Trouble at the Little Village School (11 page)

“Who hath dared to wound thee?” cried the Giant; “tell me, that I may take my big sword and slay him.”

“Nay!” answered the child: “but these are the wounds of Love”.’

At this point the teacher stopped reading and she stared at the page. Then her eyes began to fill with tears. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, sniffing, ‘I’m sorry, children. I shall have to stop for a moment.’ There was a tremble in her voice. ‘This part always makes me want to cry.’ She reached in her handbag and took out a handkerchief and blew her nose noisily. Many of the children looked moved to tears too and some began rubbing their eyes.

Oscar came out to the front of the class, took the book from the teacher’s hand and said, ‘I’ll finish it, miss.’ And like a seasoned actor taking centre stage, the boy read the story in a clear, animated and confident voice and the class listened in rapt silence.

‘“Who art thou?” said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he knelt before the little child. And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, “You let me play once in your garden, today you shall come with me to my garden, which is Paradise.”

And when the children ran in that afternoon, they found the Giant lying dead under the tree, all covered with white blossoms.’

No one spoke when the boy had finished reading. The only noise was from the teacher snuffling into her tissue. Then the small girl with the long blonde plaits spoke. There was a tremble in
her
voice. ‘This Oscar Wilde doesn’t sound very gay to me, miss,’ she said.

The last classroom Ms Tricklebank visited was Elisabeth’s. The visitor spent a few minutes looking at the displays on the wall and then through a selection of the children’s folders, making notes in a small black book. Elisabeth’s heart sank when, of all the pupils in the class to speak to, the senior education officer selected the two most likely to give the worst impression: Ernest Pocock and Malcolm Stubbins.

Ernest knew all about Ms Tricklebank, for his mother had returned from the governors’ meeting and spent the entire evening describing the proceedings to the boy’s father. She had been highly critical of the new representative of the Education Department, describing her as ‘a hard-faced, sharp-tongued madam’ with ‘a droopy mouth like last month’s rhubarb’. Three words had come to her husband’s mind as he listened to the diatribe – ‘pan’, ‘kettle’ and ‘black’ – but he had said nothing.

‘Can you spell your name?’ Ms Tricklebank asked the boy.

Ernest looked up scowling. ‘’Course I can,’ he replied. ‘I’m not stupid, you know.’

The senior education officer sighed. ‘What are you called?’

‘Ernest Pocock.’

The name registered with Ms Tricklebank. This would be the son of that disagreeable governor. ‘May I look at your exercise book?’ she asked.

The boy slid the book across the table and eyed the visitor suspiciously.

‘And how do you think you are getting on?’ she asked, looking at a page of writing in the middle of the book, entitled ‘Bonfire Night’.

‘With what?’ he asked.

‘Your work.’

‘Well, you can see,’ the boy replied, tapping the page with a grubby finger. ‘I think I’m doing OK.’

Ms Tricklebank scrutinised the writing. Then she looked up. ‘What advice would you give to someone handling dangerous fireworks?’

‘To be careful,’ he replied.

She continued to read. ‘This is quite an interesting account,’ she said, ‘and I can see that there’s been a big improvement in your spelling. However, your grammar is not too good.’

‘She were all right when I saw her last Sunday,’ replied the boy.

The response might have amused another visitor but Ms Tricklebank’s face remained set. ‘No, not your grandmother,’ she said, ‘your grammar – the way that sentences are put together.’

‘I don’t know what you’re on about,’ said Ernest.

‘No, I don’t suppose you do,’ said Ms Tricklebank under her breath. She moved to the next table, where a surly-faced boy observed her.

‘What is your name?’ she asked.

‘Malcolm Stubbins.’

‘And what are you doing this morning, Malcolm?’ she asked.

‘Fractions.’

‘And how are you coping with fractions?’

‘Coping?’ he repeated.

‘Do you think that you have got to grips with them?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And if I were to give you a problem involving fractions, do you think you might try and solve it for me?’

‘I suppose.’

