Trouble at the Little Village School (33 page)

‘It’s strange, so it is,’ observed Mrs O’Connor, ‘how grief can sharpen the appetite.’

‘Anyway,’ continued the shopkeeper, ‘as she told me, there was no way she was asking Miss Sowerbutts to say anything. She said her husband couldn’t stand the sight of her when he worked at the school and would be spinning in his grave if she got up in the pulpit and started spouting. She asked Dr Stirling because he had treated her husband for years and she said he’s a real gentleman and she likes his voice.’

‘He does have a nice voice, so he does,’ agreed the doctor’s housekeeper, ‘and in all the time I’ve done for him, he’s never ever raised it.’

‘Speaking of Dr Stirling,’ said Mrs Sloughthwaite, looking directly at Mrs O’Connor and starting to fish for information, ‘he seemed to get on very well with the new curate.’ Then, she added with exaggerated emphasis, ‘Very well indeed.’

‘Sure, doesn’t the man get on famously with everybody,’ said the housekeeper non-committally. ‘Of course, he’s not been quite himself these days since Danny had to leave. He was going to adopt the boy, as you know, and we were all that excited at Clumber Lodge. It’s upset us all, and young James has gone quiet again. The house is not the same.’

‘Poor lad, having to put up with Maisie Proctor as a grandmother,’ said the shopkeeper.

‘She has a lot to answer for, that one,’ observed Mrs Pocock. ‘Fancy turning up again after all these years and taking the lad away. I’ll tell you this—’

‘So, I was wondering if Dr Stirling knows the new curate, then?’ said Mrs Sloughthwaite, still staring at Mrs O’Connor and intimating that the housekeeper might provide her with some juicy bit of gossip. She was determined that the conversation should not deviate from the topic in which she was most interested.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ replied Mrs O’Connor. ‘I wasn’t aware that there was a new curate, and in any case Dr Stirling isn’t likely to tell me if he knows her or not.’ Dr Stirling’s housekeeper had known Mrs Sloughthwaite long enough to appreciate that anything said to her in the village store would be relayed in quick time around the village. The housekeeper had learned to be very guarded when talking to her.

‘Because they were a good ten minutes chatting away after the funeral service,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘I mean, most of us got a “Good morning” and a handshake from her and that was the extent of it, but they were talking ten to the dozen, like old friends.’

‘She might have been consulting the doctor about a medical matter,’ suggested Mrs O’Connor.

‘Hardly,’ retorted the shopkeeper. ‘The surgery is the place for that.’ The shopkeeper thought for a moment and then with a heave of her bosom she remarked, ‘Mrs Devine will have to watch out. She might very well have a rival.’

Mrs Sloughthwaite was nothing if not observant. She missed very little that went on in the village, and had lingered in the churchyard following Mr Fish’s service to note who had attended the funeral and to catch up on any gossip. She had observed with interest the long and animated conversation which had taken place between the local GP and the new arrival in the village.

The curate had been standing by the door, greeting members of the congregation as they filed out of the church. She slipped a small hand into Dr Stirling’s and shook it warmly. ‘Dr Stirling,’ she said. ‘I am sure your words were a great comfort to Mrs Fish and her family.’

‘And I know that yours were,’ replied the doctor. ‘It was a most moving service.’

‘Well, thank you,’ she said. ‘I have to admit I was a little nervous, this being my first funeral at St Christopher’s.’

‘Well, it certainly didn’t show,’ the doctor reassured her, smiling. ‘I hope you will be very happy here in Barton-in-the-Dale, Reverend Underwood.’

‘Ashley, please,’ she said. ‘I shall be very happy if we have such a large congregation on Sundays.’

‘I think many were here to see you,’ the doctor told her. ‘You will find that there are a lot of inquisitive people in the village.’

‘I do hope I can number you amongst my congregation?’ said the new curate.

‘I’m not really a churchgoer,’ replied the doctor.

