Trouble at the Little Village School (20 page)

Mrs Brakespeare sat stern and motionless. She scrutinised her daughter as a judge might when faced with a condemned prisoner in the dock. ‘Well, you don’t seem unduly concerned.’

‘I’m not.’

‘I can’t see you coming out of it all that well,’ said the old lady petulantly.

Ever the pessimist, thought her daughter. ‘And why is that, Mother?’

‘Because knowing you, you’ll just accept what they offer. You never have been a one to push yourself forward. Always took a back seat, that’s you all over, Miriam. You take after your father in that.’

‘As you are frequently at pains to remind me,’ muttered her daughter.

‘What?’

‘As you always like to tell me, Mother.’

‘Well, it’s true. Your father never pushed himself forward. Always happy in the background. Quite content to take orders from other people when he could have been giving them out himself. He could have been a manager if he had had a bit more gumption. And you’re the same, Miriam. You let people walk on you. As they say, “Always the bridesmaid and never the bride”.’

Miss Brakespeare laughed.

‘You might well laugh,’ said her mother, ‘but you mark my words, you’ll be at the back of the queue when they give the jobs out. You need to stand up for yourself or you’ll be demoted.’

‘I won’t be demoted,’ her daughter told her. There was a gleam in her eye.

‘You can’t be too sure,’ she said, tight-lipped.

‘Yes, I can, Mother, because I shan’t be there to be demoted.’

‘What do you mean, you won’t be there?’

‘Just what I said. I shall not be at the school.’

‘You won’t be at the school?’

‘Mother, I do wish you wouldn’t repeat everything I say. You sound like an echo. I shall not be at the school because I intend to take early retirement at the end of next term.’

‘Take early retirement?’

Miss Brakespeare sighed. This was becoming wearisome. ‘Yes, Mother, I intend to accept an offer to leave. I’ve been in touch with the Education Office and they are giving me a very generous package.’

‘You could have taken it last year when that Mrs Devine arrived, red shoes and silver heels and all. I don’t know why you’ve suddenly decided now. You’re forever telling me how much happier you are at the school these days.’

‘I am very happy at the school,’ replied her daughter. ‘I am very happy indeed and I intend to stay there until the end of the summer term, but circumstances do change.’

‘What circumstances have changed?’

Her daughter came and sat beside her. ‘Last term various people were invited into school to work with the children, run the football team, take an art class and start a chess club.’

‘Yes, Miriam, I am well aware of what goes on in the school. You talk of little else.’

‘Well, one of the people who has been coming in is Mr Tomlinson. He takes the school choir once a week.’

‘What’s all this got to do with you taking early retirement?’ asked Mrs Brakespeare.

‘I shall tell you, Mother, if you will let me finish.’

Mrs Brakespeare scowled. ‘Well, go on then, hurry up. It’s nearly time for my tea.’

‘As I have just said, Mr Tomlinson—’

‘George Tomlinson who plays the organ at the chapel?’

‘Yes Mother, the very same. Well, the thing is—’

‘I remember his mother. She was big in the Soroptomists. Large woman who always wore those fancy hats with feathers in and spoke as if she had a plum in her mouth.’

Miss Brakespeare breathed out nosily. ‘Mr Tomlinson’s wife,’ she continued, ‘died a couple of years ago and—’

‘She collapsed in the village store as I recall,’ said Mrs Brakespeare. ‘Went out like a light.’

‘Mother!’ snapped Miss Brakespeare. ‘Will you please let me finish what I want to say.’

‘There’s no need to be so aggressive, Miriam,’ said her mother, pursing her lips.

‘Mr Tomlinson,’ continued her daughter, ‘George, that is, and I have found that we have a great deal in common and we’ve been seeing quite a lot of each other over the past few weeks. He’s a very gentle and sweet-natured man and we’ve been getting on really well. Anyway, to cut a long story short he’s asked me to marry him.’

Mrs Brakespeare shot up in her chair as if a bucket of icy water had been thrown over her head, and there was a sharp intake of breath. ‘Marry!’ she exclaimed.

‘Yes, Mother. He has asked me to marry him and I’ve said yes.’

‘I don’t believe what I’m hearing, Miriam,’ gasped her mother, gripping the arms of her chair. ‘Marry George Tomlinson?’

