Trouble at the Little Village School (2 page)

‘And who’s sending you letters to the school?’ barked the caretaker.

‘Well, you see, Mr Gribbon,’ the boy explained, ‘this term we’re doing a project on our favourite writers, and over the Christmas break our teacher asked all the children in the class to pick a book to read. We will have to do a book review and say whether we like it or not and then write to the poets and authors. Mrs Robertshaw’s going to put up a display in the corridor about all the writers whom we have read, with pictures of them, book jackets and posters, and any letters we receive. I think it’s a really super idea.’

‘And?’ asked the caretaker.

‘Pardon?’ replied the boy.

‘Why are you receiving letters here at the school?’

‘Well, it occurred to me,’ said the child, ‘that it would be really good to send a letter to my favourite writer straight away so I dropped him a line over Christmas. I have a new laptop computer and thought I’d get a bit of practice in with the word-processing, so I wrote to the poet Peter Dixon. He’s really very good at rhymes and rhythms and his poems are very amusing. I sometimes laugh out loud.’

‘Really?’ said the caretaker disbelievingly.

‘I thought I’d put the school address on my letter since it is a school project,’ the child told him.

Mrs Scrimshaw, who had been looking through the pile of letters on her desk while the boy was speaking, shook her head. ‘No, there’s nothing, Oscar,’ she said.

‘Could I have a quick look,’ asked the boy, ‘just to make sure?’

‘There’s no need for that,’ said the secretary. ‘There is no letter here for you.’

‘So take yourself off,’ the caretaker told him, ‘and don’t go walking on the hall floor. I’ve not buffed it up yet.’

‘Actually I’m glad I’ve seen you, Mr Gribbon,’ said the boy, ignoring the instruction. ‘I noticed that the boys’ toilets were very smelly last term. They could have done with a good clean. I’m afraid they were not very hygienic.’

‘You don’t say?’ The caretaker grimaced.

‘And the floor was quite wet. I nearly slipped and could have hurt myself,’ continued the boy.

‘Well, you should look where you’re going then, shouldn’t you?’ said the caretaker, a vein in his temple standing out and beating angrily.

‘I’ve just called in now,’ continued the boy, undeterred by the caretaker’s angry tone of voice, ‘and I have to say they are still rather smelly.’

‘If you boys aimed where you’re supposed to aim,’ snapped Mr Gribbon, ‘then there wouldn’t be wet floors and the toilets wouldn’t be smelly.’

‘But there’s nobody been in the toilets this morning except me,’ replied Oscar.

‘Look here—’ began the caretaker, stabbing the air with a finger in the boy’s direction.

‘Perhaps,’ continued Oscar, ‘you could put a ping-pong ball down each of the toilet bowls for the boys to aim at. It might solve the problem. I’ve done an experiment and when the toilet is flushed the ping-pong ball floats and—’

‘Look—’ began the caretaker again, spots of angry red appearing on his cheekbones.

‘And you might use an air freshener.’

The caretaker opened his mouth to reply but the boy smiled widely and said, ‘Well, I think I’ll get on with my book in the library. I’ll call back again at break, Mrs Scrimshaw, and see if my letter has arrived in this morning’s post.’

‘Goodbye Oscar,’ said the school secretary, giving a fleeting smile as she caught sight of the caretaker’s angry red face.

As Mrs Scrimshaw busied herself opening the letters in the school office, the caretaker departed grumbling to buff up his floor and young Oscar headed for the small school library to read his book, Miss Brakespeare, deputy head teacher at Barton-in-the-Dale village school, stood at the front of her classroom, hands clasped before her, and examined the room with pride. She looked approvingly at the vivid displays, the bright new tables and chairs, the neatly stacked books, the colourful drapes at the windows and the bookcase full of glossy-backed paperbacks. So wide was her smile that had she been wearing lipstick that morning she could very well have left red traces on the lobes of her ears.

The deputy head teacher had spent several days over the holidays in readiness for the new term, sorting out her storeroom, sharpening pencils, tidying the books, mounting pictures and posters on the walls and preparing her lessons. She had never felt quite as content at the start of a new school term as she did on that crisp January morning, with bright sunshine lighting up her room, and she looked forward to welcoming back the children in her class.