‘Well then, if a mother had three children but only four potatoes, how could she divide the potatoes so that each child got an equal share?’

‘Make ’em into chips,’ replied the boy.

‘Would you like to speak to any of the other children?’ Elisabeth asked the visitor when she saw Ms Tricklebank making for the door.

‘No thank you, Mrs Devine,’ she replied. ‘I’ve seen quite enough.’

On her way out that lunchtime, Ms Tricklebank discovered Oscar in the small school library, poring over a large book. ‘May I ask you what you are reading?’ she asked.

‘Of course,’ he replied, removing his glasses and staring up at her. ‘It’s about great British military heroes. I’ve got up to Baden-Powell. He was a general in the Boer War.’

‘And do you know what he is connected with?’ the senior education officer asked.

‘A hyphen,’ replied the boy.

Ms Tricklebank raised an eyebrow and shook her head. There was for the first time that morning an imperceptible smile on her lips. ‘Well, young man,’ she said, ‘I shall let you get on with your reading. By the way, that was a very thoughtful thing for you to do, helping your teacher out like that.’

‘Well, she was upset,’ replied Oscar, replacing his glasses.

‘Yes, I could see that,’ replied the important visitor. ‘It was most considerate of you to do what you did.’

‘Oh,’ replied the boy casually, ‘I often have to do it with Mrs Robertshaw.’

Mr Richardson, headmaster of Urebank Primary School, was a dour, exceptionally thin and sallow-complexioned man, with the smile of a martyr about to be burnt at the stake. He sat at his desk, his hands clenched before him.

Councillor Smout was seated opposite him in an easy chair. He looked like a toby jug, legs apart and his plump hands resting on his considerable paunch. The councillor was a broad individual with an exceptionally thick neck, vast florid face and small darting eyes. A former governor at the village school in Barton, his had been the only dissenting voice when the governors had voted against the proposal to close the school the previous term, and 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 could be proved conclusively and he continued to be the loud, bullish and blunt member of the Education Committee he had been since winning the seat. He also retained his position as Chairman of Governors at Urebank School.

‘I can’t see as ’ow there’ll be a problem,’ said the councillor now.

‘You think not,’ replied Mr Richardson, leaning forward and staring intently at his Chairman of Governors. ‘As I explained to you, I assumed that with this amalgamation of the two schools I, as the longer of the two serving heads in the county and with a proven track record, would be appointed as the new head teacher, but it now appears to be in some doubt. I had this call from the new senior education officer, a Ms Tricklebank . . .’

‘Yes, she’s tekken ovver from Mester Nettles,’ the councillor told him. ‘’E’s been moved to school meals. She’s quite a character, is Ms Tricklebank, an’ ’as a reputation for being summat of a troubleshooter. She’s been tipped to tek ovver as t’Director of Education from Mester Preston when ’e leaves at t’end o’ March. She’s been purrin charge of this amalgamation.’

‘She intends to visit the school next week to meet the staff and look around,’ Mr Richardson told him.

‘She’ll be sussing out t’place,’ said the councillor, ‘so you ’ad best put your stall out and mek t’right impression.’

‘I got the distinct feeling, when she phoned me up to make the appointment and I broached the matter of the amalgamation, that things are not that certain about the headship and that—’

The councillor held up a fat hand as if stopping traffic. ‘Robin,’ he interrupted, ‘it’s a formality. Everything’s got to be done above board. There’s procedures what we ’ave to follow. Don’t you worry your ’ead. I’ve ’ad a word with t’Director of Education.’

‘And he gave you the impression I would be offered the post?’ asked Mr Richardson. There was a searching look in his eyes.

‘Well, no, not in so many words,’ replied the councillor, scratching his double chin. ‘What he said was that you and Mrs Devine would both be called for interview and t’likelihood is that one of you would be appointed.’

‘With respect, councillor,’ said Mr Richardson, ‘it doesn’t sound like a formality to me.’

‘Men are much better at handlin’ difficult lads than women,’ said the councillor. ‘They’ll want a man for t’job.’

