Trouble at the Little Village School (3 page)

As they turned the corner of the corridor they came upon a small boy sitting in the corner of the school library, poring over a thick tome. He looked up, caught sight of them, snapped the book shut and stood up.

‘Hello, Oscar,’ said Elisabeth.

‘Oh, hello, Mrs Devine,’ said the boy in a cheery, sing-song tone of voice. ‘Happy new year.’

‘And the same to you,’ replied Elisabeth, smiling.

‘Hello, Mr Gribbon,’ said the boy.

The caretaker grunted. His glance was like the sweep of a scythe.

The boy produced four ping-pong balls from his pocket. ‘Look what I found in the games box, Mr Gribbon,’ he said. The caretaker breathed in noisily and gripped his keys tightly. ‘I think you know what to do with them.’

Le Bon Viveur at Clayton was a small restaurant tucked away discreetly in the shadow of the great cathedral. It was a most elegant place, everything sparkling and stylish. Elisabeth and Dr Stirling were greeted at the entrance by a slim, dark-complexioned individual with shiny boot-black hair scraped back on his scalp and large expressive eyes. He was immaculately dressed in a dinner jacket and smelled of expensive cologne.

‘Good evening,’ said Dr Stirling. ‘We have a reservation for eight o’clock.’

‘
Ah, oui.
Dr Stirling?’

‘That’s right.’

‘May I welcome you both to Le Bon Viveur,’ said the man, smiling and displaying a set of perfectly even and impressively white teeth. There was a trace of a French accent. ‘Your first time here, I think?’

‘Yes,’ said Elisabeth.

‘I sincerely hope that this will not be the last visit for you,’ he continued, bowing slightly. ‘Should there be anything you require, please ask. I am at your disposal. I am Bernard Richeux, the owner.’ He bowed again. ‘Now,
monsieur, madame
, if you would care to follow me . . .’

The diners were shown to a corner table covered with a spotless and stiff white cloth and set out with delicate china plates, starched napkins and heavy silver cutlery. In the centre was a single red rose in a small cut-glass vase.

‘I imagine you would both enjoy an
apéritif
?’ observed the Frenchman.

‘What a welcome,’ said Elisabeth, as the owner departed to get the drinks. ‘I feel like royalty.’

‘He was a bit over the top, don’t you think?’ asked Dr Stirling.

‘Not at all,’ disagreed Elisabeth. ‘I thought he was charming. It’s nice to be treated with such consideration.’ She looked around. ‘I say, it’s frightfully posh here, isn’t it?’

Dr Stirling grunted in agreement before glancing at the menu. ‘It’s all in French,’ he whispered, ‘and there are no prices. I can see this is going to cost me an arm and a leg.’

‘There speaks the true-blue Yorkshireman, thrifty as ever,’ said Elisabeth, smiling. ‘Who was it who said “the Yorkshireman knows the price of everything and the value of nothing”?’

‘It was Oscar Wilde, for your information,’ retorted Dr Stirling, good-humouredly, ‘and he was referring to the cynic and not the Yorkshireman. Yorkshire folk are the most generous, good-hearted and friendly people in the country but we are prudent and want value for money, and there is nothing wrong with that.’

‘Well, don’t worry your head, Michael,’ said Elisabeth, patting his hand, ‘we’ll go Dutch.’

‘No, no, I wasn’t suggesting—’ he started, suddenly becoming serious and colouring up. ‘I was just making an observation and—’

Elisabeth laughed. ‘I was teasing you,’ she told him.

‘I’m afraid I do have a tendency to say the wrong thing, don’t I?’ he said. ‘I never meant that I—’

‘I know you didn’t,’ interrupted Elisabeth.

Dr Stirling recalled for a moment the first occasion he had spoken to Elisabeth Devine following her appointment as head teacher. He had crossed swords with her about the education of his son and had later regretted what he had said. ‘I’m afraid I’m not that good with words,’ he conceded. ‘Never have been.’

‘Well, what about your French?’ asked Elisabeth, looking at the menu.

‘Non-existent,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘I’ve not the slightest idea what all these dishes are.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Elisabeth told him. ‘I’ll tell you what we can have.’

‘You speak French?’ he exclaimed.

