Trouble at the Little Village School (23 page)

‘You don’t say.’

‘Now, you’re not telling me that things are right at home when your son runs off like that.’

‘Thank you Fred,’ said Maisie, finishing her drink in one great gulp and easing herself off the bar stool. ‘That’s very interesting to know.’ She glanced at her flashy watch. ‘I must be making tracks. Things to do.’

When she had left, the landlord leaned over the bar and thrust his face into Fred’s. ‘Why don’t you keep your big nose out of other people’s business?’ he barked. ‘See what you’ve stirred up now with your interfering.’

‘I was only saying—’ began Fred, getting up from the stool. ‘Anyway, I shall have to go as well. I’ve got things to be getting on with.’

‘Well don’t let me keep you,’ said the landlord, ‘but before you do, Fred Massey, you can dig into that purse of yours and pay for the drinks. She left without settling up.’

Chapter 11

‘Well, Danny,’ said Dr Stirling at breakfast the following Thursday, ‘I have received a letter this morning from Miss Parsons at the Social Services.’ Danny stopped chewing and looked up apprehensively. James, who was sitting at the other side of the breakfast table, stopped eating too and looked up. The doctor passed Danny the official-looking letter. ‘You can see your name is at the top. You remember Miss Parsons, don’t you? She’s the social worker we met who arranged for you to be fostered here.’

‘Yes, Dr Stirling,’ the boy replied, staring at the letter. He bit his lip.

‘Well, as you can see, she wants us to go down to see her in her office tomorrow morning. I’ll give Mrs Devine a ring and say you won’t be in school and explain where you’ll be.’

Danny nodded. He managed a smile but the doctor could see it was an effort. The boy could feel his heart beating in slow thumps. ‘Why does she want to see us?’ he asked.

‘Well, I guess she wants to make sure that you are getting on all right here and if you’re happy staying with me and James.’

‘I am,’ said Danny quickly. ‘I’m really ’appy.’ The boy didn’t sound it. He looked anxious.

The doctor smiled. ‘That’s good to hear. We’re happy having you here, aren’t we, James?’

His son nodded. ‘You bet.’

‘I don’t want to go anywhere else,’ said Danny.

‘There’s not much chance of that,’ said the doctor.

‘Are ya sure?’

‘Yes, I’m sure. The meeting will be just what’s called a formality, to make sure everything is as it should be.’

‘So I won’t ’ave to move?’ asked Danny.

‘No, you won’t have to move,’ Dr Stirling replied. ‘Don’t look so worried. Everything will be fine, I promise you.’

Danny swallowed nervously. He didn’t look convinced. ‘Mi granddad din’t like letters what came in brown envelopes,’ he said. ‘’E reckoned that they allus spelled trouble.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t worry your head about this one. It may be that Miss Parsons wants me to sign some papers to make everything legal, so that you can stay here for good.’

‘So I can be adopted,’ asked Danny, ‘an’ stay ’ere for ever?’

‘Could be,’ said Dr Stirling, ‘and once those papers are signed, Danny, you’re stuck with me and James for good and we’re stuck with you and this will officially be your home.’

‘That’s great,’ said James. ‘Can I come as well when you go and see Miss Parsons?’

‘No,’ said his father, ‘she just wants to see Danny and me, and anyway you can’t go missing school.’

‘Please may I come with you?’ pleaded James.

‘You have had my answer, young man,’ said his father, putting on a mock-serious face.

‘Ahhh,’ sighed his son.

‘Did I hear it’s a special day for a certain wee fella tomorrow?’ said Mrs O’Connor, coming into the kitchen to brew a fresh pot of tea.

‘Danny’s going to be adopted tomorrow,’ said James.

‘Let’s not count our chickens,’ said the doctor. ‘Adoption takes a very long time.’

‘Well now,’ said the housekeeper, ‘isn’t that just grand. I’ll make one of my special coffee and walnut cakes this morning, so I will, and we can celebrate when you get back.’ She looked over to the doctor. ‘Sure, wouldn’t it be a nice thing to ask Mrs Devine around to join us for tea after school?’

