Trouble at the Little Village School (18 page)

‘You come into the village pub for a quiet Sunday lunchtime drink,’ said Fred loudly to no one in particular, ‘and you get harassed. Give us another pint.’ He looked around the bar to find someone whom he could engage in conversation and give the benefit of his opinions, but seeing that the few customers were clearly not interested in what he had to say, he turned to the landlord, who began pulling the pint.

‘Quiet in here this lunchtime,’ he observed. ‘Mind you, I’m not surprised, price you charge for the beer.’

‘I’ve told you what you can do if you don’t like it,’ replied the landlord. ‘The Mucky Duck’s just down the road.’

Like most in the village, the landlord didn’t like the constantly complaining, tight-fisted, bad-tempered Fred Massey, but he put up with him because, unpleasant as the man was, he was a regular after all and custom was custom. ‘So how is your Clarence?’ he asked, placing the pint on the bar.

‘As much use as a lump of stale bread,’ Fred replied, counting out coins from an ancient leather purse before placing a mound of silver and copper on the bar.

‘Fagin’s hoard,’ remarked the landlord, collecting up the change. ‘I don’t know how that lad puts up with you,’ he said. ‘You’re always at him.’

‘Always at him!’ exclaimed Fred. ‘Huh. He’s gormless. Only let out yon Texel ram into the field with the yows last September time and now I’ve got all these bloody lambs all over the shop. Daft ha’peth that he is. He never listens to what I say. Then last week what did he do?’

‘I can’t guess,’ said the landlord, ‘but I have an idea you’re going to tell me.’

‘I said to him, I said don’t let the cows into the field until you’ve filled the troughs with their feed because they’ll be hungry, bunch together and make a dash for it. So what did he do?’

‘You tell me,’ sighed the landlord.

‘He lets the beasts into the field and then starts to fill the trough. Cattle stampede, knock him clean over and he ends up face down buried under all the cattle feed with a broken arm and bruising. I mean, what good is he to me now? I’ll have to do all the work myself.’

‘That’ll be a change,’ observed the landlord.

‘And another thing,’ continued Fred.

‘Oh, I thought there would be something else,’ said the landlord, praying that another customer might come in.

‘I’ve been telling Clarence time and time again to go up to the graveyard and get it fettled. Every time I see that snooty vicar’s wife she’s at me about it. I goes up there yesterday and find that somebody else has been cutting and a-pruning. I tackled Mrs Atticus but she says she’s not asked anybody else to do it and knows nowt about it. Then she bends my ear saying it was about time somebody tidied up the graveyard and she’s not complaining if somebody else has had the civic duty to do it. Well, I’ll tell you this, when I find out who’s taking the bread out of my mouth I shall a have few well-chosen words to say to him.’

‘And what will they be?’ asked the landlord.

‘I don’t know, I’ve not chosen them yet. ’Course it’s all Clarence’s fault.’

‘I guessed as much,’ sighed the landlord.

‘I told him, I said you should have fettled that graveyard at the back end of last year. Not much chance now is there, what with his broken arm. He’s got no common sense that lad.’

‘Not like his uncle then,’ observed the landlord, smiling, ‘who goes and shoves his foot into a sugar beet cutter.’

Fred scowled. ‘I don’t know what to do with the lad. He should be married and with kids at his age. Twenty-five and he’s never had a girlfriend, not as I know of, and there’s plenty of likely lasses about at the Young Farmers. I mean I know he’s not God’s gift to look at, but he’s got a steady job and he’s in line to take over the farm when I push up the daisies.’

‘You never bothered getting married yourself, then?’ teased the landlord.

Fred scowled and took his pint to a corner table. ‘No chance. In my book marriage is a dull slow meal with the pudding coming first. In olden days women were made for the comfort of men and they knew their place, cooking and cleaning and looking after the home while men earned the brass. Not now. I’m better off on my own.’

‘I’ll not disagree with you there,’ remarked the landlord.

A moment later Major C. J. Neville-Gravitas breezed into the Blacksmith’s Arms.

