Trouble at the Little Village School (34 page)

The caravan was warm and comfortable and there wasn’t a thing out of place.

Elisabeth was surprised to see how clean and tidy everything was. Something that smelled very tasty was simmering in a pan on the small stove.

‘I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ she said.

‘Not at all,’ he replied.

‘I guess it was you who has been busy in my garden,’ she said.

‘Well, I like to keep busy,’ he told her, ‘and it did need sorting.’

‘You really shouldn’t have bothered, but thank you all the same. It looks a whole lot better.’

‘There’s a big branch on the horse chestnut tree that wants coming off,’ he said. ‘It’s been hit by lightning by the looks of it, it’s split and charred, and in a strong wind you might be in bed one night and find it comes crashing through your roof. I’ll get it sorted tomorrow.’

‘Yes, I know it needs doing,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Danny, the young man who used to live in the caravan and look after my garden for me, kept mentioning that the branch was dangerous and wanted cutting off. But I really don’t expect you to do that.’

‘It’ll be a pleasure,’ he replied.

Elisabeth looked over to where Roisin was curled up on the bed, her nose buried in a book. ‘I hear from her teacher that your daughter is settling in well at Barton-in-the-Dale?’ she asked.

‘Yes, very well,’ the girl’s father replied. ‘I can’t remember when she has taken so well to a new school.’

‘Mrs Robertshaw tells me she’s very bright, a very good reader and clever with numbers, and Mr Tomlinson, who comes in to teach music, says she is a talented flautist. I sometimes hear her in the evening.’

‘It doesn’t disturb you, I hope.’

‘Not at all,’ said Elisabeth. ‘She plays beautifully. Is it you who plays the violin?’

‘I try,’ he replied.

‘I’m very pleased Roisin is happy at the school. You mentioned to me when we first met that it is sometimes not that easy for her settling in, meeting new people and making friends.’

‘Touch wood, she’s fine.’

‘That’s good.’

‘She has a boyfriend, you know,’ he said in a hushed voice, ‘a little boy called Oscar. She’s been invited for tea next Sunday. He’s going to show her his fossil collection.’

‘Are you talking about me, Daddy?’ asked Roisin, looking up from her book.

‘And why in the world would I be doing that?’ replied her father.

Elisabeth shook her head and smiled.

‘The thing is, Mrs Devine,’ said the man quietly. ‘I’ve a mind to stay on here a bit longer than planned. It’s a lovely part of the country, Roisin seems settled and tells me she’d like to stay, I couldn’t get a better place to put the caravan and people seem really friendly hereabouts. Would that be all right with you?’

‘You are welcome to stay as long as you like, Mr O’Malley,’ Elisabeth told him. ‘I said to you when we first met that I do value my privacy, and as you promised you have not disturbed me at all. I hardly know that you are there.’

‘Except for the music,’ he said.

‘Which I like,’ she replied. ‘You know, one of the reasons why I bought this cottage was that it is off the beaten track. In winter I like to go out into the garden at night, crunch through the snow, look at the stars and feel the cold air on my cheeks. Then in summer I love to sit on the old bench and hear the leaves rustling and smell the scents. I might see the white bobtail of a rabbit in the bushes or the sly fox watching from the footpath. One March I saw two hares in the field. They had these long, lean bodies and great erect ears, and they squared up to each other. I watched fascinated as they punched and pummelled. I had never seen anything like that before.’ Roisin had stopped reading to listen, her head on one side. ‘I just love the peace and quiet of this place,’ said Elisabeth.

‘You’re a romantic, Mrs Devine,’ he told her.

She smiled. ‘Maybe I am. Anyway, yes, you may stay. Oh, and I think it’s about time you called me Elisabeth – out of school anyway.’

‘We are very happy here,’ he told her, ‘so we would love to stay. I just need to find a bit of work to keep the wolf from the door and I’ll be as content as I’ll ever be.’ He looked over to his daughter. ‘Did you hear that, Roisin?’ he said, ‘We can stay.’

The girl clapped her hands gleefully and beamed. ‘Thank you, Mrs Devine,’ she said.

‘I suppose the word which comes to mind would be dramatic,’ said Miss Brakespeare. She was sitting with her colleagues in the staffroom the following lunchtime, regaling them with an account of the award ceremony of the School Library Poetry Competition, which had taken place that morning. Elisabeth was, as usual, supervising the school dinners before patrolling the school.

‘Go on,’ urged Mrs Robertshaw. ‘This sounds interesting.’

‘Well,’ said the deputy head teacher, becoming quite animated, ‘we arrived at the public library and everything went really smoothly at first. The chief librarian, Mrs Twiddle, introduced the judges: Philomena Phillpots, “the Dales poetess”, a strange-looking woman in a sort of flowered smock and purple lipstick, the editor of the
Gazette
and the mayor of Clayton. The children from the different schools in the area took it in turns to read out their entries. Chardonnay gave a most dramatic rendering of her poem about the baby, illustrating it with various actions which left the judges open-mouthed, and of course Oscar delivered his poem like a seasoned actor taking centre stage.’

‘What about Darren?’ asked Mrs Robertshaw.

‘He really surprised me,’ said Miss Brakespeare. ‘He had learned his poem off by heart and recited it beautifully. I could see the judges were much moved. Anyway, the last to stand up was a boy from Urebank and he read this poem called “The Colour of My Dreams”. It was very good, and I thought to myself at the time that it was a bit too sophisticated to have been written by a child of ten. Anyway, this boy had no sooner finished than Oscar came over to me and said it wasn’t his poem. I said, “How do you mean, Oscar?” and he said, “He didn’t write it,” and I said, “How do you know?” and he said, “Because I’ve seen it in a poetry book,” and I said, “You must be mistaken,” and he said he wasn’t. “Actually, it’s a poem by Peter Dixon,” he said.’

