Trouble at the Little Village School (14 page)

The door opened and a woman with a hard, stern expression on her face entered. She was wearing a shapeless grey knitted hat, matching scarf and gloves and a heavy black coat. A battered canvas shopping bag hung loosely over her arm.

The vicar sighed inwardly. There was little chance now of him getting away to his beans on toast.

‘Good morning, Miss Sowerbutts,’ he said brightly.

‘Good morning, Reverend,’ she replied.

‘It’s a lovely bright day, isn’t it?’

‘If you like the cold,’ she replied.

‘I trust you had a pleasant Christmas?’ he enquired.

‘Not really, but I don’t wish to go into that.’

‘I see that your cottage is up for sale,’ remarked the cleric.

‘Yes, it is,’ she told him. ‘I shall be moving before Easter. There is nothing for me in the village these days and I find the many changes not to my liking, added to the fact that I find my garden far too big for me to manage.’

The vicar was tempted to tell her that she would be missed but resisted the temptation, for he knew it would have been disingenuous of him to do so. ‘Well, I hope you will be very happy,’ he said. ‘And are you to stay in the area?’

‘I have bought a luxury apartment in Clayton, one of a select development – De Courcey Apartments – overlooking the river and the cathedral. It has everything I require.’

Mrs Sloughthwaite, in common with most others in the village, disliked the former head teacher of the village school with her brusque manner, preening self-satisfaction and permanent scowl. The woman never had a good word for anybody and felt she should give everyone the full benefit of her opinions. She rarely called into the shop, and when she did she complained about the produce and bought few items. She was one person the shopkeeper would not miss if the woman took her custom elsewhere. Mrs Sloughthwaite, who had been ignored, drew herself up and folded her arms across her bosom. ‘Good morning, Miss Sowerbutts,’ she said loudly.

Miss Sowerbutts swivelled around. ‘Oh, good morning,’ she replied curtly, before turning her attention back to the vicar. ‘Anyway, Reverend,’ she said, ‘I am glad I have met you. It will save me calling at the rectory. There is something I would like you to do for me.’

‘Of course,’ said the vicar unenthusiastically. He managed a small smile.

‘Now, my cat has gone missing, Reverend.’

‘Oh dear,’ said the vicar in his most sympathetic of voices, which he had perfected over the years when responding to a distressed parishioner.

‘Yes. Tabitha is a very superior breed: a Lilac Point Siamese. She has a special diet of fish and chicken. I disposed of an empty salmon tin but she must have found it in the waste bin and pushed her head into it and the silly cat got her head stuck.’

‘Oh dear,’ repeated the cleric.

‘I tried to extricate her but she ran off.’

‘With a salmon tin stuck on her head?’ said Mrs Sloughthwaite, making no attempt to suppress a smile.

‘Yes,’ said Miss Sowerbutts crossly.

‘And what colour is your cat?’ asked the vicar.

‘Reverend Atticus, the colour of my cat is of no consequence. I am sure if anyone sees a cat running around the village with its head in a salmon tin they will know it is mine.’

‘It might have come off by now,’ ventured the shopkeeper.

‘Yes, well, it may have, though she had her head firmly wedged and I fear for her. She is cream in colour with a black face, glossy coat and large pricked ears, and she is very sensitive.’

‘So, how may I be of help?’ asked the vicar, hoping she would not suggest that he join a hunt for the animal.

Miss Sowerbutts plucked a card from her bag. ‘I should like you to place this notice in a prominent position in the church porch. You might also put a piece in the parish magazine. Someone may have seen her.’ Then, turning to the shopkeeper, she placed a similar card on the counter. ‘And I should be obliged if you would do the same and display this in the shop window.’

The shopkeeper left the card on the counter and stared at it for a moment. ‘And I should be obliged if you would occasionally buy something from the village store rather than doing your shopping elsewhere,’ she said.

The woman bristled. ‘Where I do my shopping is my concern,’ she replied sharply.

‘And what I put in my shop window is mine,’ retorted the shopkeeper.