‘It may be a little premature, Mrs O’Connor,’ he told her. ‘Let’s just wait and see what Miss Parsons has got to say before we crack open the champagne.’

Danny looked up at the doctor. There was sadness and perplexity on the boy’s face, something the doctor could not fathom. He would have thought the boy would look really happy at the prospect of staying at Clumber Lodge, rather than seeming sad and thoughtful, but he dismissed any misgivings and ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately. ‘Come along, Danny, don’t look so down in the dumps. There’s really nothing to worry about.’

‘Miss, where’s Danny?’ asked Chardonnay.

Elisabeth had just finished marking the register on the Friday morning Dr Stirling and Danny were at the Social Services when the girl, waving her hand in the air, asked the question.

‘He’s not in today,’ the teacher replied.

‘Is he ill, miss?’

‘No, he’s not ill.’

‘Because if he is ill,’ persisted the girl, ‘we could send him a get-well-soon card.’

‘No, Chardonnay, Danny is not ill. He just has somewhere important to go to this morning.’ She caught sight of James smiling conspiratorially.

‘Is he at the dentist’s, miss?’

‘Chardonnay,’ said Elisabeth, ‘it’s not really anyone’s business where Danny is this morning. I am sure he appreciates your concern but we need to get on with the lesson. Now can we all sit up smartly and look this way. This morning we have a very important visitor in school.’

‘Miss, we’re always having visitors,’ said Chardonnay. ‘Nobody ever came into school when Miss Sowerbutts was head teacher.’

‘I think it’s good to have people coming in to see what we are doing,’ Elisabeth told her.

‘Is it that Mrs Stickleback again?’ asked Chantelle.

‘No, and her name is Ms Tricklebank,’ said Elisabeth. ‘This visitor is called Mr Steel and he is a school inspector. He will be coming into our classroom to see what we are doing. He is at present with the infants but he will be joining us before too long. So you all have to be on your very best behaviour, answer his questions clearly and politely and when he leaves he will, I hope, have a really good impression of our school.’

‘He’s been here before, miss, hasn’t he?’ asked Eddie Lake.

‘Yes, he has.’

‘Is it that funny man with squeaky shoes who looks like somebody out of a horror film?’ asked Chantelle.

As if on cue, Mr Steel entered the classroom. He was a tall, cadaverous man with sunken cheeks, greyish skin and a mournful countenance, and was dressed in a black suit. He was wonderfully funereal. The HMI carried a black briefcase with a gold crown embossed on the front.

The children stood.

‘Good morning,’ said the school inspector. His voice had the dark and solemn tones appropriate to a funeral.

‘Good morning, inspector,’ chanted the children.

‘Good morning, Mr Steel,’ said Elisabeth. ‘There’s a chair in the corner of the classroom if you would care to take a seat.’

The school inspector nodded and strode to the back of the room. His shiny black shoes creaked when he walked.

Chardonnay pulled a face and nudged Chantelle, who put her hand over her mouth to stop herself giggling.

‘Perhaps, Darren,’ said Elisabeth, ‘you might like to tell Mr Steel what we are doing today.’

The boy stood, turned to face the inspector and, as if performing on a stage, took a deep breath and declaimed loudly, ‘Today we are finishing off writing our poems, sir.’ Elisabeth opened her mouth to explain a little more but the boy continued, as if reciting something rehearsed. ‘For the last few weeks we have been looking at a range of poetry and then writing our own. We are going to enter some of them for the School Library Poetry Competition. They can be on any subject we like, they can rhyme but they don’t have to and they can be sad or funny, long or short.’

‘May I hear some, Mrs Devine?’ asked the inspector. He gave a wide smile, like a vampire preparing to sink its teeth into a victim.

‘I am sure the children would be delighted to read some of their efforts,’ Elisabeth told him.

