Trouble at the Little Village School (42 page)

Miss Sowerbutts pressed her lips together in a tight thin line. ‘I am not senile, Miriam. It was the stupid cat, stretched out like that. I could have broken my neck.’

‘Where is the cat, by the way?’

‘Dr Stirling is looking after it until I get home, so you don’t need to worry. I’ll not be asking you to look after it.’

‘I couldn’t anyway. Mother’s allergic to cats,’ said Miss Brakespeare meekly. They sat in silence for a while. ‘And fancy Malcolm Stubbins of all people coming to your rescue.’

‘Yes, for once in his life he acted very sensibly,’ admitted Miss Sowerbutts. ‘I shall send him a book token when I get out of here, though I very much doubt he will ever use it. I always found that boy to be a wayward child, self-willed and perverse, but I have to confess that what he did was commendable.’

‘He seems to have settled down lately,’ said her former colleague. ‘I think the starting of a football team at the school was the making of the boy. He heard last week that he’d been spotted at one of the matches by a talent scout who works for the football club in Clayton, and he will be attending some sort of sports academy one evening a week. And you remember Chardonnay, well—’

‘Miriam, may I stop you there? I am not really interested any more in matters related to the village school,’ said Miss Sowerbutts. ‘I am now moving on to pastures new and a life in Clayton.’

‘And are you looking forward to your move?’ asked Miss Brakespeare. ‘I believe you’ve sold the cottage.’

‘Yes, and they’re supposed to be moving in next month. I am certainly not looking forward to the upheaval,’ replied Miss Sowerbutts. ‘However I am going to manage on my own, the state I am in at the moment, I do not know.’ Miss Brakespeare resisted the temptation to say she would help. ‘I shall just have to delay moving until I am good and ready.’

‘So will Dr Stirling have the cat when you move into your flat?’

‘Apartment,’ she corrected. ‘No, he won’t. It’s merely a temporary measure until I get out of hospital.’

‘Well, I don’t think they allow pets in the flats – apartments, I mean.’

‘Of course they allow pets, Miriam. Whatever gave you that idea?’

‘Well, Mrs Sloughthwaite was saying that Danny Stainthorpe, who’s gone to live with his grandmother, wasn’t allowed to take his pet ferret with him.’

‘What have Daniel Stainthorpe and his grandmother got to do with me?’

‘His grandmother’s living in the same block of flats – apartments – as you.’

Miss Sowerbutts jolted up in her bed as if she had been bitten. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! The apartments are part of the prestigious waterfront development and are well out of her league.’

‘De Courcey Apartments, overlooking the river and the cathedral,’ said Miss Brakespeare. ‘She was telling Mrs Sloughthwaite in the village store and post office that she’s moved in.’

‘That dreadful woman who served behind the bar at the Blacksmith’s Arms and ran off with the salesman, her with the peroxide hair and the cigarette dangling from her mouth, a neighbour of mine?’

‘That’s what Mrs Sloughthwaite told me, and she said they don’t allow pets.’

Miss Sowerbutts leaned back on her pillow and closed her eyes. ‘This is just too much,’ she moaned.

‘Well, I’m only telling you what I heard,’ said Miss Brakespeare.

‘Does it give you some perverse pleasure, Miriam,’ said Miss Sowerbutts, ‘to tell me such depressing news?’

‘Of course not, I just thought you ought to know, that’s all,’ she said. After a few silent and uncomfortable moments Miss Brakespeare glanced at her watch. ‘Well, I must be off,’ she said cheerfully, getting to her feet. ‘We want to get to Scarborough and check into the hotel before it gets dark. Then we’ve got a meal booked before the theatre. I’ll call in to see you again when I get back and you’re out of hospital.’

‘I really wouldn’t bother,’ whispered the patient in the bed, who had been thoroughly depressed by the visit.

‘Oh, and a bit of news,’ said her former colleague. ‘I’m retiring at the end of next term.’

Miss Sowerbutts opened her eyes. ‘Retiring?’ she repeated.

