Trouble at the Little Village School (19 page)

‘Well, it’s true I ’ave done a bit o’ tidyin’ up,’ the boy replied. ‘I don’t like to see things get ovvergrown an’ I like being outdoors.’ He put his hands on his hips and sucked in his bottom lip. ‘Ya see, if you don’t keep yer weeds down they’ll be waist ’igh in t’summer.’

‘That’s exactly what I have been telling Mr Massey,’ said the vicar’s wife. ‘Seeds blow over into the rectory garden.’

‘An’ it’s t’devil’s own job removin’ dandelions once they’ve tekken root,’ said Danny.

‘Exactly,’ agreed Mrs Atticus.

‘Aye, and then there’s yer couch grass and yer nettles and yer dock leaves and yer ivy. Some o’ them rhododendrons ’ave bushed out an’ gone wild. They wants cuttin’ back.’

‘It’s a constant battle,’ said the archdeacon’s wife.

‘’Tis that,’ agreed the boy. He pointed up at the huge oak tree. ‘That’s a fair old age,’ he said. ‘That big branch wants comin’ off. It’s dead an’ could come down in a strong wind.’

‘I’ll ask Mr Massey to take a look,’ said Mrs Atticus. ‘That is if he stirs himself to come up here.’

‘Well, I’d best gerron,’ said Danny.

‘It is very good of you, Daniel, to do this,’ said the vicar’s wife. ‘I must pay you for your trouble.’

‘Nay, it’s all reight, miss. I like doin’ it. It’s good to be outdoors.’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Mrs Atticus. ‘Now don’t you stay out here too long. It’s very nippy and we don’t want you missing school with a cold.’

‘I won’t,’ said Danny, wiping the earth from his hands. ‘I’m nearly done.’ The boy thought for a moment and then asked, ‘Mrs Atticus?’

‘Yes?’

‘That big grave ovver theer. The one under t’gret big tree.’ He pointed to an enormous marble mausoleum with a stooping angel on the top, in the shadow of an ancient oak gnarled with age and with huge spreading branches. ‘It must ’ave bin for somebody dead important.’

‘I’m sure he would like to think he was,’ said the vicar’s wife. She frequently referred to what she called ‘that vulgar monstrosity’ when there was mention of her husband’s predecessor and his elaborate tomb. ‘He was a rector who lived in the village many years ago.’

‘He must ’ave been really liked for someone to build that for ’im,’ said Danny.

‘Quite the opposite. He was quite an unpleasant man by all accounts and spent most of his time hunting and drinking and gambling. Burnt the rectory to the ground with himself and his dogs inside during the last century. He had the tomb built for himself. He designed it and left enough money in his will to have it erected. If it was up to me, I’d knock the thing down. No one ever visits it.’

‘It’s sad is that,’ said Danny.

‘In my experience, Daniel, the bigger the grave the more high and mighty is the person under it. Your grandfather’s grave is much better.’

Suddenly a cat appeared and began rubbing its body against the boy’s leg. It was one of the most beautiful creatures Mrs Atticus had ever seen, small, slender and lithe, with a silky cream-coloured coat and the most brilliant deep blue almond-shaped eyes. ‘Oh ’eck!’ exclaimed the boy, ‘it’s come back.’

‘If I am not mistaken that’s Miss Sowerbutts’s cat, isn’t it?’ asked the vicar’s wife. ‘She’s put a notice in the church porch saying it has gone missing.’

‘Yeah miss, I know. Mrs Sloughthwaite telled me. It keeps followin’ me round. I’ve tekken it back twice now but it keeps comin’ back an’ won’t leave me alone.’

‘It obviously likes you,’ said Mrs Atticus.

Danny stroked the silky fur. ‘I’ll take it back when I’ve finished ’ere.’

‘I think that would be a good idea, Daniel.’

‘An’ I’ll pop back next Sat’day an’ do a bit more in t’churchyard.’

‘Well, don’t overdo it, and call in at the rectory when you’ve finished. I insist you will be paid for your labours.’

‘No, you’re all reight, Mrs Atticus. I’ve nowt much else to do come the weekend an’ as I said, I like being outside.’

‘Well, that’s very kind of you,’ she said. Would that all young people were as polite and helpful as this young man, thought the vicar’s wife as she headed for the rectory to prepare lunch.