‘
Ah, oui
, Dr Stirling. Every year when I was a child we used to camp for a month in the Vendée. My brother Giles and I got pretty good at the language. Then I spent a year in Arcachon when I was at university, and before coming to live in Barton I taught a French conversation class.’

‘What a dark horse you are, Mrs Devine,’ said the doctor. ‘I had no idea.’

‘Ah, there are many things about me that you don’t know,’ she replied with a mischievous little grin.

‘I’m looking forward to finding out,’ he said smiling shyly. He glanced at the menu. ‘What’s
frisée avec lardons
?’

‘Lettuce and bits of bacon,’ Elisabeth told him.

‘And
sole aux épinards
?’

‘Fish.’

‘
Cailles flambées
?’

‘Quails with cherries.’

‘This one sounds quite exotic,’ said Dr Stirling. ‘
Lentilles – saucisses à l’ancienne
.’

‘Sausage casserole,’ Elisabeth explained.

‘It sounds so much better in French, doesn’t it?’ he observed. ‘I think I’ll settle for the
soupe aux cerises
. You can’t go wrong with soup. What sort is it?’

Elisabeth laughed. ‘No, Michael.
Soupe aux cerises
is cherries on toast.’

‘Show-off,’ he said good-naturedly.

The owner returned with the drinks and the wine list. ‘Now perhaps you would like me to take you through what is on the menu this evening,’ he said.

‘No need,’ said Dr Stirling, ‘I have received a very full translation from my dining companion, thank you.’

‘You speak French!’ exclaimed the owner, turning to Elisabeth and displaying his shining teeth.

‘
Pas tellement bien
,’ she replied.

Then the owner and Elisabeth spent the next five minutes chattering away in French.

‘Pardon,
monsieur
,’ Dr Stirling butted in. ‘Much as I dislike breaking up this interesting little tête-à-tête, perhaps we might order something to eat?’

‘But of course,’ said the owner. ‘The chef’s special tonight is
Madame Poisson’s poule au pot
, which is an irresistible chicken dish, a favourite so we are told of the famous Madame de Pompadour.’

‘That sounds good,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I’ll think I’ll go for the chicken.’

‘Me too,’ said Dr Stirling.

‘And the salad to start.’

‘Me as well,’ added Dr Stirling.

‘And the
gláce au chocolat
,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Chocolate ice cream,’ she mouthed across the table.

‘Same for me,’ said Dr Stirling.

‘And might I suggest the wine to complement the meal?’ asked the owner. ‘La Révélation du Baron is very palatable. It has been coolly fermented to capture the bright tropical fruit flavours, an opulent wine with an elegant peach and honeysuckle note and a hint of spice.’

‘That sounds fine,’ replied Dr Stirling.

The food and the wine were excellent, as was the service. The owner seemed to spend more time at Dr Stirling’s and Elisabeth’s table than any other. Over coffee and a complimentary
digestif
they sat for a minute in contented silence. Then Dr Stirling reached across the table and took Elisabeth’s hand in his.

‘You look lovely tonight,’ he said.

‘Thank you, kind sir,’ replied Elisabeth, ‘and you’ve made quite an effort yourself. You look very well-groomed.’

‘I sound like a horse,’ he replied laughing.

When she had first met him Elisabeth had been less than impressed with Michael Stirling’s appearance, and ‘well-groomed’ had been the last words that came to mind. She recalled for a moment that first meeting when she had been called for interview for the headship of the village school. He was the governor who scowled and said little, and although he was not unattractive it was clear he cared little about his appearance. Elisabeth noticed that his suit was shiny and unfashionable and had seen better days, that his shirt was frayed around the collar, his tie crumpled and that his shoes could do with a good polish. She smiled to see him now. Quite a transformation.

‘That’s the influence of a good woman,’ he said, interrupting her thoughts.

‘Pardon?’

He smiled. ‘You were miles away. I was saying that I just needed someone, a good woman, to take me in hand.’ He looked down and thought for a moment. ‘After my wife died, looking after my appearance was the last thing on my mind.’

This was the first time he had mentioned his wife, who had been killed and had left him and his young son devastated. Elisabeth let him talk. ‘I threw myself into my work,’ he continued, ‘and became so very tetchy and depressed. I lived for each day and was no company for anyone. That’s why I was offhand with you and said things I very much regret.’ He looked up. ‘But you’ve brought me out of myself, Elisabeth, you really have. You’ve made me feel there is a future, that life is worth living again.’