‘Well, what with all this amalgamation and such I thought it was time. I’ve looked into it and I get full enhancement on my salary, a lump sum and my full pension, so I’ll not be badly off. I shall be moving to Scarborough. Mother’s always liked that part of the coast. And, of course, George likes it there too.’

‘George?’

‘George Tomlinson. He plays the organ at the Bethesda Chapel. Didn’t I say? We’re getting married.’

‘All I’m saying, Mrs Scrimshaw,’ said the caretaker as he stood at the door of the school office, ‘is that it looks as if there’s another woman on the scene.’

‘And where did you hear this nugget of gossip?’ asked the school secretary, peering over her glasses.

‘René Holroyd who runs the café in the high street was telling Mrs Sloughthwaite and she told Mrs Widowson, who mentioned it to my wife.’

‘The jungle telegraph
has
been busy,’ remarked Mrs Scrimshaw.

‘They were seen in the café very lovey-dovey by all accounts,’ related the caretaker. ‘Holding his hand she was. So it looks as if something’s going on with Dr Stirling and that new vicar.’

‘And what is your point?’ asked the school secretary.

‘I’m just saying that they seem to be getting on very well together,’ said the caretaker. ‘Mrs Widowson, who’s big in the Mothers’ Union, told my wife that Dr Stirling has been giving talks down at the church for her.’

‘And?’

‘And that they’ve been seen in his car together, so perhaps the good doctor’s affections are elsewhere now, or he’s playing fast and loose with Mrs Devine.’

‘And what’s it got to do with me?’ she asked, ‘Or with anyone else for that matter, where Dr Stirling’s affections are?’

‘Nothing,’ said the caretaker. ‘I’m just saying.’

‘Is Dr Stirling married to Mrs Devine?’ she asked.

‘No.’

‘Engaged?’

‘No.’

‘Are they going out together?’

‘Not as I know of.’

‘Then why shouldn’t Dr Stirling be in a café with the new curate?’

‘If you put it like that—’ began the caretaker.

‘Really, Mr Gribbon,’ she sighed. ‘You’re worse than the woman in the post office when it comes to tittle-tattle. Now I’ve got better things to do than listen to what Dr Stirling might or might not be getting up to, and I’m sure Mrs Pugh could do with a helping hand buffing the floors.’

Elisabeth, who had heard the conversation from outside, walked slowly down the corridor to her classroom.

As soon as she arrived back at her cottage Miss Sowerbutts was on the telephone to the estate agents. The dapper young man in the smart grey suit, slicked-back hair and designer glasses arrived the following day as she had requested. He sat on the edge of a chair clutching a sheaf of papers, with one foot masking the other to hide the hole in his sock. The visitor had been asked to leave his shoes in the hall so as not to mark the pale cream carpet in the lounge. He had not been offered a drink.

‘So, it’s just a matter of your signature, Miss Sowerbutts,’ he said, ‘and then we can proceed.’

‘I did not ask you here for me to sign anything, Mr Raddison,’ said Miss Sowerbutts, ‘I asked you here to inform you that I do not intend to move, that the cottage is no longer for sale.’

‘Not move!’ exclaimed the young man. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘After careful consideration,’ she told him, ‘I have decided to stay in Barton-in-the-Dale, certainly for the foreseeable future.’

‘But Miss Sowerbutts, the price was agreed, the contracts have been drawn up and the purchasers are ready to move in. They have sold their house and are just waiting now for you to complete.’

‘Well, I don’t intend to “complete”, as you put it,’ she replied.

‘But everything is arranged,’ he pleaded. ‘You accepted their offer. It was agreed.’

‘I have signed nothing, and until I append my name to the contract of sale nothing can proceed.’

‘But Miss Sowerbutts—’

She held up a hand. ‘Young man, let me repeat myself. I am not selling the cottage.’

‘But why?’

‘Because I have changed my mind,’ she told him.

‘May I ask the reason?’

‘Because I was unaware that pets are not allowed in the De Courcey Apartments, and as you can see’ – she gestured to the lazy Siamese cat stretched out on the carpet – ‘I have a cat.’

