Having sown the seed, she said, ‘I’ll get the tea,’ and left the room.
His housekeeper had put an idea into his head which made Michael Stirling feel more wretched. So Elisabeth Devine had an admirer in David Williams. The man was good, clever, generous and obviously attractive to women, and he also had that facility with words often possessed by the Welsh, something he, the village doctor known for his taciturnity, clearly lacked. The couple had so much in common, too. He now recalled sadly the many occasions when the head teacher at Forest View had brought Elisabeth into the conversation, speaking of her in glowing terms. The man was clearly keen on her.
Mrs O’Connor returned with a large brown-glazed teapot, a china cup and saucer and a jug upon a tray. She poured the thick black liquid. ‘Why don’t you give her a ring?’ she asked.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Mrs Devine,’ said the housekeeper. ‘Why don’t you give her a ring? Call her up on the phone.’
‘And why would I want to do that, Mrs O’Connor?’ he asked.
‘A fire in the heart makes smoke in the head, as my owld Grandmother Mullarkey used to say.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Dr Stirling, ‘I don’t quite know what your Grandmother Mullarkey meant by that.’
Mrs O’Connor gave a small smile. ‘Oh, I think you do, Dr Stirling,’ she said, leaving the room. ‘I think you do.’
As Elisabeth sat in her sitting room now, thinking over the events of the evening before, the telephone rang shrilly.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello. It’s Michael Stirling here.’ His mouth was dry. ‘I’m not disturbing you, am I?’
‘No, not at all,’ replied Elisabeth. Her heart missed a beat. ‘You must be a mind reader. I was just thinking about you and was intending to give you a call.’
‘Thinking about me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nothing bad, I hope.’
‘Pardon?’
‘About me, nothing bad.’
‘Of course not.’
‘So how are you?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Good, good.’
‘How are the boys?’
‘They’re fine.’
‘And you?’
‘I’m fine too.’
‘Well, then everybody appears to be fine.’
He took a breath. ‘I was wondering if you might … if you are free, that is … that you might consider letting me … coming out … that is … with me … for a meal.’ He sounded nervous and embarrassed. His heart was thudding. ‘Of course if you have something planned—’
‘I’d love to,’ Elisabeth replied quickly.
‘Pardon?’
‘I said I would love to.’
‘You would?’
‘Of course. I was going to invite you around for a meal as a thank you for all your support over the last few weeks.’
‘Well, I thought we might go to a restaurant.’
‘I shall look forward to that.’
‘Well, goodbye then.’
‘When have you in mind?’ said Elisabeth before he could put down the receiver.
‘Sorry?’
‘When have you in mind to go out for the meal?’ she asked.
‘Yes, yes, sorry. Er … what about tonight?’
‘Tonight?’
‘Yes, tonight,’ he said quickly. ‘Of course, if you’ve something on, I—’
‘Tonight will be fine,’ Elisabeth told him, her heart too beating like a drum in her chest. ‘I shall look forward to that. Where shall I meet you?’
‘Oh,’ he said, trying to catch his breath. ‘I’ll collect you at about seven.’
‘Right,’ she said.
‘Right,’ he replied.
‘I’ll see you then.’
‘Fine.’
He put down the receiver and flopped back in his chair.
‘It’s very good of you to look after the boys for the evening,’ Dr Stirling told Mrs O’Connor later.
‘It’s a pleasure,’ she replied. ‘Anywhere nice?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Are you going anywhere nice?’
‘Frederico’s, the Italian in Limebeck.’
‘With anyone special, or shouldn’t I ask?’ She gave a knowing smile.
‘Yes, Mrs O’Connor, I am going out with someone very special.’
‘Well, do give Mrs Devine my best wishes, won’t you.’
‘And how do you know it’s Mrs Devine?’ he asked.
‘Oh, come along, Dr Stirling, I do have eyes in my head. I’ve seen the way you look at her.’
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Has the Pope got a balcony?’ she asked.
‘Do you think she—’
‘Feels the same about you?’ Mrs O’Connor finished the sentence. ‘Of course she does. I’ve seen the way she looks at you as well, and as my owld Grandmother Mullarkey was wont to say—’
‘Oh please, spare me another of Grandma Mullarkey’s words of wisdom,’ said the doctor, laughing.
