Trouble at the Little Village School (31 page)

Mrs O’Connor stroked the baby’s cheek. ‘He’s a bonny-looking wee baby, so he is,’ she said. Mrs Pocock turned her small wrinkled eyes upon the child and looked closely down her nose and said nothing.

‘He’s no trouble,’ Bianca said. ‘Sleeps right through the night, takes his feeds and hardly ever cries.’

‘Well, you’re very lucky, that’s all I can say,’ remarked Mrs Pocock. ‘The trouble I had with my Ernest. He wouldn’t sleep, cried from morning till night with colic and filled his nappy as soon as I changed it. I said to my husband, that’s the last baby I’m having.’

‘So what’s the little fella called?’ Mrs O’Connor asked Bianca.

‘Brandon.’

‘Brandon!’ repeated Mrs Pocock. ‘Wherever did you get that name from?’

‘Perhaps it’s named after the baby’s father,’ suggested Mrs Sloughthwaite, hoping she might uncover the secret of the child’s paternity.

‘No,’ replied Bianca. ‘We just like the name.’ She chewed a strand of her long stringy hair.

‘And how are you in yourself?’ asked Mrs Sloughthwaite in a solicitous and kindly manner.

‘Oh, I’m not too bad but I’ve got cracked nipples.’

‘I had them,’ said Mrs Pocock. ‘Talk about agony. I tried one of those breast pumps the health visitor gave me when I had my Ernest, but gave it up as a bad job after a week. You’d best get it on bottled milk.’

‘Dr Stirling says that breast milk is best for the baby,’ said Bianca, ‘so I’m keeping going. Anyway I don’t have to buy bottled milk so I save money.’

‘Things are a bit tight are they, love?’ asked the shopkeeper.

‘A bit.’ Her voice trembled a little.

‘You want to get the child’s father to do his bit and fork out,’ said Mrs Pocock aggressively. ‘Typical of lads these days. They get a lass into trouble and then you never see hide nor hair of them again. No responsibility.’

‘His dad does what he can,’ said Bianca sadly. ‘He gives me money when he’s able.’

The shopkeeper couldn’t resist. ‘So do I know the father?’ she asked.

‘I’m not telling no one, Mrs Sloughthwaite,’ she said. ‘My dad says if he finds out who it is he’ll punch his lights out.’

The shopkeeper rocked the baby in her chubby arms and stared down at the little elfin-faced child with the pale brown eyes set in an oval face, the large ears, sandy lashes and tufts of ginger hair. There was little doubt in her mind as to who the father was. She smiled and determined that for the time being she would hold her superior knowledge like a dog with a bone.

‘Excuse me, Mrs Devine,’ said the school secretary the following Monday morning, ‘there’s a parent with a little girl wishing to see you.’ She paused and pushed a stray strand of hair from her face. ‘He’s – how shall I put it? – a bit out of the ordinary.’

‘In what way?’ asked Elisabeth, intrigued.

‘I think he’s a gypsy,’ whispered Mrs Scrimshaw.

‘Thank you, Mrs Scrimshaw,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I’ll come down. I have been expecting him.’

Her visitor, observed suspiciously by the caretaker from the school hall, was staring intently at the children’s writing which had been mounted on the wall in the entrance hall when Elisabeth turned the corridor. His daughter, swinging her small legs backwards and forwards, sat on a chair, reading.

‘Good morning,’ said Elisabeth.

The man drew a huge slow intake of breath, shook his head and then smiled. ‘You!’ he exclaimed.

‘Me,’ Elisabeth replied stolidly, coming over and shaking his hand. ‘It’s good to see you again, Mr O’Malley.’ She crouched in front of the little girl and patted her hand. ‘Hello, Roisin.’

‘Hello,’ replied the child. She looked mystified.

Elisabeth stood, smoothed the creases out of her skirt and said in a pleasant voice, ‘If you would like to follow me, Mr O’Malley, and you too, Roisin, we can have a little look around the school before the children arrive and then sort out a few details.’

‘You didn’t say you were a teacher at the school,’ whispered the child’s father as he followed Elisabeth down the corridor.

‘Actually, I’m the head teacher,’ she told him, ‘the formidable but good-humoured head teacher who, I hope, knows what she’s about.’