‘Perhaps we might start with this confident young man,’ said the inspector, looking at Darren.

‘I would prefer someone else reading my poem,’ the boy told the inspector. ‘It’s just that I’ve got a few problems with my reading.’ The inspector raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ve got a kind of dyslexia,’ the boy went on to explain, ‘which means I find reading and writing quite difficult. It’s the spelling and handwriting which cause me problems. But I’m working on it. Have you heard of dyslexia, sir?’

‘I have,’ replied the HMI. ‘In fact I have a son who has the same difficulty with his writing.’

‘Does he?’ asked Darren. He took another deep breath. ‘It’s quite a problem, isn’t it?’

‘It is,’ replied the school inspector.

‘Is he getting special help?’ asked the boy.

‘Come along, Darren,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Now that you’ve explained things to Mr Steel’ – she smiled and exchanged a glance with the visitor – ‘he won’t be too worried if you take your time and read it slowly.’

The boy read his poem, ‘The Trouble with Words’, in a slow halting voice to a hushed classroom and to the HMI, who leaned forward in his chair and listened intently.

‘Excellent,’ said Mr Steel when the boy had finished. ‘It’s very well written. Perhaps you might let me have a copy?’

Darren beamed. ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied.

‘Can I read mine now, miss?’ asked Chardonnay, standing up and shouting out excitedly.

Elisabeth looked a little apprehensive, knowing that the girl’s poem, which she had not had the chance to read, was about the new baby. She could imagine all the gory details of the birth being put into verse. ‘Come along then,’ said Elisabeth.

Chardonnay coughed theatrically and announced, ‘Bianca’s Baby’. She then recited the poem.

‘Our Bianca’s had a baby.

It’s round and red and fat.

It’s got tiny tufts of ginger hair

Like our neighbour’s noisy cat.

Our Bianca’s had a baby.

It’s red and fat and round.

It’s like a little sumo wrestler

And weighs only seven pounds.

Our Bianca’s had a baby.

It’s fat and round and red.

With big green eyes and tiny toes

And a birthmark on its head.

Our Bianca’s had a baby.

It’s round and red and happy.

And when it’s had its dinner

It always fills its nappy.

Our Bianca’s has a baby

It’s red and fat—’

‘Thank you very much, Chardonnay,’ interrupted Elisabeth. ‘That was very good and I thought you did really well getting all those rhymes.’

‘I’ve not finished yet, miss,’ the girl told the teacher. ‘There’re another three verses.’

‘Well, I think we will give some of the other children in the class a chance.’

The girl looked at Mr Steel. ‘Do you want a copy of my poem as well?’ she asked.

‘Indeed I do,’ replied the school inspector. ‘It was most interesting.’ He turned to Malcolm Stubbins. ‘Would you like to read your poem, young man?’ asked the inspector.

‘No,’ came the blunt reply.

‘Come along, Malcolm,’ said Elisabeth.

‘I don’t want to, miss,’ he mumbled. ‘It’s daft.’

‘I’m sure it’s not,’ said Mr Steel.

‘It is,’ said the boy.

‘I would really like to hear it,’ said the inspector.

‘Please, Malcolm,’ said Elisabeth.

The boy sighed and read his poem slowly, head down over the desk and with a finger under each word.

‘When I play football

I feel different.

I can’t explain it.

I forget about everything around me.

I just go loose.

When I’ve got the ball

And I’m running down the pitch

And I see the goal

And I hear people cheering.

I can’t explain it

But I feel really good inside.’

The class clapped and the boy coloured up.

‘Very good,’ said Mr Steel. ‘Perhaps I might have a copy of your poem too.’

In the head teacher’s office at lunchtime, Mr Steel gave Elisabeth the feedback on what he had observed that morning.

‘The boy Malcolm who read the poem about football,’ said the inspector. ‘I remember seeing that young man when I visited the school when Miss Sowerbutts was the head teacher. He was a particularly difficult boy, as I recall.’