‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ moaned Albert. ‘Do we need to know this?’
‘Then he puts one of these Dutch pills in the end of the tube,’ continued Fred undaunted, ‘nips the end, puts it to his mouth and gives the tube an almighty blow and up goes the pill. “Now,” he says, “you have to do this to every cow first thing in the morning and after the cows have been milked in the afternoon.” I says to him, I says, “I’m not right keen on doing that and I’d as sooner you do it.” Well, he tells me, he’ll do it all right but it’ll cost me for every cow he treats and he tells me how it’ll be a long business and he’ll want paying by the hour. I said, “Not bloody likely. Give me the tube.” Well, Clarence brings in the second cow. I does what the vet did and pops this pill in the tube, nipping the end and inserting it up the back of the cow. I tells Clarence to keep the animal steady because I don’t want anything coming down that tube when I’ve got it in my mouth.’
‘I can’t be doing with this,’ said Albert, finishing his pint and ready for off.
‘No, no, I’ve nearly finished,’ said Fred.
‘Another time,’ Albert told him, walking out of the pub.
Fred turned to the landlord. ‘So Clarence holds the cow’s head and I take hold of the rubber tube,’ he told the landlord, ‘and I gives the end a blow. Then what happens?’
‘I can’t imagine,’ said the landlord.
‘The pill gets stuck half way up the tube. “No, no,” says the young vet, “you’ve got to give a really big blow.” “Well, I’m not up for this,” I tells him and I asks Clarence – he’s a big lad as you know and has plenty of puff – to finish it off and give it another blow. Well, you’d never guess what the dozy lad did?’
‘I can’t wait to hear,’ said the landlord wearily.
‘Clarence comes down the rear of the cow, takes out the tube, turns it around the other ways and sticks it back in. Then he blows like billy-o. “What did you do that for?” I asks him. “Why did you turn the tube round the other way?” “Well,” says he, “I’m not having it my mouth after it’s been in yours.”’
‘Well, thank you for sharing that with me, Fred,’ said the landlord. ‘You’ve now managed to clear all the public bar.’
20
Miss Sowerbutts rarely received any letters, but that Saturday afternoon four dropped through her letterbox. The first was from the hospital confirming her next visit to the orthopaedic department. The second, the contents of which made her curl a lip, was from the supermarket manager, apologising profusely for the wet floor and hoping she was ‘on the road to recovery’. He had enclosed some gift vouchers. If he believed that a few paltry gift vouchers would settle the matter, she thought, he had another think coming. The third letter was from her nephew saying that he was spending Christmas with his wife’s family that year and therefore could not invite her to spend the festival with him. This did not unduly upset Miss Sowerbutts, for she never enjoyed spending the day with him and that fussy little wife of his, eating overcooked turkey, watching inane television programmes and having to endure the noisy children, who received far too many presents for her liking and ate far too much. She was relieved also that they hadn’t the time to visit her. She looked over to her cabinet with its collection of cut glass and china and recalled the time one of the children had taken out the porcelain figurine of Marie Antoinette and broken the head off. Miss Sowerbutts treasured her possessions more than she did people, so she was not amused when her nephew pointed out that the unfortunate queen did, in fact, lose her head. She was pleased that she would not have to put up with the endless noise, the sticky fingers and the perpetual demands for the attention of her great-nephews and nieces. The fourth letter brought a smile to her thin lips. It was from her solicitors, Smith, Hartley & Wellbeloved, informing her that her claim for compensation for her supermarket injury had been lodged and she could expect a sizeable payout.
Although a little early, Miss Sowerbutts decided to celebrate with a large glass of extra dry sherry. She took a large gulp. With the windfall, she would go on a cruise over Christmas, she thought, well away from this incestuous little village and its parochial inhabitants, and when she returned she would put her cottage up for sale and move to an apartment in the city, one overlooking the river and the cathedral. There was nothing now for her in Barton-in-the-Dale. All she seemed to hear about in the shops, the doctor’s, the dentist’s and the chemist’s was how happy everyone was that the village school would not now be closing and how wonderful was the new head teacher, that pushy woman in the red shoes. Even the mousy little Miss Brakespeare had been converted.