‘As my Grandmother Mullarkey was wont to say,’ Mrs O’Connor continued, as if he hadn’t spoken, ‘faint heart never won fair lady.’
The two boys appeared at the door.
‘Where are you going?’ asked James.
‘Just out for a meal,’ replied his father. ‘I shan’t be long.’
‘Can we come?’ James asked.
‘No, not tonight,’ said his father, smiling and ruffling the boy’s hair.
‘You look very smart,’ said Danny. ‘Doesn’t he scrub up well, Mrs O’Connor?’ he added, with a cheeky grin on his face.
‘Sure he does, darlin’. Doesn’t he look the bee’s knees.’
Dr Stirling smiled and shook his head. ‘Would you two not talk about me as if I’m not here,’ he said good-humouredly.
‘You’ve got your new suit on,’ said James, frowning. ‘And you’re wearing aftershave. I can smell it. Who are you meeting?’
‘All these questions,’ said Dr Stirling, colouring a little. ‘I’ve already been interrogated by Mrs O’Connor. I’m just meeting someone for a quiet meal, that’s all.’
The two boys looked at each other and Danny whispered in his friend’s ear. They both giggled. Then Danny nudged James and winked at him before turning to the doctor.
‘Give Mrs Devine our best wishes, won’t you, Dr Stirling,’ he said, another great smile filling his face.
It was the last day of term at Barton-in-the-Dale village school. Over the two weeks leading up to Christmas, the staff and pupils had been busy decorating the building in celebration of the very special festival. Down the corridor and on classroom walls the children’s poems and stories were enhanced by pictures of vivid winter scenes depicting great white peaks, forests of dark green pine trees, rolling fields and rocky outcrops hidden under a dusting of snow. Ernest had painted a large, smiling Santa riding on a golden sleigh pulled by prancing, mud-coloured reindeers and laden with presents. Mrs Atticus had supervised the transformation of the entrance hall, where the children had stuck different shapes of coloured tissue paper on the windows to give it the effect of stained glass. Mr Gribbon had made a wooden crib that housed small polished wooden figures of the Holy Family, the angels, the Magi and the shepherds, and Lady Wadsworth had donated a large fir tree from the Limebeck estate which had pride of place at the front of the hall.
The air was icy fresh that day. Great flakes of snow began to fall in the morning and soon walls, paths, trees, road signs, letterboxes and rooftops were shrouded in white. The whole area around the small school was a vast silent sea. Rays of watery winter sunlight pierced the high feathery clouds, making the snow glow a golden pink. The scene was magical.
Of course the school caretaker was not in the best of moods as he surveyed the scene from the school office.
‘I hate this weather,’ he moaned to Mrs Scrimshaw. ‘It’s like the bloody Arctic Circle out there. I’ve been out since dawn chucking sand and salt all over the path a
nd shovelling mountains of snow, and as soon as I’ve shifted one lot another lot falls. And this cold gets into my bones and what with my bad back—’
‘Happy Christmas, Mr Gribbon,’ interrupted the school secretary cheerily.
‘Beg pardon?’
‘What a lovely time of year it is,’ she said, maintaining her overly cheerful demeanour. ‘A time of peace and goodwill, when everyone sounds happy and full of good cheer and enters into the spirit of the season.’
‘What?’ he asked, missing the sarcasm in her voice.
She changed her tone. ‘For goodness’ sake cheer up. You’re like the Prophet of Doom. It’s the end of term and it’s nearly Christmas. You can rest your back and your bones over the next two weeks.’
‘Fat chance,’ he grumbled. ‘We’ve got the relations coming. You don’t want to hear what my brother-in-law’s like.’
‘No, I don’t,’ she said quickly. She gave a great sigh and returned to the letter she was typing. She could think of nothing more to say and hoped that the caretaker might go, but he remained, jangling the bunch of keys in his pocket and staring dolefully out of the office window.
A small voice could be heard in the corridor.
‘Excuse me, Mr Gribbon, I’m sorry to interrupt your conversation but may I have a quick word with Mrs Scrimshaw?’
The caretaker breathed through his nose like a horse and moved away from the door to let a small boy into the office.
‘Oh, it’s you, Oscar,’ said the school secretary, looking up. ‘What is it you want?’
‘I was just checking we are up to speed for this afternoon.’
‘Up to speed?’ she repeated.