‘Then I shall have to use my powers of persuasion,’ she said. ‘How is Danny?’

‘You know Danny?’ said Dr Stirling, staring at her with surprise.

‘He was visiting his grandfather’s grave and I met him in the churchyard. We got talking,’ she explained. ‘He was very upset about having to leave the village and spoke very highly of you and all you had done for him.’

‘Ah,’ laughed the doctor, ‘so you are the mystery woman in the churchyard. Danny said you were really nice and gave him some very good advice. He said you looked like the angel on the big tomb.’

She coloured a little. ‘Don’t mention the tomb, it’s a bone of contention in the Atticus household. Anyway, young Danny is a very pleasant boy, very friendly. I do hope things work out for him.’

‘Yes, so do I,’ replied the doctor.

‘I’m sure he will settle in time,’ she said, trying to put the best aspect on a miserable situation.

‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘Well, I guess I had better be making tracks. It was good to meet you.’

‘And maybe I will see you at morning service next Sunday,’ she said, giving a disarming smile.

‘Maybe,’ replied the doctor.

‘I have some very good news, children,’ said Elisabeth one morning in assembly. ‘But before I tell you about it I have asked Mr Gribbon to have a word about the boys’ toilets.’

The caretaker strode to the front of the hall. ‘Some of the boys here, and you know who you are,’ he said, stabbing the air with a bony finger, ‘have been putting foreign objects down the toilet bowls and blocking the pipes. Now, this all started when one particular pupil, and he knows who he is, put ping-pong balls down the toilets and then others started depositing other things. Whoever is responsible wants to stop it off because if I find out who the culprits are—’

‘Thank you, Mr Gribbon,’ interrupted Elisabeth. ‘I think all the boys here have got the message.’ She looked at the faces before her. ‘This will stop. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, Mrs Devine,’ chorused the children.

The caretaker walked to the back of the hall where he remained, arms folded and scowling.

‘Now the good news,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I am delighted to say that several of the poems we sent in for the School Library Poetry Competition have been accepted for the anthology. Three have been shortlisted for one of the prizes: Oscar’s poem, “My Dog Daisy”, Darren’s poem, “The Trouble with Words”, and Chardonnay’s poem, “My Sister’s Baby”, have been selected.’

Chardonnay could not contain herself. ‘Mine!’ she shouted out.

‘Yes, yours, Chardonnay,’ said the head teacher.

The girl puffed out her cheeks and breathed out noisily.

‘Let’s congratulate our three talented poets, shall we?’ said Elisabeth. The children clapped and cheered. Several girls near Chardonnay prodded her or patted her on the back. ‘These three shortlisted poems,’ continued Elisabeth, ‘go through to the final, and the three young poets and Miss Brakespeare shall next week be going to the public library in Clayton for the award ceremony. So we all need to keep our fingers crossed.

‘Now it occurred to me that you might all like to hear the poems which were selected, so I am going to ask each of the lucky three to read out their poem.’

Following the readings by Chardonnay and Darren, it was Oscar’s turn. The boy came to the front of the hall, cleared his throat several times, and then, tilting his colourful glasses slightly on the bridge of his nose, announced, ‘My poem is called “My Dog Daisy”.’ Then he read his verse:

‘When my dog Daisy was a puppy,

She would leap and bound,

Run and race,

Jump and chase,

Spring and scamper,

Like all young dogs tend to do.

Now my dog Daisy is older,

She growls and grumbles,

Snaps and snarls,

Scratches and smells,

Sleeps and snores,

Like all old dogs tend to do.

Puppies and children,

Old dogs and old people,

They have a lot in common.’

Resuming his place, Oscar glanced in the direction of the caretaker, who was glowering at him from the back of the hall.

At the end of school, Elisabeth sat with Mrs Robertshaw in her classroom. She was interested to hear how Roisin was getting on.

‘Well, it’s early days,’ said the teacher, ‘but she seems to be settling in nicely. She’s a delightful child, very quick on the uptake and interested, and a very good reader.’