‘I am well out of it,’ she said aloud, finishing her drink and pouring another generous glass.
Miss Sowerbutts took her sherry and gazed out of her French windows and over the neat little garden. She peered through the glass and then her face assumed its familiar sour and pinched expression. Her manicured lawn was covered in small dark mounds of earth.
‘Moles!’ she exclaimed, screwing up her face. ‘Moles!’
‘Where are we going?’ demanded Mrs Brakespeare.
‘I’ve told you, Mother, we are going into town for tea,’ replied her daughter, looking at herself in the hall mirror. She was dressed in the grey cashmere sweater, pillarbox-red woollen coat and shiny black leather boots she had recently treated herself to.
‘Why?’ Mrs Brakespeare asked suspiciously.
‘Because I wish to take you out for afternoon tea. We’ll be going to the Rumbling Tum tea shop in the high street,’ said her daughter. Life seemed to hold few pleasures for her mother these days, and she had perhaps been rather sharp with her of late, so Miss Brakespeare had decided to give her a treat. There appeared little enthusiasm for the idea from her mother.
‘It’s Saturday,’ her mother told her. ‘You know how crowded it will be at this time of year, all those Christmas shoppers rushing about.’
‘I’ve booked a table. You can sit in the window and listen to the Salvation Army band. They always play in the square the Saturday before Christmas.’
‘You have never taken me out on a Saturday afternoon before.’
‘Yes I have, Mother,’ her daughter replied wearily. ‘You forget.’
‘I can’t remember,’ her mother groused.
‘Well, I am taking you out now.’
‘I can’t walk far,’ grumbled her mother. ‘Not with these legs.’ She assumed the mantle of suffering so effectively that it was clear she was enjoying it.
‘I’m not expecting you to,’ said her daughter. ‘I have a taxi ordered. It will collect us in an hour.’
Her mother sniffed. ‘A taxi!’
‘So you need to get ready,’ she told her.
‘Why are we going into town? You’re not telling me something.’
‘We’re going to call in somewhere.’
‘I knew it,’ cried her mother, with that ‘I-told-you-so’ expression she wore when she was proved right. ‘You’re taking me to look around one of these old folks’ homes.’
Her daughter laughed. ‘Stuff and nonsense,’ she said.
‘I know what you’re up to. I’m not daft, Miriam. I’m being institutionalised.’
‘Don’t be silly, Mother.’
‘You want to stick me with all these old folks out of your way. I knew it. Ever since—’
‘Mother!’ interrupted Miss Brakespeare. ‘I am not taking you to see an old folks’ home.’
‘Don’t come the innocent with me, Miriam,’ said Mrs Brakespeare. She reached into her handbag and brought out a glossy piece of paper, which she waved in the air. ‘What’s this then?’
‘What’s what?’ asked her daughter.
‘I found this in the hall. I know what you’ve been up to. Don’t try and pull the wool over my eyes.’
‘I have not the slightest idea what you are talking about,’ said her daughter.
‘It’s a brochure,’ announced Mrs Brakespeare. ‘I found it on the hall table.’
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bsp; ‘You are not making any sense,’ said her daughter.
‘I’ll read it,’ announced her mother. ‘“Placing an elderly relative in a care home can be a complicated and confusing time. Why not call Anita Edwards, our friendly care adviser, today with no obligation, for a free support and advice pack to help you find the perfect placement for your loved one.”’
Miss Brakespeare laughed.
‘You may laugh, Miriam,’ said her mother, her eyes filling with tears, ‘but to think it has come to this.’
‘Mother,’ Miss Brakespeare told her, putting her arm around her parent’s shoulder and kissing her cheek, ‘I am not putting you in a home and I never shall. That’s just another circular they put through every door. We are going into town for afternoon tea and then we are calling in at the travel agent’s.’