‘Good day, landlord,’ he said cheerfully.

‘Morning, major. Your usual?’

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

‘Thank you kindly, major,’ said the landlord.

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

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

‘Tip-top.’

‘What’s all this about school joining up with yon school down the road?’ came a loud voice from the end of the bar.

‘That is the plan, Mr Massey,’ replied the major.

‘So you’re not hell-bent on closing the village school, like what you tried to do before?’

‘Mr Massey,’ replied the major, ‘I did not try to close the school.’

‘Well, you didn’t vote to keep it open, did you?’

‘I have explained to you and indeed to many others in the village,’ said the major angrily, ‘that I abstained from the vote in the first instance but was most supportive when I saw how successful the school was becoming. Now can we let the matter lie?’

‘Bit late in the day,’ remarked Fred. ‘And you only did it then because you saw the strength of feeling in the village.’

‘Don’t you tell me what I did and what I didn’t do!’ exclaimed the major. ‘We have had this conversation before and I do not intend to discuss it any further.’

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

‘Don’t!’ exclaimed the landlord. ‘You’ve been warned. Another word out of you, Fred Massey, and you can take your custom elsewhere.’

‘I was only saying—’ began Fred.

‘Well, don’t!’ snapped the landlord.

Major C. J. Neville-Gravitas placed a five-pound note on the bar, gulped his whisky and strode for the door. ‘Thank you, Fred,’ said the landlord. ‘That’s another customer you’ve got rid of for me.’

Chapter 9

The morning was cold and bright that Sunday. Elisabeth paused from hanging some nuts up for the birds in her garden to listen for a moment to the bells of St Christopher’s ringing out and calling the faithful for morning service. How happy she was in the village in her cosy cottage, with the school thriving, working with supportive colleagues and finding new friends. There was also Michael Stirling, to whom she was becoming more and more attached. She just hoped things could stay like this. Of course, her life might be turned upside down with the prospect of the amalgamation. It was like a heavy weight hanging over her. But it was too nice a day to have such depressing thoughts, so she banished them, breathed in the fresh air and surveyed the swathe of green beyond the cottage, rising to the fell side and dotted with browsing sheep. A fat pheasant strutted along the rutted, tussocky track, and high above in a milky sky the rooks screeched and circled. A rabbit scuttered out from its hole and stared at her for a moment before lolloping away. She was about to head indoors when she caught sight of a large figure in an old tweed skirt, shapeless waxed jacket and heavy green rubber boots striding down the track which ran past the cottage. A small hairy terrier scampered behind her, its tongue lolling and its tail wagging frantically. When the dog saw Elisabeth it ran towards her, yapping.

‘Gordon!’ came a thunderous voice from the track. ‘Get back here immediately, you silly creature!’ The dog scurried to his mistress. ‘The times I tell him not to run off like that,’ said Lady Wadsworth to Elisabeth. ‘He takes not a blind bit of notice of me. He’s a little rascal.’

‘He’s a fine dog,’ said Elisabeth.

Lady Wadsworth mellowed. ‘He is, isn’t he,’ she agreed. ‘I’m on my usual Sunday constitutional,’ she said. ‘Stop the old knee joints from seizing up. How are you, Elisabeth?’

‘I’m very well,’ Elisabeth replied. ‘Actually, I was meaning to give you a call. I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes. There’s something I need to ask you.’

‘Nothing untoward, I trust? I cannot cope with any more bad news.’

‘No, no,’ replied Elisabeth. ‘Come on in and we can discuss it over coffee. Then you can tell me about your bad news.’

‘So you want me to become a governor?’ said Lady Wadsworth, when Elisabeth had explained. She had settled herself in a comfortable chair by the open fire and was warming her hands, the terrier stretched out on the carpet. Elisabeth had placed a cup of steaming coffee and a plate of biscuits before her on the small occasional table.

‘Yes, it was a unanimous vote of the governors and we all feel you are the perfect choice.’