‘Is it that impossible for you to believe?’

‘I’m lost for words,’ said her mother, panting. ‘I shall have to have my tablets. I’m coming over all peculiar. Marry George Tomlinson. I’ve never heard the like.’

‘So I won’t be just the bridesmaid any more, will I?’ said her daughter, beaming.

‘I can’t take in what I’ve just heard,’ said Mrs Brakespeare. ‘Get married to George Tomlinson!’

‘Well, you will have to get used to it, Mother, because that is what I am going to do. George is selling his house in the village, I’m taking early retirement next July and we intend to move to Scarborough and live in a bungalow near the seafront.’

‘Get my tablets,’ panted the old lady. ‘I can feel one of my turns coming on.’

Miss Brakespeare passed her mother a small brown bottle which was on an occasional table to the side of the chair.

‘I have asked George to call around this evening,’ said Miss Brakespeare calmly, ‘so you can meet him, and he will stay for some supper.’

Her mother posted three coloured tablets into her mouth, swallowed and then began to weep. ‘That it should come to this,’ she sobbed. She took a small lace handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose loudly.

‘I hardly expected hearty congratulations, Mother, but neither did I expect you to react like this.’

‘It’s come as a terrible shock, Miriam,’ said Mrs Brakespeare, her voice wobbling. Then she looked up at her daughter and her voice was as dry as sawdust. ‘And I suppose while you’re enjoying the high life in Scarborough, I shall be institutionalised.’

Miss Brakespeare laughed.

‘You can laugh, Miriam, but I know what will become of me. I’ll be tucked away with all those old folks in some care home.’

‘Don’t be silly, Mother. We’ve been through all this before. You are not going into any care home. George and I would like you to come and live with us. You can have a little granny flat.’

‘You’re not pregnant, Miriam?’ gasped Mrs Brakespeare. ‘Not at your time of life.’

‘Of course not, Mother,’ replied her daughter. ‘What I mean is that you could live in an annexe to the bungalow and I could look after you as I always have done. You like Scarborough. Lovely long promenade, bracing sea air, beautiful scenery.’

‘You want me to come and live with you?’ sniffed her mother.

Miss Brakespeare put her arms around her mother’s shoulders. ‘Of course I do. You don’t think I’d put you in a care home? Now I know it’s come as a bit of a shock, but you’ll like George. He’s a very kind and decent man.’

‘I’m finding all this hard to take in,’ said her mother.

‘Well, why don’t you go and have a rest and I’ll bring you up a cup of tea,’ her daughter told her.

‘Yes, I think I will,’ replied her mother. ‘This has come as a shock, I can tell you.’ She rose stiffly from her chair and shuffled towards the door. Then she turned. ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘what are we having for tea?’

Chapter 10

Major Neville-Gravitas was propping up the bar in the clubhouse at Gartside Golf Club. Following his altercation with Fred Massey in the Blacksmith’s Arms, he had decided he would drink elsewhere. In the corner the major saw Councillor Smout with an extremely thin, big-nosed individual who sported a shock of frizzy ginger hair. They were bent over the table, heads together like a couple of collaborators plotting an act of treason. The councillor’s companion sat and listened and occasionally nodded.

Councillor Smout, catching sight of the major, heaved himself up from his chair and shouted. ‘Cedric! Ovver ’ere!’

The major was not inclined to spend an evening with Cyril Smout but felt obliged to at least say hello, so he finished his drink and went to join him.

‘Good evening,’ said the major.

‘Evenin’, major,’ said the councillor. ‘Sit tha sen down.’ He raised a fat hand and beckoned to the barman. ‘Jack, same again for us two and another un for t’major ’ere. Malt whisky, is it?’

‘That would be most acceptable,’ replied the major, stroking his moustache.

‘Mek it a double,’ shouted Councillor Smout, resuming his seat. ‘I don’t offen see you t’golf club?’

‘Oh, I come in now and then,’ replied the major.