‘Why? Are you thinking of sending me abroad?’
‘We are calling in at the travel agent’s,’ explained her daughter, ‘because I am going to book a week’s holiday over spring bank holiday at a hotel at Scarborough and I want you to help me choose.’
‘Who’s it for?’
‘For both of us, of course. Who else would it be for? I thought it would be a nice little break for us, and I know how you loved Scarborough when we visited when Father was alive.’
‘A holiday,’ said her mother. ‘I don’t know about that, what with my condition.’
‘I have spoken to Dr Stirling and he says it will do you a power of good.’
‘Does he?’
‘Yes. He does.’
‘You’re not putting me in a home, then?’ asked her mother in a childish voice.
‘Of course not.’
‘It must be twenty years since I was last in Scarborough,’ said Mrs Brakespeare. ‘I bet it’s changed for the worse.’
‘The sea and the sand and the promenade won’t have changed,’ said her daughter, remaining cheerful. ‘A week away in a hotel being waited upon and with all that fresh sea air will be good for us both.’
‘Well,’ said her mother, raising a small smile, ‘maybe so. Do you think that Max Jaffa will still be playing at the Spa?’ she asked.
Mr Preston, the Director of Education, sat behind his large mahogany desk in a thoughtful mood. He stared out of the window at the uninterrupted view over the high street, busier and noisier than ever with Saturday afternoon traffic. It was not his practice to spend any part of his precious weekends in his office, but he had two important things to attend to before Monday morning.
The first job was the short-listing for the post of Deputy Director of Education, which had arisen with the imminent retirement of the present incumbent. Mr Preston smiled wryly when he saw the application at the top of the pile. Mr Nettles, the man with the round smiling face and whining voice, who had recently been moved to school meals, had had the temerity to apply; this man, who had an inflated and entirely undeserved opinion of his own meagre talents, was overly optimistic to think he could ever be considered for such a post. Mr Preston placed the application at the bottom of the pile.
Having completed the selection of the five candidates to be called for interview, he yawned, stretched and leaned back expansively in his leather chair. He then applied himself to his second task: to write his formal letter of resignation. Only that morning he had heard that the post of Chief Executive for a town in the Midlands and for which he had applied some weeks before, had been offered to him. He would, of course, say in his letter how he had found his present post as Director of Education challenging and fulfilling and that he was profoundly sorry to leave, which was being rather economical with the truth. He would also ask if he might waive the two months’ notice he was required to give and take up the position rather earlier. He was, of course, content to relinquish his present position and leave behind all the problems and discord that would inevitably arise now that the list of schools for closure had become public. That troublesome little village school in Barton-in-the-Dale, which would now remain open following the inordinate pressure that had been exerted, had set a dangerous precedent. All schools threatened with closure, such as the one at Urebank, would no doubt follow suit and object in the strongest possible way. No, he thought to himself, he was well out of it. Of course, after Christmas he would have to deal with the pressing matter of Councillor Smout’s expenses claims and the unaccounted-for receipts.
‘Don’t you think it a little excessive, my lady,’ remarked Lady Wadsworth’s butler, peering over the shoulder of his mistress.
‘Excessive!’ she repeated sharply. ‘Certainly not! I think the appropriate word to describe it would be impressive.’
‘It is rather on the large side, your ladyship,’ commented the butler. ‘Some might say a little ostentatious.’
‘Watson, really,’ she retorted. ‘As my grandfather often said, if a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing properly.’
The room which she was at present occupying was indeed a testimony to her grandfather’s pronouncement. To describe it as grandiose would be something of an understatement. Everything exuded comfortable opulence, from the heavy burgundy velvet drapes to the highly polished oak floor covered by a huge Persian silk carpet, from the delicately moulded ceiling to the deep armchairs and inlaid tables. Two walls were panelled in highly polished mahogany shelving and crammed with leather-bound books; the others were covered in a soft green patterned Chinese paper. Above the impressive carved marble fireplace, bearing the Wadsworth coat of arms, a huge Chippendale mirror caught the light from the shimmering chandeliers.
