Trouble at the Little Village School (27 page)

‘He is,’ said Elisabeth. ‘There’s been an improvement in several things. He seems to understand a whole lot more.’

‘That’s good to hear.’

‘And how’s Danny?’ she asked. ‘He’s staying with his grandmother this weekend, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, she’s collecting him this afternoon. He looked on the verge of tears when I told him.’

John stopped and stared at a large puddle.

‘I suppose those at Social Services thought that the sooner he gets used to her and the new situation the better,’ said Elisabeth.

‘If he ever gets used to it,’ said the doctor. ‘He stayed in his room this morning and missed his breakfast, then he fed his ferret and went out. I don’t know where, but I have an idea it was to his grandfather’s grave. He usually goes there on Saturdays. He didn’t want James to go with him. Said he wanted to be by himself. This really upset James so now
he’s
in his room, hardly speaking to anyone, with a face, as Mrs O’Connor would say, “like a smacked bottom”. I can’t say things are very happy at home at the moment. Even the ever-cheerful and garrulous Mrs O’Connor is in a mood, banging pans and grumbling to herself.’

‘Well, you know where to come if you want a bit of peace and quiet,’ Elisabeth told him.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I might take you up on that. Thank you for the other night, by the way. It’s so warm and welcoming at your cottage and it’s good to have someone to talk things through with.’ He pinched the bridge on his nose. ‘I really don’t know what to do, Elisabeth. We’ve all tried to talk to Danny – James, Mrs O’Connor, myself – but he seems to have gone into his shell. I guess he’s resigned to the fact that he has to leave, and he looks so down, as he did when his grandfather was ill. I feel so sorry for the boy. It’s like watching a condemned man waiting for his execution.’

‘Surely it’s not that bad,’ said Elisabeth.

‘You should see him. He’s nothing like the boy he was. I did telephone Miss Parsons at the Social Services and told her how unhappy Danny was and, although she sympathised, she felt she shouldn’t stand in the way of letting his grandmother make contact and get to know him. She can’t say at the moment what will happen, but she said there is a strong possibility that Danny will end up living with her. Mrs Stainthorpe has made the point that the boys are sometimes left alone at Clumber Lodge when I’m out on a call and she brought up the matter of James running away. Goodness knows how she found that out. I’m afraid it didn’t look that good. She made it appear that mine is not the most stable place for a child to grow up in.’

‘Michael!’ exclaimed Elisabeth, ‘that is such nonsense. There couldn’t be a better home.’

‘Anyway, Miss Parsons said she’d make some visits to see how he is getting on.’

‘It seems so wrong,’ said Elisabeth, ‘disrupting his life like this.’

John suddenly shook both the hands which held him and vigorously stamped his foot into the large muddy puddle, drenching both Elisabeth and the doctor. They both laughed.

‘Anyway, someone seems happy enough,’ said Dr Stirling.

Over the next couple of weeks Danny spent weekends with his grandmother. He would leave the house on the Saturday and catch the bus to Clayton, refusing to let his grandmother collect him from Clumber Lodge or let Dr Stirling drive him there on the Sunday afternoon. He was quiet and polite when he was with his grandmother but said very little, despite the woman’s efforts. Mrs Stainthorpe did try to make the boy feel at home, and took him to the cinema and the bowling alley, but it was clear he wasn’t interested. Back at Clumber Lodge, he said little to Dr Stirling and James about the flat or about his grandmother, merely saying if he was asked, ‘It’s all right.’ At school he got on with his work and kept very much to himself.

Danny knew as soon as he saw the apartment where he was to live and his bedroom that he would never like living in Clayton. The block of flats was a large shiny red-brick building with small balconies clinging to the side. It overlooked a murky brown river and a busy main road. There was no garden – just a paved area and few newly planted saplings. His bedroom was small, with plain white walls, a single bed, a table and a small wardrobe.

One evening after he had returned from Clayton he asked if he could speak to Dr Stirling.

‘Now, Danny,’ said the doctor, ‘what is it you wanted to see me about?’

‘I think it’s time for me to go now,’ said the boy sadly.

‘Go where?’

‘Go an’ live wi’ mi grandmother.’

‘I see.’