‘Oh dear,’ he said stopping in his tracks, ‘about our conversation—’

‘I perhaps should have told you who I was,’ said Elisabeth, ‘but I have to admit I was interested in what was being said about me in the village. Now if you like what you see and want Roisin to stay, I should be delighted to have her. She would be in the lower junior class with Mrs Robertshaw, who is a very good teacher, and I know, should you decide to send her here, your daughter will be happy and settle in.’

On the tour of the school they came across Oscar, early as usual, sitting quietly reading in the corner of the small school library. The boy looked up when he caught sight of them, took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. He stared for a moment at the little girl. It was a studying look, neither friendly nor unfriendly.

‘Hello, Oscar,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Here bright and early again.’

‘Good morning, Mrs Devine,’ replied the boy, closing his book. ‘I see there’s another new pupil.’

‘I hope so, Oscar,’ replied Elisabeth.

‘We’ll be bursting at the seams at this rate.’ He looked at Roisin. ‘Hello,’ he said.

‘Hello,’ she replied uncertainly.

‘What are you reading?’ he asked, noticing the book the girl was carrying.

She showed him the cover. ‘Peter Dixon!’ he cried. ‘You like Peter Dixon?’

The girl nodded. ‘He’s my favourite poet.’

‘And mine,’ enthused the boy. He dug into his bag and produced a thin glossy-backed paperback with a colourful cover. ‘Have you read this one? It’s his latest. It’s a signed copy. I wrote to him.’

‘No!’ replied Roisin, moving closer and examining the book.

‘You can borrow it if you like,’ said the boy.

‘Why don’t we leave Roisin here with Oscar for a moment?’ said Elisabeth to the girl’s father. ‘Then we can talk about whether or not you wish her to come to Barton-in the-Dale.’

The man smiled. ‘I think I’ve decided,’ he said.

The following week a tall gangly lad with long thin arms and long thin legs and wild, woolly red hair appeared at Mrs Sloughthwaite’s counter. His arm was in a sling.

‘Hello, Clarence,’ said the shopkeeper cheerfully.

‘Hello, Mrs Sloughthwaite,’ he mumbled.

‘And how are you?’

‘Not too bad.’

‘And how’s your arm?’

‘On the mend.’

‘And how’s your Uncle Fred?’

He grimaced. ‘Much the same.’

‘He works you too hard.’

‘Aye, happen he does.’

‘You ought to tell him, you know.’

‘He won’t take too kindly to me doing that,’ said Clarence. ‘Says I make a pig’s ear of everything I do. I never seem to do anything what’s right for my Uncle Fred. I’m keeping out of his way at the moment.’

‘I meant you ought to tell him about the other business,’ said the shopkeeper.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Oh, I think you do.’

Colour flushed the young man’s face. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about, Mrs Sloughthwaite.’

‘My brains aren’t made of porridge, Clarence,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘I’m talking about Bianca.’

‘She’s told you!’ he exclaimed.

‘No, she hasn’t told me but I’ve got eyes in my head. That baby couldn’t be anyone else’s. He’s the spitting image of his father.’

The boy gave a great grin. ‘Do you think so?’

‘Oh yes, there’s no mistaking it.’

‘We were keeping it a secret,’ said Clarence. ‘Do other people know?’

‘No, they don’t and I don’t mean to tell anyone either. One thing you can say about me is that I’m the soul of indiscretion. I shan’t say a word but I think you ought to tell your Uncle Fred. He’s got a fair bit of money stashed away up there at Tanfield Farm and nothing to spend it on except ale. It wouldn’t hurt him to part with a bob or two. Your Bianca’s a bit strapped for cash from what I hear.’

‘I do what I can, Mrs Sloughthwaite,’ the young man told her unhappily.

‘I know you do, love, but you and Bianca need help. That little Brandon is your Uncle Fred’s great-nephew after all. He’s family. That baby is his flesh and blood. He should help out.’

‘He wouldn’t,’ said Clarence sadly. ‘He’ll say that it’s something else I’ve got wrong.’

‘Do you think you’ve got it wrong, having such a little treasure?’ she asked.