Danny was halfway down the high street, clutching the cat to his chest, when he heard a shrill voice behind him. ‘Daniel Stainthorpe, stop where you are!’ He recognised the voice immediately, for he had heard it many times before. His granddad had said it was as strident as a tree full of crows. The boy froze in his tracks. He turned to see an angry-looking figure, muffled up in a thick black coat and sporting a woollen hat, striding towards him.

‘What are you doing with my cat?’ demanded Miss Sowerbutts.

‘I . . . I . . . was—’ he spluttered.

She reached over and took the animal from him. ‘Where have you been, Tabitha?’ she said. Then she turned her steely gaze on Danny. ‘I said, what were you doing with my cat?’ she asked again.

‘ I . . . I . . . was bringing it back, miss.’

‘Where did you find her?’ she asked.

‘Down by t’millpond, miss. It ’ad a tin on its ’ead.’

‘She had a tin on her head,’ articulated Miss Sowerbutts, stressing the first letter of each word.

‘That’s wor I said, miss.’

Miss Sowerbutts sighed. She had tried hard to eradicate what she considered to be the dreadful accent of these children, but to no avail. ‘Had she still got the tin on her head when you found her?’

‘Yes, miss, but I gorrit off an’ I dint ’urt it. I were dead careful.’

‘Well, I hope you didn’t. She’s very delicate,’ said Miss Sowerbutts, stroking the silky head of the cat. ‘When did you find her?’

‘Abaat a week ago, miss.’

‘A week ago!’ she exclaimed. ‘Why didn’t you bring her back before?’

‘I din’t know it were yer cat, miss.’ He decided not to tell her that he had returned the animal to her garden several times.

‘I’ve been at my wits’ end,’ Miss Sowerbutts said, her voice becoming calmer. She stroked the cat again.

‘It’s a lovely cat an’ it’s really affectionate,’ said Danny.

‘Yes, well, she’s a very special cat – a Siamese and with a very fine pedigree. She shouldn’t be out. I keep her indoors. The other cats would be very jealous of her and attack her.’

‘I reckon it can ’andle itself, miss,’ said Danny.

‘And what would you know about Siamese cats?’ she asked tetchily.

Probably more than you do, thought Danny, but he knew when to keep his mouth closed.

‘Have you been feeding her?’ asked Miss Sowerbutts.

‘Yes, miss.’

She sighed. ‘On what?’

‘Just scraps o’ meat an’ stuff.’

‘She has a special diet of fish and chicken. She has a very delicate constitution. I shall take her inside out of harm’s way.’ The cat, as if it had understood her, suddenly arched its back, hissed and leapt from its mistress’s arms, disappearing behind a large laurel bush.

‘I hope you haven’t made her wild,’ said Miss Sowerbutts, scuttling after her.

‘There’s a meeting about the school amalgamation next week,’ announced Mrs Sloughthwaite.

Her only customer, the aged Mrs Widowson, her of the tragic countenance, gave a small shrug. ‘Well, I can’t say it’s got anything to do with me. My children are well past school age and I don’t have any grandchildren. And seeing what some of these youngsters these days get up to, like that lass who lives next door to me for instance, I count it a blessing that I don’t.’

‘From what Mr Atticus told me,’ continued the shopkeeper, leaning over the counter, ‘there’s not much of a chance of changing the minds of them at the Education. He went to the meeting at Urebank last week and said it was all done and dusted, so I don’t suppose they’ll take much notice of us.’

‘I hear Reverend Atticus has got a new job,’ remarked the customer.

‘Yes, he was telling me about it. He’s been promoted to help the bishop and has this fancy new title. He’s not a vicar any more, he’s what’s called an archdeacon and he’s not called reverend either, he’s venereal.’

‘He’s what?’

‘Evidently that’s what they call archdeacons – venereal.’

‘Well, it’s a new one on me.’

‘And me. Anyway, I shall go along to this meeting all the same, if only to see what the galloping major has to say. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.’

‘As I said, it’s not really any concern of mine,’ replied the customer.

‘Oh, but it is, Mrs Widowson, because you live in the village and what happens at the village school is everyone’s business. I mean, I’ve no kiddies at the school but it’s part of your civic duty to take an interest. So I hope you come along and give Mrs Devine some moral support.’