‘It’s just purrin it off, ’avin’ these visits. I know as ’ow I’ll ’ave to live theer in t’end. It only meks me un’appy ’avin’ to come back ’ere. I might as well gerrit ovver an’ done wi’. I’ll tell mi’ grandmother tomorrow.’

‘I’m so sorry things have turned out this way, Danny,’ said Dr Stirling. ‘I really am.’

The boy shrugged. ‘Aye, so am I,’ he said.

Chapter 13

‘He sounds rather stuffy, this Dr Underwood,’ said Mrs Atticus to her husband at breakfast.

The Venerable Archdeacon of Clayton surveyed his usual Saturday breakfast, which had been placed before him: two insipid-looking, undercooked poached eggs on a square of burnt toast. ‘I beg your pardon, my dear?’

‘I was saying that this new curate of yours sounds rather stuffy,’ said his wife. ‘The bishop is probably putting some crusty old cleric out to pasture.’

‘I think that is a trifle unkind, my dear,’ replied the archdeacon, cutting a corner from the burnt toast and popping it in his mouth. He crunched noisily.

‘I fear he will be of little help to you, Charles,’ continued his wife. ‘He’ll be bookish and serious and far too old, and I can’t see some doctor of divinity from Oxford relating to the people in the village. His sermons will be endless and way over their heads. What you need is some enthusiastic young man who can take some of the burden off your shoulders.’

‘Shall we reserve our judgement, Marcia, until we have at least met the man?’ said her husband, poking a watery egg. ‘He may be quite different from that which you imagine. I gather that like your father and myself he was a scholar at All Souls. I assume you would not describe us as some stuffy, crusty old clerics.’ The archdeacon stared out of the rectory window and became pensive. ‘
Bene nati, bene vestiti, et mediocriter dicti
,’
he murmured.

‘I beg your pardon?’ said his wife.

‘I was recalling the qualifications of a fellow of All Souls at Oxford,’ the archdeacon told her. ‘Well born, well dressed, and moderately learned.’

‘Well, let us hope he lives up to that,’ said Mrs Atticus. She glanced out of the dining-room window. ‘And I guess he will have to stay here at the rectory?’

‘I think so,’ said the archdeacon. ‘Of course he may wish to find a place of his own in the village. However, I think in the first instance we will have to accommodate him.’

‘Well, I hope Dr Underwood will not be expecting me to cook and wash for him and clean his room.’

‘Perhaps we could get someone in to help with that,’ suggested her husband.

‘That might be the answer, Charles,’ replied his wife, ‘because I can’t be taking on these domestic duties, what with all my other commitments. I have a very busy term at the school, as you well know, and then I have my dissertation to complete.’

‘I am sure Dr Underwood will not be expecting you to cook and clean for him, my dear.’

‘I hope not. And what time is he coming?’ asked his wife.

‘At ten o’clock,’ replied her husband. ‘I had a call from the diocesan office. Before that I have a prospective bride and groom to see me and then later this morning the Methodist minister and Father Daly to discuss the ecumenical service next week.’

‘I think at least the bishop could have let you meet this Dr Underwood instead of foisting him upon us sight unseen,’ said the archdeacon’s wife.

Her husband placed his knife and fork down carefully at the side of his plate and took a deep breath. ‘The bishop has been more than accommodating, Marcia,’ he said irritably, wearying of his wife’s constant carping. ‘It was most considerate of him to allow me to stay here at Barton so that you could continue to train at the village school. In normal circumstances archdeacons have to move. The bishop has been more than generous.’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said his wife. ‘Nevertheless—’

‘If you will excuse me,’ said the archdeacon, rising from his chair, ‘I have quite a deal of work to do this morning.’

‘Oh look,’ said his wife, suddenly peering through the rectory window. ‘There’s young Daniel Stainthorpe in the churchyard again. The boy spends so much time at his grandfather’s grave. It’s rather unhealthy for a boy of his age, don’t you think? He should be out and about with his friends.’

‘I guess he’s still grieving,’ said the archdeacon. ‘He was very close to his grandfather. Sometimes it takes a long time to come to terms with the death of a loved one. He’s a very personable young man, is young Danny, and a credit to old Mr Stainthorpe.’

‘Yes, he is,’ said Mrs Atticus, agreeing, on this rare occasion, with her husband.