‘Really?’ Lady Wadsworth took a sip of coffee and then crunched noisily on a biscuit. The dog looked up expectantly.

‘You were so massively supportive over the proposed closure of the school,’ Elisabeth told her, ‘and your intervention certainly had an effect.’

‘I should like to think so,’ said Lady Wadsworth. ‘I have to admit I did exert a little pressure over the closure. I do pride myself on having some influence in the county.’

‘And after all, it was your grandfather who endowed the village school,’ continued Elisabeth, ‘and you have provided us with our lovely new library. So you will join us?’

‘Yes, I most certainly will. I am flattered to have been asked. Perhaps getting involved in the school might take my mind off the present problems I have.’

‘This sounds ominous,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘That’s very kind of you, my dear, but I fear not. It is a sad fact that Limebeck House is crumbling around me. It’s far too large and draughty and in desperate need of repair. I do not have the necessary resources to do it. In the past there were housekeepers and maids, gamekeepers and chauffeurs, butlers and grooms. Grandfather even had a full-time mole-catcher and somebody to wind up his clocks.’ She sighed. ‘Times have changed. You can’t get the staff now and if you could you couldn’t afford to pay them. There’s just Watson now. He does his best, of course, but like the rest of us he’s getting on. It’s such a worry.’

‘I’m sure it is,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Is there nothing you can do?’

‘I was to sell one of my most prized possessions – my Stubbs painting – to pay for the restoration, but it turns out it is a fake. I had an expert up from London and he said it was a copy and not a very good one at that. I was devastated, as you might guess. It was like a nail through the heart when he told me. All these years of thinking I had this beautiful original painting by one of the Old Masters and it turns out to be a reproduction. I feel like taking Sir Tristram’s portrait off the wall, I really do, for it was he, you can bet, who sold the original. He was the wastrel son of Sir William Wadsworth, who bought the painting. Tristram was the black sheep of the family, a playboy who spent all his time gallivanting around Europe, gambling and womanising and drinking himself into an early grave.’

‘Perhaps the person who valued it is mistaken,’ suggested Elisabeth.

‘Doubtful. Crispin De’Ath is the recognised expert on Stubbs.’

‘Experts have been mistaken before. It would do no harm to have a second opinion.’

‘No, I guess it wouldn’t.’

‘You can’t lose anything, and you might have everything to gain.’

‘Do you know, Elisabeth, I think you might be right. I shall get on to it immediately.’

Mrs Atticus was walking up the path to the rectory on her way back from morning service when she caught sight of a small figure placing some flowers on a grave.

‘Hello, Daniel,’ she said.

‘’Ello, miss,’ replied the boy.

‘You come here quite often, don’t you?’ she said. ‘I’ve seen how well you look after your grandfather’s grave. There’re always fresh flowers.’

‘Aye, I do come regular, miss.’ He pointed to the flowers. ‘These are called Christmas roses an’ they were one of mi granddad’s favourite flowers.’

‘Actually they are called hellebores and they are amongst my favourites too,’ the vicar’s wife told him. ‘They bloom very early and they like the shade. You could plant some around your grandfather’s grave. There’s a legend surrounding the hellebores, you know. My husband mentioned it in one of his sermons. When a small girl went to see Baby Jesus in the stable all those years ago she saw that the shepherds and the kings had taken Him presents. She had nothing to give and began to weep. The tears fell upon the snow and where they had fallen the hellebores grew and the pure white flowers bloomed. It’s a lovely story, isn’t it?’

Danny was staring open-mouthed. He looked down at the grave, bent and touched the white petals which lay on the top. ‘Aye, it is,’ he said.

Mrs Atticus noticed a set of trowels, small forks and shears on the ground near the boy. ‘You are not the mystery groundsman by any chance, are you?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know what you mean, miss,’ said the boy.

‘Someone’s been giving the graveyard a good tidy, cutting the grass around the graves and digging up the borders. Mr Massey is supposed to look after the grounds but he’s been rather remiss lately. So are you responsible?’