‘No, I don’t,’ replied the young man. ‘It’s the best thing I’ve ever done. I’m going to be a good dad, Mrs Sloughthwaite. I’m going to try my best.’

‘And despite what other people might say, I don’t think you got it wrong,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘These things happen. You’ve got a lovely little boy and his mum’s a nice enough lass and you’re well suited.’ The young man looked down and nodded. ‘You like Bianca, don’t you, Clarence?’

‘I love her, Mrs Sloughthwaite,’ he said, looking up. ‘She’s the only one I feel I can talk to. I’d do anything for her.’

‘Well, you ought to go and see her father then, and tell your uncle.’

‘I don’t think I dare.’

‘Neither of them is as hard as you think,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘Their barks are far worse than their bites. You need to sit down with Bianca and her parents and with your Uncle Fred and sort things out for the sake of the baby.’

‘You think?’

‘I do. That kiddie needs a father and you need to be there to help bring him up. Bianca’s parents and your uncle are sure to find out one of these days, probably from some nosy gossip in the Blacksmith’s Arms who has seen you with Bianca. It’s best coming from you.’

‘Aye, I guess you’re right.’

‘I know I am,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘Now what is it you want?’

‘Do you sell disposable nappies, Mrs Sloughthwaite?’ he asked.

Chapter 15

‘So how do you like Barton-in-the-Dale?’ asked Archdeacon Atticus, as he stacked the plates and dishes at the dining table.

Archdeacon Atticus, his wife and the new curate had just finished a deeply unappetising dinner of unidentifiable, pale stringy meat, watery potatoes and undercooked cabbage followed by lumpy lukewarm tapioca pudding.

‘I like it very much so far,’ Ashley replied. ‘It’s a very friendly place. Everyone has been very kind. St Christopher’s is a lovely old church. It has so much character.’

‘Indeed,’ agreed the archdeacon. ‘A fine example of Norman architecture. Lamentably the church was despoiled at the Reformation, statues were smashed, saints beheaded, magnificent stained-glass windows destroyed and lovingly crafted marble tombs desecrated.’

‘Somebody ought to desecrate that dreadfully vulgar marble tomb in the churchyard,’ observed Mrs Atticus. ‘You will have seen it of course, Ashley. They ought to take a sledgehammer to it.’

‘My wife, as you might ascertain, Ashley,’ said her husband, smiling weakly, ‘is not at all enamoured of the Reverend Steerum-Slack’s mausoleum.’

‘It is a little bit over the top,’ agreed the young curate.

‘That is an understatement if ever I heard one,’ said Mrs Atticus. ‘I mean, what sort of person pays to have that monstrosity erected? He should have left his money to the poor. He was very well off by all accounts. It must have cost an arm and a leg. It takes up half the churchyard and I have to look upon it every morning from our bedroom window. Perhaps now you are in a senior position in the Church, Charles, you could authorise its removal.’

‘I think not, my dear,’ replied her husband.

‘It is so good of you and your wife to let me stay at the rectory,’ said the new curate, keen to change the subject. It sounded to her like the beginnings of a domestic dispute.

‘Oh, there’s plenty of room here,’ replied the cleric. ‘It is a pleasure to have you. I trust your room is satisfactory?’

‘Oh yes, it’s fine.’

‘Well, all I can say is that you are easily pleased,’ said Mrs Atticus. ‘I find this rectory a draughty old place at the best of times and in need of urgent refurbishment. It’s cold and musty and full of noises. The heating is temperamental with its grumbling radiators and gurgling pipes, the stairs, which are far too steep and precarious, creak so much one wonders if the very floorboards are ready to give way beneath one. And as for the kitchen, it’s virtually medieval.’

‘Well, it suits me,’ said the new curate amiably.

‘Really?’

‘It has character.’

Mrs Atticus opened her mouth to reply, but her husband was quick to take the opportunity of interposing. ‘It’s a very pleasant little village, is Barton-in-the Dale,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘Perhaps a little quiet for some people. Marcia, I know, finds it very sleepy and uneventful, do you not, my dear?’

‘Insular would be the word that springs to mind, Charles,’ replied his wife. ‘A gossipy and claustrophobic place where everyone knows everyone else’s business. If you wish to have a private life, Barton-in-the-Dale is not somewhere you would choose.’