‘As you know, I am the narrator at the Nativity play and I just wanted to make sure that the carol sheets are ready to put on the chairs. If they are, I could do that at lunchtime if you like.’
‘That won’t be necessary, Oscar,’ said Mrs Scrimshaw. ‘Everything is in hand.’
‘Tip-top,’ he said.
‘Shouldn’t you be in your classroom doing some work instead of wandering around the school?’ asked the caretaker.
‘Miss Brakespeare said I could pop out,’ the boy told him.
‘Well, you want to pop back in,’ said Mr Gribbon. ‘Go on, off you go.’
‘Actually I’m glad I’ve seen you, Mr Gribbon,’ said Oscar, ignoring the instruction. ‘I’ve noticed that the path leading up to the school entrance is covered in snow again.’
‘Have you indeed?’ The caretaker stiffened.
‘I nearly slipped and I could have hurt myself,’ continued the boy.
‘Well, you should look where you’re going then, shouldn’t you?’ the caretaker replied brusquely.
‘It’s just that if someone does slip and fall over, they could break a bone and the school could get into a lot of trouble. I think it would be a really good idea, Mr Gribbon, if you did a bit of shovelling.’
The caretaker opened his mouth to reply but the boy smiled widely and said, ‘Well, I must press on.’
‘Goodbye, Oscar,’ said the school secretary, a quiet little smile appearing in her face.
‘Oh, goodbye, Mrs Scrimshaw,’ he replied. He turned to the caretaker. ‘Goodbye, Mr Gribbon, and you won’t forget about that snow on the path, will you?’
The children were to perform the Nativity play that afternoon and it promised to be a very large turnout from the village. There was a lively chatter in the classrooms and, being the end of term, the teachers were rather more indulgent about the noise. Elisabeth, however, had to confiscate a sprig of mistletoe brought to school that day by Chardonnay, who pursued poor Danny across the playground at morning break in the hope of getting a kiss. When the girl at last cornered her victim, she closed her eyes and puckered her lips in expectation.
‘Clear off!’ Danny told her, his face red with embarrassment. ‘I’m not into that sort of thing.’
Not one to give up easily, Chardonnay approached him later on in the classroom as he pored over his reading book. Leaning close to him, her hair falling about her face, she dangled the mistletoe above the boy’s head and pouted.
‘Miss!’ shouted Danny. ‘Will ya tell ’er?’
‘Miss,’ Chardonnay announced, ‘everyone kisses under the mistletoe. It’s an old custom at Christmas.’
‘I am well aware of that,’ said Elisabeth, trying to stop herself smiling, ‘but the person you wish to kiss under the mistletoe has to want to be kissed, and by the looks of it Danny isn’t all that keen. Give it a couple of years, Chardonnay,’ she told the girl, ‘and it will be him chasing you for a kiss.’
The girl grinned. ‘Do you reckon, miss?’ she said.
‘Dream on,’ said Danny under his breath.
And so the sprig of mistletoe ended up on the teacher’s desk.
It seemed that the whole of Barton-in-the-Dale had turned out for the Nativity play, for the school hall was packed that afternoon. Mrs Sloughthwaite, Mrs Widowson and Mrs O’Connor arrived early and commandeered seats in the centre of the front row. The shopkeeper had closed the village store early so she could attend. Mr Gribbon, who had observed the threesome trail muddy water across his parquet floor, muttered to himself and mopped it up in their wake. He approached them, clutching the mop to his chest like a spear.
‘Those seats are reserved for Lady Wadsworth and other VIPs,’ he told them, thrusting out his jaw. ‘You’ll have to move.’
‘You don’t say?’ replied Mrs Sloughthwaite curtly, making no effort to rise from her chair. She gave a superior little sniff before adding, ‘They should have reserved notices on if they was reserved seats, so we’re not moving.’ Then she pointed to a puddle beneath her feet. ‘You’ve missed a bit,’ she said. Mr Gribbon departed muttering again.
The Reverend Atticus, the prospective Archdeacon of Clayton, arrived rubbing his long hands together and smiling widely and joined the three women on the front row. He was soon followed by Lady Wadsworth and the major.
‘It’s so good to have the Nativity play performed again in the school,’ remarked the cleric. ‘As I recall, Miss Sowerbutts was not that keen when I broached the matter with her.’
