before his mouth.

  ‘Anyway, the vet arrives, that young one who’s wet behind the ears and thinks he knows everything, and he says they’ve eaten some sort of weed that didn’t agree with them and hence the diarrhoea, which was all over the field.’

  Albert stared for a moment at the pork scratching before returning it to the bag.

  ‘Young Clarence had put the cows into yonder field with all these weeds and that’s what brought on this diarrhoea.’

  ‘Must we go there?’ asked Albert, who had been looking forward to his substantial Saturday lunch.

  ‘Let me finish, let me finish,’ said Fred. ‘So the young vet tells me it’s bovine diarrhoea and he’ll give the cows these Dutch pills which will sort them out. He asked for a bucket of hot soapy and disinfected water – I couldn’t see why, to be honest – which I fetched and then he gets out from his bag this long rubber tube and a box of pills. Clarence brings in the first cow and blow me the vet heads for the rear end. “What are you doing down there?” I asks from where I was standing at the beast’s head. “Pills aren’t going in that end,” he says, pointing to the back end, “they’re going in this.” So he washes this rubber tube in the bucket and inserts it up the back of the cow.’