‘I come in regular,’ the councillor told him. He tapped his nose. ‘Useful contacts. This ’ere is Wayne Cooper, our newly appointed councillor, by the way.’ He placed a fat hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘Straight out o’ college and he wins a seat on t’Council. Not bad goin’ that, is it?’ He turned to his companion. ‘Got a lot to learn but you’re keen, eh, Wayne?’ The young councillor gave a weak smile. ‘I’m just fillin’ t’lad in wi’ what’ e’s hexpected to do and who to watch. It’s a minefield, is local politics. I’ve been in it long enough to know that. Some of ’em would stab you in t’back while lookin’ you in t’face.’

‘Good evening,’ said the major, pumping the young man’s hand.

Councillor Smout leaned back expansively on his chair, stretching his fat legs underneath the table and sucking in his teeth.

‘I was pleased to hear that your little problem with the expenses has been cleared up,’ remarked the major.

‘Oh, that? Storm in a teacup,’ replied the councillor dismissively. He swiftly changed the subject. ‘So looks like we’re up for this ’ere amalgamation then.’

‘So it would appear,’ replied the major. His drink arrived. He took a sip.

‘Likely to be a bit contentious,’ sniffed the councillor.

‘I sincerely hope not!’ exclaimed the major. ‘I had quite enough contention over the proposed school closure at Barton. I really do not wish to go through all that again.’

‘Well, I was speaking to Norbert Clark, who’s Chairman on t’Education Committee,’ continued Councillor Smout. ‘I was telling young Wayne ’ere. ’E were sayin’ that there’s got to be new governing bodies for all these amalgamated schools, what means that some of thy governors at Barton will ’ave to join wi’ some of us at Urebank and then they’ll ’ave to add an extra one.’

‘Why is that?’ asked the major.

‘Why is what?’

‘Why does there need to be an extra governor?’

‘Because when it comes to t’vote it could be ’ung.’

‘I don’t follow your drift,’ said the major.

‘Well, there’ll likely be four of your lot and four of ours, so if one lot votes one way and t’other lot votes t’other way, which I’ ave to say is not unlikely, then it’ll be ’ung, won’t it, so you ’ave to ’ave a chairman who ’as t’castin’ vote.’

‘Ah, yes, I see,’ said the major. ‘And who is this chairman likely to be?’

‘Either you or me,’ said Councillor Smout, ‘that is until a new one is appointed by t’new governing body.’

‘Well, I certainly don’t wish to do it,’ the major told him. ‘It’s a thankless job and as the Chairman of Governors at Barton-in-the-Dale School, all I seem to get is criticism and unpleasant comments from those in the village.’

‘Well, in that case I shall ’ave to take it on,’ said Councillor Smout.

‘Well, I’m certainly not interested,’ said the major, before sipping his whisky.

‘Now let me put mi cards on t’able ’ere Cedric,’ said the councillor, leaning forward. ‘I want Mester Richardson for t’job, not that Mrs Devine, and I reckon I ’ave t’backin’ of all mi governors at Urebank.’

The major frowned. ‘Mrs Devine it has to be said has done a very commendable job since she took over at Barton,’ he said.

‘That’s as may be,’ said the councillor, ‘but she’s just too full of ’erself for my likin’ an’ wants ’er own way all t’time. I never took to her when she was appointed. I felt she were a bit on t’forceful side when we interviewed ’er, and as you well know, major, I did ’ave mi reservations.’

The major could not recall anything of the sort, for all the governors, with the exception of Dr Stirling, had been strongly in favour of the appointment of Mrs Devine, but he remained silent on the matter.

‘And another thing,’ said the councillor. He took a gulp of his beer and wiped the froth from his upper lip with the back of his hand. ‘There’s been complaints about ’er. Norbert Clark got this letter saying she ’ad been unprofessional.’

‘Really?’ muttered the major, staring unseeingly across the table.

‘T’former head teacher, Miss Sowerbutts, ’as written to ’im sayin’ Mrs Devine ’as been runnin’ ’er down behind ’er back, telling parents t’advice what she ’ad given was rubbish.’

‘Yes, I have received a letter to that effect,’ replied the major. ‘I have to say, it doesn’t sound like Mrs Devine to me, and as to Miss Sowerbutts’s comments I take those with a pinch of salt. As you are well aware, when you served on the governors when she was head teacher, Miss Sowerbutts is the most critical, embittered and thoroughly disagreeable person I have ever met and I take no cognisance of what she has to say.’