‘She was not very keen on anything which involved any extra work,’ observed Lady Wadsworth.
‘I was once in a Nativity play, you know,’ remarked the major. ‘When I was a kiddie, of course.’
‘Really?’ said the lady of the manor. She could not have put less enthusiasm into a single word.
‘Yes, indeed,’ the major told her. ‘I was the ass.’
Mrs O’Connor glanced in the direction of Mrs Sloughth-waite, who as was her wont had been eavesdropping, and caught the look in her eye.
‘Yes, I was the donkey,’ continued the major. ‘I had to wear a papier-mâché head.’
The vicar raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond.
Soon there wasn’t an empty seat in the hall. Mr Tomlinson took up his position at the piano, and the school choir, smart in their white shirts, with grey trousers or skirts, filed in and stood beneath the small stage. Silence descended. Dr Stirling, who had been called out on an emergency, arrived just before the performance began and joined Elisabeth, who was standing at the rear of the hall. From behind the makeshift curtains could be heard the excited whispering of the children. Oscar, dressed in a dark blue blazer with a red bow tie, slipped through the curtain. He cleared his throat several times and then, tilting his coloured glasses slightly on the bridge of his nose, announced: ‘We would like to welcome you all to our Nativity play. Before the performance commences you need to be familiar with the exits in case there is a fire or a bomb scare and you have to vacate the building.’ Then, like an airline steward, he indicated the various exits before disappearing behind the curtain. The lights dimmed and Oscar re-emerged.
‘Tonight the children of Barton-in-the-Dale village school will recreate the scene in Bethlehem two thousand years ago when a very special baby was born, a baby who grew up to be someone who trans
formed the world with his teachings.’
The curtain opened to reveal the Virgin Mary, a small girl from the infants. She was a pretty little thing of about six, and was busy bustling about the stage, wiping and dusting. Oscar began to narrate the story. ‘Many years ago there was a young woman called Mary. One day an angel appeared to her.’ Chardonnay entered stage right wearing a white frilly nightie, large paper wings and sporting a crooked tinsel halo. She stretched out her arms dramatically.
‘Hail Mary, full of grace,’ she said, ‘the Lord is with thee. Of all women you are the most blessed and soon you will have a baby and his name will be Jesus.’
‘Oh,’ said the Virgin Mary, blushing. ‘Thank you very much.’
‘In a town called Nazareth,’ continued Oscar, ‘there was a carpenter called Joseph.’ A smiling little boy with apple-red cheeks strode on to the scene and positioned himself behind Mary. He was dressed in a tartan dressing-gown with a coloured towel on his head and had a cotton-wool beard gummed on to his chin.
‘The angel appeared again,’ said Oscar.
‘Hail Joseph,’ said Chardonnay, ‘the Lord is with thee. He has sent me from Heaven to tell you to marry Mary, for soon she will have a baby and His name will be Jesus.’
‘Oh,’ said Joseph blushing. ‘Thank you very much.’
‘Now we will all stand and sing “Once in Royal David’s City”,’ announced Oscar. When the hymn had ended and the audience had sat down he continued.
‘And it came to pass, that a decree went out from Caesar Augustus, the Emperor, that the entire Roman world should be taxed. Joseph took Mary from Galilee to the city of David which was called Bethlehem, in Judea from where his family came. Long and tiring was their journey but they finally arrived at an inn looking for somewhere to stay.’
Malcolm Stubbins strode on to the stage wearing a blue and white striped apron. He raised a hand.
‘Before you ask,’ he told them sharply, ‘there is no room in the inn. There’s the stable around the back. It’s warm and dry and you can stay there for the night.’
‘Thank you very much,’ said Mary.
‘Thank you very much,’ repeated Joseph.
The narrator took up the story. ‘And so Mary and Joseph had to sleep in the stable, for there was no room in the inn that night. Now nearby, in a distant dale, two shepherds were tending their sheep and watching over their flocks.’ Danny and Ernest entered accompanied by a group of infant children dressed as sheep, wearing white woolly jumpers and cardboard masks. ‘And the Angel of the Lord appeared again.’ But the Angel of the Lord did not appear again. ‘I said!’ Oscar shouted, ‘then the Angel of the Lord appeared again.’ Chardonnay, her halo askew and one of her cardboard wings bent, rushed on to the stage.
The Little Village School Page 37