Lady Wadsworth was sitting in the library of Limebeck House in a huge plum red upholstered armchair beneath an enormous portrait in oils of her grandfather, the second Viscount Wadsworth, attired in his scarlet robes. He stared self-importantly from the canvas and bore an unnerving resemblance to the lady of the house. Through small gold-rimmed spectacles, she was examining the sketch, spread out before her on a small desk with gold tasselled drawers, of the plaque she was intending to have commissioned for the village school library.
‘But it is a small school library, your ladyship,’ observed the butler. ‘Might not such a large plaque appear rather out of place? Perhaps a small brass plate would be more suitable.’
‘A small brass plate!’ exclaimed her ladyship. ‘Like they have on the top of a coffin? I think not.’
‘But perhaps something a little more discreet,’ suggested the butler.
‘Watson!’ snapped Lady Wadsworth, ‘I merely asked for an opinion, not a full-blown criticism. If I am endowing the new library at the village school, I think it should have an eye-catching commemorative inscription to commemorate the opening.’
‘But your ladyship—’ began the butler.
‘No more,’ she commanded, raising a hand. ‘The discussion has ended.’
‘As you wish, my lady,’ the butler said, bowing slightly.
‘I have to say,’ said Lady Wadsworth, raising her eyes to the huge portrait of the mutton-chopped figure staring from the picture, ‘that my dear late grandfather would be most pleased, were he alive, at the decision not to close the school he founded and endowed.’
‘Indeed, my lady.’
‘Of course, it was largely by my good offices that it came about.’
The butler raised an eyebrow.
‘Had I not spoken to the Director of Education and had a small word in the ears of the Lord Lieutenant and the High Sheriff, the village school would undoubtedly have been no more. It is always the best thing to go right to the top in matters like this and I do pride myself in still having some influence in the community. Mrs Devine has written me an extremely nice letter of thanks.’
‘I am sure Mrs Devine and the teachers are very pleased,’ said the butler. ‘Speaking of Mrs Devine, your ladyship, might it not be appropriate to show her your plans for the proposed plaque?’
Lady Wadsworth shook her head like her tetchy terrier. ‘I think it is time for afternoon tea, Watson,’ she said.
Mr G
ribbon, hands clasped behind his back, toured the school premises like a lord of the manor inspecting his estate. He was not required to come into school on Saturday afternoons, but liked to ensure that those who had been playing football on the fields that morning had left the place as they had found it. The payment for overtime was also very welcome. Mrs Devine’s stern warning in assembly each Friday that the football would be cancelled should there be any litter found or the building left in a poor state, had clearly been heeded, for the place was indeed as Mr Gribbon had left it: clean, tidy and litter-free.
He was surprised to see the school secretary in the office.
‘What are you doing here, Mrs Scrimshaw?’ he asked, poking his beak of a nose around the door.
‘I forgot to mail the letters on Friday,’ she told him, ‘and I’ve just called in to collect them. What with all those books arriving for the new library and having to check all the invoices, it slipped my mind to take them to the post.’
‘I nearly did my back in lugging all those boxes,’ said the caretaker, pulling a face and stretching theatrically. ‘It’s playing up again. It’s not been right since I moved them bins. Then it took a turn for the worse getting that ruddy plaque back up on the wall. I sometimes can’t get out of bed in the morning, suffering as I do.’
As you keep reminding me, thought Mrs Scrimshaw.
‘And then I’ll have to put another of them big heavy brass plaques up outside the new library. That won’t be an easy job either.’
‘Yes, well, I shall have to make a move in a minute,’ said the secretary, not wishing to prolong the conversation about the caretaker’s many medical problems. ‘I have a WI meeting this afternoon. Mrs Cockburn is talking to us about creative things to do with the Christmas leftovers.’
‘And very smart you look too, if I may say so,’ Mr Gribbon remarked, jangling the keys in his overall pocket.
The Little Village School Page 35