Of course the principal reason for the change of mind was not the cat. Following her fall down the stairs the creature was not in her best books, and the idea of finding another home for it was not so unthinkable. It was the thought of having a neighbour of the ilk of that dreadfully common Mrs Stainthorpe that made her shudder. She had been led to believe that the residents of the state-of-the-art apartments would be of the educated, professional, genteel class, like herself.

‘It was clearly stated in the contract, which you have had sight of, that no pets are allowed,’ the young estate agent reminded her.

‘No, Mr Raddison, it was not clearly stated,’ Miss Sowerbutts retorted. ‘It was tucked away in minute print at the bottom of a page. It was only recently pointed out to me by a former colleague of mine.’

‘Could you not get someone to look after your cat?’ suggested the young man feebly.

‘Out of the question!’ she snapped.

‘But Miss Sowerbutts, the couple who bought – were to buy – your cottage will be bitterly disappointed. They have been looking for somewhere in the village for so long, and—’

‘Be that as it may,’ she said, rising from her chair to indicate that the discussion was at an end, ‘I intend to stay in Barton-in-the-Dale.’

Councillor Smout spread out like some great Eastern potentate in the large ornate chair in which the mayor sat at council meetings. It was the morning of the interviews for the headship of the newly amalgamated schools. On Councillor Smout’s right were the four po-faced governor representatives from Urebank and Ms Tricklebank. On his right were the governors from Barton-in-the-Dale: Archdeacon Atticus, Lady Wadsworth, Councillor Cooper and Major Neville-Gravitas. Elisabeth sat at a small table facing them.

‘Now then, Mrs Devine,’ said Councillor Smout, resting his hands on his stomach and rotating his fat thumbs slowly around one another, ‘we all know why we are ’ere, so let’s get crackin’. I ’ope you’ve ’ad a good journey.’

‘Yes, thank you,’ Elisabeth replied and smiled at the line of faces.

‘Dun’t seem that long since I was interviewin’ you for t’post at Barton, does it?’ he asked, smiling.

‘No,’ Elisabeth replied. ‘It doesn’t.’

The councillor introduced each of the members of the interview panel and then rubbed his hands together. ‘Right then. Now if I could start t’batting, if you was given the post, what problems do you think you’ll ’ave to face wi’ this merger?’

Elisabeth thought for a moment before replying. ‘Well, I would like to start from positives rather than negatives,’ she said, ‘and there are many advantages which will come with the merger of the two schools.’

‘Which are?’ asked Councillor Smout.

‘Well, it means that neither school will close, which is a good thing, and that both villages will still have premises for their various community activities, and there will be greater expertise on the teaching staff, smaller classes and extra resources. The benefits I should think will be great and will far outweigh the disadvantages.’

‘But there will be some disadvantages, won’t there?’ asked the chairman.

‘I guess there will be some teething problems – teachers and pupils from both schools getting to know each other, for example, and, of course, some of the children will have a longer journey to school – but with goodwill and the children’s best interests at heart, I think these can be overcome. I think the amalgamation could be a really exciting challenge.’

The remaining questions, which were surprisingly few in number, were of a general nature and Elisabeth felt she had acquitted herself well. Then the chairman turned to the senior education officer. ‘Have you anything to ask, Ms Tricklebank?’

‘Yes, Mr Chairman,’ she replied. ‘I have.’ Her question was simple and direct. ‘What do you think makes a good school, Mrs Devine?’

‘A good school,’ she said, thinking for a moment. ‘I think a good school is a place which is caring, where children and staff are valued, where there are high expectations and lots of encouragement and praise for both teachers and children. It’s a peaceful, clean, orderly place, cheerful and welcoming, where there is respect for and tolerance of others, where the curriculum is wide and challenging and tailored to individual needs. It’s a school where there are high standards, self-motivated pupils and plenty of enjoyment and laughter. It also needs to have firm, clear, decisive leadership and management.’

‘And of course it is first and foremost a place for learning, where there is hard work, good discipline and high academic standards,’ added Ms Tricklebank. ‘Would you agree?’

‘Yes, of course, but in my experience children learn better when they are happy and secure. Their education should not be deprived of all pleasure, playfulness and creativity. Would
you
not agree?’