Miss Brakespeare took a deep breath. Yes, she thought, as she surveyed her classroom now, she was very happy with how things had turned out.

A head appeared around her classroom door. ‘Your classroom looks nice, Miriam.’ The speaker was a broad woman with a wide, friendly face and steely-grey hair gathered up untidily on her head.

‘Thank you, Elsie,’ Miss Brakespeare replied, clearly pleased with the compliment. ‘One tries one’s best.’

‘You haven’t forgotten the staff meeting at eight-fifteen, have you?’

‘No, no, I’m just coming.’

Mrs Devine and the teachers met in the staffroom, formerly the head teacher’s room in the time of Miss Sowerbutts. Elsie Robertshaw, teacher of the lower juniors, and Rebecca Wilson, teacher of the infants, sat with Marcia Atticus, the vicar’s wife, who was training to be a teacher at the school. Elisabeth smiled as she saw Miss Brakespeare bustle through the door in a stylish grey suit, pink silk blouse, black stockings and patent leather shoes. What a change had taken place in her deputy, she thought, and not just in her appearance. When Elisabeth had first met her at the interviews for the headship, she had not formed a very positive picture of her future colleague. The mousy little woman with the round face and the staring eyes, dressed in an ill-fitting cotton suit, dark stockings and sandals, had appeared dowdy and dull. Her hair had been scraped back in a style that was a good twenty years out of date, and there had not been a trace of any make-up. She had smiled a great deal, sighed a great deal and nodded a great deal but had said very little. But over the term she had blossomed, and the school inspector who had given her such a poor report noted, on his return visit, that she had made a vast improvement.

‘Good morning, everyone,’ said Elisabeth cheerily, ‘and a very happy new year.’ There were smiles and good-humoured murmurs in response. ‘I won’t keep you long, because I am sure there are things you need to get on with and the children will be arriving soon. I just wanted to welcome you back and say I am really looking forward to working with you all again this term. We travelled through some pretty stormy waters last year, didn’t we, with the proposed closure of the school and all the uncertainty?’

‘We did indeed,’ agreed Miss Brakespeare, nodding like one of those toy dogs seen in the backs of cars.

‘But thankfully that is all behind us now,’ continued Elisabeth, ‘and we can look forward to some stability. We start off with some really good news. Firstly, as you were aware, Mrs Robertshaw and Miss Wilson were on temporary contracts last term. I heard from the Local Education Authority over the holidays that their contracts have now been made permanent.’ There were claps and congratulations. ‘Secondly, I am delighted to say that Mrs Atticus, who as you know has been accepted for teacher-training at St John’s College, will continue her teaching practice here at Barton-in-the-Dale.’ There were more murmurs of approval. ‘We have a bright, refurbished school and six new pupils starting with us this morning, so the future looks more than rosy.’

The school secretary poked her head around the staffroom door.

‘You asked me to let you know, Mrs Devine, when the pupils start to arrive,’ she said.

‘Thank you, Mrs Scrimshaw,’ replied Elisabeth, rising and smoothing out the creases in her skirt.

‘And you want to get well wrapped up before you venture out there,’ said the secretary. ‘It’s started snowing again and it’s freezing cold. And watch your step, the path’s like a skating rink. I’ve had a word with Mr Gribbon and he’s putting some salt and grit down.’

Outside, Elisabeth found the caretaker throwing sand and salt on the path like a farmer sowing seeds. ‘Bloody weather,’ he grumbled to himself.

Since starting as the head teacher it had been Elisabeth’s practice to stand at the school gate each Monday morning to greet the children and speak to the parents, something which the former incumbent had never condescended to do. By doing this, Elisabeth found that she met parents she otherwise would rarely see and that those too reserved to call into school over a problem were more willing to talk to her at the gate than inside the building.