‘I’m not so sure they will,’ murmured Mr Richardson.

‘Anyway, in t’long run it’s not up to Mester Preston, is it? Or Ms Tricklebank, for that matter. It’ll be up to t’newly constituated Board o’ Governors what will decide who gets t’job.’

The headmaster of Urebank School looked down at his hands and sighed.

‘Let me put mi cards on t’table ’ere, Robin. I wants you for t’job. This new governing body will be made up of some o’ them what are at Barton and some o’ them what are ’ere at Urebank.’

‘But I—’

‘Let me finish,’ said Councillor Smout. ‘Now on this new governing body they will ’ave four of those from Barton-in-the-Dale: old Major Neville-Gravitas, who ’appens to be a pal of mine and is in my golf club, t’vicar, some lady of t’manor who they intend co-opting, and Councillor Cooper, who has just been appointed to replace a Mrs Bullock who was well past it and as deaf as a post. I’ve ’ad words with Councillor Cooper and he knows on what side ’is bread is buttered. T’parent governors what are at Barton now, a loud-mouthed woman called Mrs Pocock and t’local GP, won’t be illegible because their kids will ’ave left Barton for t’secondary school by t’time t’schools are amalgamated. So we won’t ’ave them to contend with.’ He counted on his fat fingers. ‘So that’s four governors from Barton. Now then, ovver ’ere at Urebank we’ll ’ave four governors an’ all and that’s not countin’ t’chairman who will ’ave t’casting vote should there be a tie in t’voting.’

‘I see this, councillor, but—’

‘’Old on! ’Old on! So, there’ll be four o’ them and five of us. I reckon I’ll be asked to be t’chairman of t’new governing body. I don’t reckon Major Neville-Gravitas will want to tek it on. ’E ’ad ’is fingers burnt when t’ Barton village school were up for closure.’

‘I see.’

‘And I will therefore ’ave t’castin’ vote, not that I shall need to use it because Councillor Cooper will vote with t’Urebank governors, who will all vote for you.’

‘Are you sure of that?’

‘As sure as I can be. Councillor Cooper is a nice enough young chap, a bit wet behind t’ears but keen to get involved in things, and I’ve bin showin’ ’im t’ropes. I’ve ’ad a word with ’im and ’e’ll vote for you.’

‘He said so, did he?’

‘No, not in so many words, but I’m sure ’e will when push comes to shove, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Major Neville-Gravitas casts ’is lot in wi’ us an’ all.’ He tapped his fat nose. ‘He owes me a favour.’

‘Well, that does make me feel somewhat better,’ said Mr Richardson. ‘I have to say I couldn’t work with Mrs Devine. She is far too assertive and ambitious for my liking and full of her own importance.’

‘Yes, I find ’er far too pushy as well,’ agreed Councillor Smout. ‘But that’s by-the-by. I reckon she’ll be ’appy enough to be redeployed to another part o’ t’county when she dunt get t’job. Anyroad, from what I gather she couldn’t work wi’ you either.’ Mr Richardson gave a weak smile. ‘So, as I said, I can’t see as there’ll be a problem.’

Mr Richardson felt satisfied that the visit of Ms Tricklebank the following week had gone well. The weekend before the senior education officer’s visitation, attractive displays had been mounted in the corridors and in the classrooms, exercise books had been marked carefully, shelves and storerooms tidied, floors polished, toilets cleaned and potted plants arranged strategically around the building. The teachers, having been impressed upon by the headmaster as to just how important this visit was, had practised their lessons and warned the pupils to be on their very best behaviour. The most articulate pupil in the school, a confident and bright-eyed girl from the juniors, had met Ms Tricklebank at the entrance, presented her with a small posy of flowers and conducted her to the headmaster’s room, giving, on the way, a rehearsed little speech in which she said how happy she was at Urebank and how well she was doing in her work.

Mr Richardson’s only disappointment was how very little the senior education officer had said. She hadn’t commented on anything she saw or the lessons she had observed, and had been non-committal when he raised the question of the amalgamation.