‘I shall have to see,’ replied the customer, who had no intention of giving up her bingo evening to attend the meeting. ‘I’ve not been that right lately.’ She rubbed her forehead. ‘Terrible banging headaches I’ve had. I shall have to go and see Dr Stirling.’

‘I think it’s the insecticide they’re putting on the fields,’ remarked the shopkeeper. ‘I’ve been getting a touch of nostalgia as well.’

‘No, it’s not that giving me headaches,’ said Mrs Widowson, ‘it’s that lot next door to me. Arguing all the time they are over Bianca’s baby. She won’t let on who the father is and they won’t leave her alone. I never thought I’d say this but I feel sorry for the lass. Anyway, I’d best be off.’

‘Oh, I haven’t told you,’ said Mrs Sloughthwaite, stopping the customer in her tracks. ‘You will never guess who walked in here yesterday.’

‘Who?’

‘Maisie Proctor, ex-wife of Les Stainthorpe, that’s who.’

‘No!’

‘Yes, and she’d not changed,’ said Mrs Sloughthwaite. ‘Came in here as large as life and as bold as brass as if nothing had happened, hair all fluffed up like a peroxide bird’s nest and make-up that looked as if it had been laid on with a trowel, and she stood standing there where you’re stood standing now, as if she’d never been away.’

‘Well, what did she want?’ asked the customer.

‘You don’t need to be a brain surgeon to work that one out. Money. That’s what she was after. Hard as a witch’s thumbnail is that one. She’d heard about her ex-husband’s death and came back sniffing about to see if he’s left anything for her, I’ll warrant. Brazen madam. She spent nearly all of his money when she married Les Stainthorpe and then took the rest when she cleared off.’

‘With that carpet salesman from Barnsley,’ added Mrs Widowson.

‘No, he was a brush salesman from Rotherham, but that’s beside the point. Anyway, she walks in here asking after Danny.’

‘You don’t say.’

‘I do. Of course as you well know I can be the very soul of circumspection when I want to be so I told her nothing. Poor lad doesn’t want the likes of her turning up like a bad penny, spoiling things for him. I told her that as far as I knew the boy was being fostered and I left it at that. Then she asked me why nobody in the village had let her know that Les had died. I said to her, I said why should anyone let you know, you’ve had nothing to do with him since you ran off.’

‘With the brush salesman from Barnsley,’ added Mrs Widowson.

‘Rotherham!’ Mrs Sloughthwaite snapped. ‘Anyway, he dropped dead tying up his shoelaces.’

‘Who did?’

‘The brush salesman from Rotherham, him who she took up with. Heart attack it was. Evidently he left her everything and she’s selling up and moving back up here.’

‘What, to Barton?’ asked the customer.

‘No, thank the Lord, to Clayton. She’s bought some fancy flat down by the river in De Courcey Apartments or some such fancy name.’

‘Well I never.’

‘And I’ll tell you who else has one of them flats.’

‘Who?’

‘Miss Sowerbutts, that’s who. I’d love to see her face when she discovers that Maisie Proctor is her neighbour.’

‘Well, fancy her coming back after all these years,’ remarked Mrs Widowson.

‘I know,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘Then off she flounces out of the shop. Let’s hope that’s the last we see of her.’

Unfortunately it was not the last the village saw of Danny’s grandmother. The following day she presented herself at the children’s department at County Hall requesting to see the social worker who was dealing with the fostering of her grandson.

‘Will it mean that you’ll have to travel to Urebank every day?’ asked Mrs Brakespeare.

‘No, Mother, it won’t,’ replied her daughter.

‘Well, I don’t like the sound of this merger, Miriam. There’ll be too many teachers and not enough children. You mark my words, they’ll be sacking a few.’

Mrs Brakespeare sat in her large armchair, positioned strategically by the window where she could observe the comings and goings on the village high street. She was a lean, elderly woman with tightly curled, silver-white hair, a small thin-lipped mouth and an amazingly wrinkled indrawn face full of tragic potential.

‘There’s no one going to be sacked,’ her daughter told her. ‘The teachers will either be found positions in the newly amalgamated school, redeployed or offered early retirement.’