Elisabeth felt tears in her eyes. ‘Well, it’s been a super evening,’ she said. ‘Thank you so much for inviting me, Michael. It was a really nice thought.’

He looked earnestly at her, then cleared his throat and swallowed hard. His eyes glistened. ‘I wanted to tell you that over the last few months my feelings towards you—’

‘Now then!’

A broad individual with an exceptionally thick neck, vast florid face and small darting eyes approached the table. It was Councillor Cyril Smout, former governor at the village school in Barton and the only dissenting voice when the governors had voted against the proposal to close the school the previous year. When the Education Department had rescinded its decision and the school had remained open, he had tendered his resignation. There had been questions asked at County Hall about his excessive expenses, but nothing had been proved conclusively and he continued to be the loud, bullish and blunt member on the Education Committee he had been since winning the seat.

‘Good evening, councillor,’ sighed the doctor.

‘Mrs Devine,’ said Councillor Smout, a broad smile on his fat face.

‘Councillor,’ replied Elisabeth.

‘You two look nice an’ snug ’ere tucked away in t’corner. I saw you when I come in but din’t want to spoil yer little chinwag.’ A smile still suffused his face. ‘I should ’ave thought that you’d ’ave a lot on yer plate, Mrs Devine, what wi’ it bein’ t’start o’ t’term an’ all, to find t’time for winin’ and dinin’ at t’Bon Voyeur.’

‘And I should have thought that you would be far too busy with council business,’ retorted the doctor pointedly. ‘It’s surprising
you
have found the time to wine and dine.’

The sharp comment was lost on the councillor. ‘Oh, I’m ’ere on hofficial council business. I’m entertainin’ t’mayor of our twin town in France. ’E’s not that fluid in English an’ I don’t speak a word of ’is lingo, so it’s not been easy. P’raps you’d like to come ovver an’ meet ’im?’

‘No, thank you,’ replied Dr Stirling. ‘We are just about to go.’

‘Suit yerself.’

The owner appeared.

‘Has everything been to your satisfaction, doctor?’ he asked.

‘Excellent, thank you,’ replied Dr Stirling.

‘I hope that we may see you again at Le Bon Viveur,’ began the owner, ‘and if I might say—’

‘Well, if
I
might say,’ interrupted Councillor Smout, thrusting out his jaw and addressing Monsieur Richeux, ‘I can’t say as ’ow things ’ave bin to
my
satisfaction.’

The owner turned slowly to the speaker. The smile had left his face and his mouth drooped in distaste. ‘Really?’ he said.

‘I can’t say as ’ow I found t’food to my likin’,’ continued Councillor Smout. ‘Far too fancy an’ not my cup o’ tea at all. I din’t know what I was eatin’ ’alf o’ t’time an’ I ’ave to say that t’portions were not over-generous and, I might add—’

‘Please do,’ said the owner. ‘I cannot wait to hear.’

‘That we was sat there for a long time before we was served.’

‘You know, sir,’ the owner said, a wry smile on his face, ‘were I to challenge you to a duel, I should choose English grammar as my weapon.’ With that he departed.

‘T’thing is wi’ foreigners,’ the councillor confided, bending down to speak into Elisabeth’s ear, ‘foreigners allus ’ave problems gerrin their ’eads around our language, don’t they?’

Dr Stirling and Elisabeth looked at each other and then burst out laughing.

Chapter 2

‘Does anyone know who the father is?’ asked Mrs Sloughthwaite, proprietor of the Barton-in-the-Dale village store and post office, leaning over the counter with her great bay window of a bust supported comfortably on the top. She was a round, red-faced woman with a large fleshy nose, pouchy cheeks and bright inquisitive eyes resting in small hammocks of flesh. It was surprising that she was ignorant as to the parentage of the child in question, for there was no one in the village with such an extensive knowledge as she had of all the goings-on. The shopkeeper and postmistress made it her business to know about everything and everybody, and no customer left her premises without being subjected to a thorough interrogation. Once gleaned, the information was quickly circulated throughout the village.