Danny stood at his grandfather’s graveside. The air was cold and a light rain began to fall. He stared forlornly at the small tombstone, biting slightly at his lower lip. He wiped a tear from his cheek.

‘I wish tha were ’ere, granddad,’ said the boy. ‘To tell us what to do. I don’t want to go an’ live in Clayton. I wants to stay ’ere but they say I’ve got to go. I remember you used to say when I were worried an’ I ’ad summat on mi mind, that it’s never as bad as you think. It’s pretty bad now though, granddad. It really is.’ The boy suddenly sensed that someone was watching him and, turning sharply around, found a young woman holding aloft a bright umbrella.

‘Hello,’ she said cheerfully.

‘Oh, ’ello,’ replied Danny.

‘Come in under my umbrella,’ she told him. ‘You’re getting soaking wet.’

‘No, yer all reight,’ said Danny. ‘I don’t mind t’rain an’ it’s only drizzlin’. I’ve been out in it offen enough.’ He looked up at the grey sky and then back at the gravestone. ‘You must think I’m a bit barmy talkin’ to missen.’

‘Not at all,’ she replied. ‘I often talk to myself. Anyway you
were
talking to someone, weren’t you?’

‘Mi granddad,’ replied the boy. ‘He died last year. Bit daft in’t it, talkin’ to someone who’s dead?’ He sniffed.

‘I don’t think so,’ she replied. ‘I talk to my grandparents all the time and they died when I was small.’

‘Do you?’

‘I do.’

‘An’ d’ ya think they listen?’

‘I’m sure they do.’

‘If I got worried abaat anythin’,’ said Danny, ‘I used to talk it through with mi granddad. He allus med me feel better an’ told me wor ’e thowt I should do.’

‘He sounds like a very special man.’

‘Oh, ’e was. I really miss ’im.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want to come under my umbrella?’ asked the young woman.

Danny shook his head. ‘I likes t’rain on mi face.’

‘And what’s your name?’ she asked.

‘I’m Danny,’ he replied. ‘Danny Stainthorpe.’

‘I’m pleased to meet you, Danny.’ She held out a hand, which the boy shook.

‘’Ave you come to see somebody’s grave?’ asked the boy.

‘No,’ replied the young woman. ‘I’m coming to live in the village and thought I’d have a walk around.’

‘You’ll like it here,’ said Danny. ‘All this country stretchin’ for miles an’ miles, empty skies, old stone walls, all these birds an’ animals an’ different trees. I love it ’ere, t’sounds an’ t’smells. You’ll see t’seasons change. Sun on yer face in summer, rain on yer face in autumn, snow crunchin’ under yer feet in winter.’

‘You’re quite the little poet,’ remarked the woman.

He smiled. ‘Naw, not really.’ He thought for a moment. ‘It’s funny, you just comin’ to Barton an’ me ’avin’ to leave.’

‘You’re leaving?’

‘I don’t want to but I’ve got to move. I reckon I’ll be leavin’ for good soon.’ He gave a sad, resigned shrug. ‘Mi grandmother wants me to go an’ live wi’ ’er in t’town. I know I won’t like it. I’m not bothered about ice rinks an’ cinemas an’ bowling alleys an’ swimming baths. I likes it ’ere in t’country. When mi granddad died I went to live wi’ Dr Stirling. ’E’s been lookin’ after me an’ wanted to adopt me. It’s wor I wanted too. Can’t see it ’appenin’ now though. I can’t remember mi grandmother. I don’t know ’er, you see. She left mi’ granddad years ago. It was ’im who brought me up. I don’t know why she ’ad to come back now an’ I don’t know why I ’ave to live with ’er.’

‘You might get to like it.’

‘I won’t.’

‘There’ve been times when I thought I wouldn’t like something,’ said the young woman, ‘and when it came to it I got to quite enjoy it. Perhaps you should give it a chance.’

‘I don’t ’ave no choice in t’matter,’ sighed Danny.

‘You’re only young, Danny,’ said the woman, ‘but in a few more years you’ll be able to decide what you want to do and where you want to live.’

‘Aye, I reckon so,’ he murmured.

‘And if you don’t like it in the town maybe your grandmother might let you come back and stay here.’