Miss Sowerbutts snatched up the card and thrust it back in her bag. ‘Very well. You can be assured that I shall never patronise this shop again,’ she said.

‘Well, I can’t say that I shall lose any sleep over that,’ the shopkeeper told her, ‘and I should imagine you’ll find there are plenty of other places to patronise.’

Miss Sowerbutts stiffened and fixed Mrs Sloughthwaite with a piercing stare. ‘And what do you mean by that?’

‘What I mean—’ Mrs Sloughthwaite began.

‘I am sorry to hear about your cat, Miss Sowerbutts,’ interrupted the vicar, attempting to defuse the situation. ‘I should be happy to display the card for you. I’m sure the animal will turn up.’

‘Well, I hope so.’ Then with an icy stare at the shopkeeper she departed, banging the door and clanking the bell behind her.

‘Not a happy woman,’ sighed the vicar.

‘I wish she’d get a salmon tin stuck on her head,’ said Mrs Sloughthwaite, ‘and leave it there.’

Chapter 7

Mr Preston sat behind the large mahogany desk in his office contemplating what he would say to the visitors, the first of whom he was keeping waiting outside. He was a shrewd man, the Director of Education, clever with words and with that plausible, friendly persona able to win people over to his way of thinking. He would need all his skills, he imagined, to deal with the two head teachers he was about to see. He gazed out of the window, which gave an uninterrupted view over the busy and bustling high street, and considered how best to approach what could prove to be a tricky and troublesome business. His one consolation, he thought, would be that by the time the village schools had been reorganised into the consortiums, which had been agreed at the last meeting of the Education Committee, he would be well out of it. He had been appointed as chief executive for a city in the Midlands and would be moving to his new post at the end of term, leaving it to his successor to pick up the pieces.

He stood, adjusted his expensive silk tie, buttoned his expensive dark blue suit, stroked his hair and walked to the door, which he opened widely and with a flourish. He put on his professional smile and gestured for his first visitor to enter.

‘Do come in, Mrs Devine,’ he said. He pressed Elisabeth’s hand warmly. ‘I am delighted to meet you again and I do appreciate your coming in to County Hall to see me.’ He touched the back of a small leather chair with the tips of his fingers. ‘Do please take a seat.’ He was perfectly courteous but his voice was slightly flat. ‘May I offer you a cup of tea?’

‘No, thank you, Mr Preston,’ Elisabeth replied, returning his smile. As he went to sit down, she looked around the room. It was plush, with its large mahogany desk, great glass-fronted bookcase full of leather-bound tomes lining one wall, and framed pictures and prints drawn and painted by the county’s children and students displayed on the other. Opposite the bookcase a huge window looked out over the main street.

‘I gather congratulations are in order,’ she said.

‘Ah, you mean my move to the Midlands,’ he replied. ‘Yes, I am looking forward to the challenge. I gather there is much to do. I shall, of course, be sorry to leave the county.’

‘I see you have a piece of my pupil’s work on your wall,’ Elisabeth told him.

The Director of Education glanced around, the better to see the paintings. ‘Really? These were the winners in the County Art Competition,’ he told her.

‘Yes, I guessed as much,’ she said. ‘Ernest came second. His is the watercolour with the stone barn and the millpond.’

‘It’s very good,’ said Mr Preston, giving another disarming smile. He rested his elbows on the desktop and steepled his fingers. ‘And how are things going at Barton-in-the-Dale?’

‘I think they are going very well,’ replied Elisabeth. ‘Ms Tricklebank will no doubt have told you about her visit. I hope she was satisfied with what she saw?’

‘Ms Tricklebank was most interested,’ said the Director of Education, clearly not wishing to give anything away.

‘She didn’t say a great deal,’ Elisabeth told him.

‘She is admittedly a woman of few words, but she is extremely capable and has a great deal of experience.’

He was a very clever and persuasive individual was Mr Preston, thought Elisabeth, confident, good-humoured and very adept at charming an audience, but she didn’t quite trust the man.