Being the start of the new term, it was an unusually large turnout of mothers and fathers that morning. Elisabeth smiled and greeted each parent with a friendly ‘Good morning.’ Most nodded and smiled and some came over to have a word. Elisabeth noticed Dr Stirling talking to Mrs Stubbins, a round, shapeless woman with bright, frizzy, dyed ginger hair, an impressive set of double chins and immense hips. She was wrapped in a voluminous coat and wore a multicoloured woollen hat with a bobble on the top. She was probably recounting the catalogue of ailments she had. Dr Stirling caught sight of Elisabeth and his face brightened. He finally managed to extricate himself and came over to join her.

‘Good morning,’ he said.

‘Hello, Michael,’ she replied.

They stood for a moment in silence.

Michael Stirling was a tall, not unattractive man, aged about forty, with a firm jawline and a full head of dark hair, greying at the temples and parted untidily. What was most striking was his pale blue eyes, the first thing Elisabeth had noticed about him
.
Their relationship at first had been fraught. When she had first met him she had found him stubborn and pig-headed. He was a man of few words, but when he did speak to her he seemed to find fault with everything she did. She had soon discovered she was wrong about him. Underneath that seemingly distant and sombre exterior was a shy and compassionate man. She recalled his first tentative kiss in a darkened classroom under the sprig of mistletoe after the Christmas concert. It was just a small, tender kiss, not one of those fiery unbidden kinds described in romantic fiction. It was really little more than a brief brush of the lips. But she had not forgotten it. She felt something greater than the close friendship that had developed, and perhaps wanted more from the relationship, but she was wary. She could tell that he felt the same.

‘I thought, being the first morning of the new term and my surgery not starting until later this morning,’ he said now, ‘I’d walk the boys to school.’

‘I see.’

He rubbed his hands and exhaled, his breath causing a cloud of steam in the cold air. ‘I think I’m in for a busy day ahead,’ he said, making an effort at conversation. ‘I get a lot of patients in this weather, colds and flu, that sort of thing.’ He stopped and stared.

‘Was there something else?’ asked Elisabeth.

‘Well, yes, there was, I mean there is, actually,’ he said.

‘Which is?’ asked Elisabeth after a long pause.

He came closer and lowered his voice so as not to be overheard. A faint odour of sandalwood soap and aftershave clung to him. ‘Would you care to have a meal with me tonight?’ he asked. ‘There’s a little French restaurant in Clayton which comes highly recommended. I thought we might—’ His voice tailed off.

‘I’d love to,’ Elisabeth replied.

His face broke into a smile. ‘You would? That’s splendid. Well, shall I collect you about seven?’

She nodded. ‘That’s fine. I look forward to it.’

‘That’s good,’ he said, nodding. He made no effort to move. The snow had settled on his hair.

‘I had better go,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’

The caretaker, who had stopped dispensing the salt and grit to observe the two of them, spoke out loud to himself. ‘Now you tell me,’ he said smugly, ‘that there’s nothing going on between them two.’

At morning break, as Elisabeth patrolled the school, the caretaker appeared jangling his keys. ‘It’s a cold one today, Mrs Devine,’ he said, ‘and no mistake.’

‘It is that, Mr Gribbon,’ replied Elisabeth, ‘and I realise it makes more work for you. Thank you for gritting the paths and clearing the snow so promptly.’

‘No problem,’ he said.

‘I was meaning to have a word with you today on another matter.’

‘Oh yes?’ he said, looking troubled. ‘Nothing untoward, I hope.’

‘No, nothing untoward,’ Elisabeth repeated. ‘I wanted to thank you for getting the school so clean and bright over the Christmas break.’

‘A pleasure, I’m sure, Mrs Devine,’ he said grinning and rubbing his jaw, clearly pleased with the praise.

‘I guess it was quite a job,’ continued the head teacher, ‘having to move all the old desks and replace them with the new tables and chairs and then giving the school a thorough clean.’

The caretaker decided not to mention that the replacement of the desks had been done by two removal men and that a team of industrial cleaners and decorators had been employed by the Local Education Authority to undertake the renovations.

‘Well, I try my best, Mrs Devine,’ said the caretaker, jangling the keys in his overall pocket.