‘Her father will be pleased to hear it,’ said Elisabeth.

‘Oscar has taken quite a shine to her,’ said Mrs Robertshaw. ‘He seems to have taken her under his wing. You should see them in the playground, chattering away like some old married couple.’

‘And how are the other children treating her?’ asked Elisabeth.

‘Very well, as far as I can tell.’

‘Evidently there’ve been a few unpleasant comments from some children in her previous schools. As you know, children can be a delight but sometimes they can be cruel, particularly to someone who is a bit different.’

‘About her being a gypsy you mean?’

‘Well, she’s not really a gypsy,’ Elisabeth told her. ‘Her father describes himself as an itinerant. She travels with him and they don’t stay in the same place for too long. I don’t expect that Roisin will be with us for much longer.’

‘Pity, she’s a nice little girl,’ said Mrs Robertshaw, ‘and very pretty. Her father looks too young to have a child of her age, don’t you think? He looks more like a brother.’

‘Oh, he must be in his early thirties,’ said Elisabeth.

‘Do you think?’ asked the teacher. ‘He looks a lot younger to me.’ Then she added, ‘I must say, he’s very dishy.’

‘Yes, he is very striking looking,’ agreed Elisabeth.

‘Do you know what happened to the mother?’

‘No, he’s not said.’

A face appeared around the door.

‘Miss, can I have the key to the games cupboard, please?’ asked Malcolm. He was wearing a red and white football strip.

‘Come in, Malcolm,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I want to have a word with you.’

The boy looked worried. He was used to being told off. ‘What about, miss?’ he asked.

‘To say how pleased I have been with you lately.’

The boy shifted uneasily. He was clearly embarrassed by praise, something he rarely received at home.

‘Since you have returned to this school you have kept out of trouble and—’

‘Miss, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a football match,’ the boy interrupted. ‘They’ll be starting.’

‘I’ve nearly finished,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Now as you have seen, we have had some new pupils starting here at Barton this term and you know yourself how difficult it can be for new pupils to settle in.’

‘Yes, miss,’ said the boy impatiently.

‘I think you had quite a difficult time when you started at Urebank.’

The boy nodded. ‘Yes, it was horrible, miss. I was picked on.’

‘So you know what it can be like starting at another school. Well, I want you to keep an eye on the new children and make sure nobody picks on them. I want you to be a sort of monitor. Will you do that for me?’

‘What do I have to do?’ asked the boy.

‘Just make sure that no one is unkind to them. Can you do that?’

‘OK.’ The boy looked at his watch. ‘Can I go now, miss?’

‘Yes, off you go, and remember I’m relying on you.’

The boy ran off.

Mrs Robertshaw turned to Elisabeth. ‘Poacher turned gamekeeper,’ she said. ‘Clever.’

Chapter 16

Elisabeth arrived home from school later that afternoon to find her garden had been transformed. The previous month Danny had tidied everything: he had cut back the dead flowers, dug up the weeds, pruned the bushes and trimmed the hedges, but since he had gone the lawn had gathered a fresh carpet of dead leaves, part of the paddock fence had blown down, and the gate leading to the track by the side of the cottage had come off its hinges. Elisabeth had meant to do something about these things but had been so busy she just had not had the time. She had been minded to ask Fred Massey to take on the task, but he could not be relied upon, and anyway she did not like the grouchy old man, who was forever complaining and out for what he could get.

Now, she looked at her neat and tidy garden with satisfaction. During the day someone had been very busy. The lawn had been raked clean, the fence repaired and painted an olive-green and the gate to the track repaired. Even the porch had been swept. She had an idea who was responsible.

She tapped on the door of the caravan.

‘Hello, Mrs Devine,’ said Roisin, poking out her head.

‘Hello, Roisin,’ said Elisabeth. ‘May I speak to your father?’

‘Come in, come in,’ came a voice from inside.