‘I guess you know why I have asked for this meeting?’ said Mr Preston.

‘I think so,’ replied Elisabeth. ‘I should imagine it’s about the reorganisation of the schools in the county and in particular Barton-in-the-Dale.’

‘Mrs Devine,’ said the Director of Education, leaning forward, uncoupling his hands and folding them over before resting them on the desktop, ‘you will of course be aware of the situation regarding the education budget and how we have to make stringent savings. I think Ms Tricklebank outlined to you and your governors what has been suggested and the difficult decisions we have to make.’ He paused.

Elisabeth decided not to respond for the present and wait to hear what he had to say.

‘The thing is, Mrs Devine,’ he continued, ‘pupil numbers are declining and we have to look to the best ways of using the limited resources that we have. As you know, I am not in favour of closing schools and—’

‘I am sorry to interrupt, Mr Preston,’ said Elisabeth, sitting up straight in the chair, ‘but could I remind you that you did give me an assurance when you visited the school last term that Barton-in-the-Dale would not be closing. Indeed Ms Tricklebank at the governors’ meeting did say that—’

The Director of Education held up his hand and smiled. ‘Indeed, and I can assure you again that this will not happen, certainly not in the foreseeable future anyway.’

Elisabeth relaxed. ‘That’s good to hear,’ she said.

‘As I said, I am not in favour of closing village schools, but what it does mean is that in certain parts of the county where pupil numbers are in decline we have to consolidate. In other words, some of the smaller schools will have to merge into consortiums.’

‘Yes, I appreciate that, and I realise that Barton-in-the-Dale is one such school,’ said Elisabeth.

‘Yes, it is.’

‘And I assume it will merge with its nearest primary school.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Which is Urebank.’

‘Yes.’

Elisabeth sighed. ‘I see. You will be aware that the head teacher at Urebank and I do not see eye to eye?’

‘I
am
aware of that, yes. Mr Richardson did request a meeting with me last term when pupils from Urebank were leaving to go to Barton-in-the-Dale.’

‘Yes, he mentioned that he would be contacting the Education Office.’

‘I explained to him that parents have a perfect right to send their children to whichever school they wish, providing, of course, there is room for them. He was not happy about the situation.’

‘Then you will appreciate that working with Mr Richardson could be very difficult for the both of us?’

‘I do, Mrs Devine, and I can see a possible solution to this predicament. Now, you might recall that when I came out to see you after the matter of the school closure had been settled, I mentioned that the post of head teacher was coming up in a large purpose-built school in the north of the county. It comes with an excellent salary. I would like you to consider applying. Obviously I cannot promise you the post but I feel you would be a strong candidate.’

‘And I told you, Mr Preston, that I wasn’t interested,’ replied Elisabeth. ‘Perhaps I should explain why. I have a son, John, who has severe autism and is at Forest View Special School, where he is very happy. It is an excellent school and very near to where I live, which is very convenient. I wish him to remain there. The reason for my moving to Barton-in-the-Dale was so I could be nearer to him and visit him regularly. That is why I don’t wish to move.’

‘I wasn’t aware of that,’ said the Director of Education. He drummed his fingers on the desktop, thought for a moment and looked out of the window. ‘Well, in that case you will appreciate the situation this puts you in with regard to the headship of the newly amalgamated schools?’

‘Not entirely.’

‘In the first instance the position of head teacher will be open to yourself and Mr Richardson at Urebank to apply for. Like you he is an experienced and well-respected head teacher, and he has worked in the county for his entire teaching career. It could be that he is offered the post and you the deputy head teacher’s position. Of course, it could be the other way around.’

‘I see. So we will be in competition for the head teacher’s post?’

‘Indeed,’ replied Mr Preston, ‘and, following interviews, it will be for the governors to decide whom to appoint. The unsuccessful candidate, as I said, will be offered the position of deputy head teacher in the consortium or, if he or she so wishes, be redeployed to another school in the county.’