‘He’s his favourite poet,’ interposed Mrs Robertshaw.

‘Well, anyway, I said, “Maybe the boy has based his poem on the one written by Mr Dixon,” and he said, “No, he hasn’t.” Then he reached into that big leather briefcase he always carries around with him and produced this book of verse. There it was – the very same poem, word for word, which the boy from Urebank had read out as his own.’

‘So what did you do?’ asked Miss Wilson.

‘What could I do?’ replied the deputy head teacher. ‘I went with Oscar and we informed Mrs Twiddle, who told the judges.’

‘Good for you, Miriam,’ said Mrs Robertshaw.

‘At first they were not inclined to believe me. The poetess in the floral tent pulled a face and pointed at Oscar and said, “I think he must be mistaken,” and, “How old is this child?” and Oscar piped up, “Old enough to talk!” Well, you should have seen her face. Then he told her he was surprised she hadn’t heard of such a famous poet as Peter Dixon and showed her the poetry book and the poem published in it. The judges couldn’t do anything other than disqualify the boy from Urebank.’

‘Good grief!’ exclaimed Mrs Robertshaw. ‘The boy’s teacher won’t have been best pleased.’

‘Oh no, he wasn’t,’ said Miss Brakespeare. ‘He glowered at me and then, as I was leaving, he came over and said, “I suppose you’re satisfied.” I said that it wasn’t me who had copied out someone else’s poem and if he was angry with anyone it should be his pupil.’

‘You did right,’ said Mrs Robertshaw.

‘Then this teacher said that things would change at Barton when his head teacher was in charge.’

‘He said what?’

‘That Mr Richardson would be taking over.’

‘Do you think he knows something we don’t?’ asked Miss Wilson.

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Miss Brakespeare, ‘and Mrs Devine has not said anything to me. Anyway I have to admit I did feel a tad smug on the way home. After all, Darren won the first prize.’

That afternoon the school secretary arrived at Elisabeth’s classroom door. She was red in the face and flustered and started gesticulating outside the classroom window.

‘Get on with your work quietly, children,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I need to speak to Mrs Scrimshaw about something.’

In the corridor the school secretary could barely get out the words. ‘He’s in the entrance,’ she spluttered.

‘Who?’ asked Elisabeth.

‘You had better come and see for yourself,’ said Mrs Scrimshaw, striding off down the corridor.

In the entrance was a young man in a smart blue suit. The secretary stood back, her hands clasped before her. ‘It’s him,’ she whispered as the head teacher passed her.

‘May I help you?’ asked Elisabeth.

‘Mrs Devine?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I’m Tom Dwyer,’ he told her.

Elisabeth looked puzzled. ‘Tom Dwyer?’

‘You wrote to me,’ said the young man. ‘It was about one of your pupils, some lad in your class who is keen on football. Malcolm. You asked me to drop him  a line and tell him how important it is to read.’

‘Oh, Mr Dwyer!’ cried Elisabeth. ‘Of course. You’re the captain of Clayton United. I never expected you to call into school.’

‘Well, I’m not one for writing letters,’ he replied. ‘Anyway, I was in Barton today. My Auntie Bridget lives in the village and my mother’s always on at me to call in and see her. You might know her. She works for the local doctor.’

‘Mrs O’Connor?’ said Elisabeth.

‘That’s right,’ said the footballer. ‘So, shall we go and see this young man and put him right about reading?’

It was a memorable occasion for the children that afternoon and especially for Malcolm Stubbins, who sat wide-eyed as he listened to the footballer telling the class about his life. The man turned to Elisabeth and winked before stressing to the children how important it was to read books and work hard at school.

‘Thank you so much for coming in, Mr Dwyer,’ said Elisabeth as she walked with him to the school exit at afternoon break. ‘You have made a young man very happy, and your visit might get Malcolm, who is one of my most reluctant readers, to pick up a book.’

‘A pleasure,’ he replied, ‘although I have to admit that I wasn’t a very good reader myself when I was at school. The only thing I really cared about was football.’

Mrs Scrimshaw rushed out of the office. ‘Excuse me, Mr Dwyer,’ she said, ‘might I have your autograph for my young nephew? He’s a great fan of yours.’

‘I didn’t know you had a nephew, Mrs Scrimshaw,’ said Elisabeth after the visitor had gone.

‘I don’t,’ said the school secretary, her face rather flushed.

Clarence stood on Miss Sowerbutts’s doorstep. He was carrying a garden fork, an old sack and a bottle of bleach. He remembered his former head teacher, for he had been a pupil at the village school. He had been frightened of her as a boy and still was, and had not been looking forward to the visit. Taking a deep breath, he rang the bell.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Miss Sowerbutts, opening the door a fraction and peering out.

‘I . . . I . . . I’ve come about your m . . . moles, Miss Sowerbutts,’ he stuttered.

‘M . . . my Uncle Fred asked me t . . . to come. He said they’ve come b . . . back.’

‘Well, you are too late,’ she told him.

‘P . . . pardon?’

‘You can tell your Uncle Fred I don’t have a mole problem any more – no thanks to him.’

‘P . . . pardon?’

‘I will not be requiring his or your services in future because the moles have gone. Daniel Stainthorpe dealt with the problem, and you can tell your Uncle Fred from me that his efforts in putting bleach down the runs were a total and utter waste of time and only succeeded in killing the grass and not the moles.’

‘M . . . my Uncle Fred said it’s the b . . . best way of getting rid of them,’ stammered Clarence.

‘Well, if that is what your Uncle Fred thinks then he has less intelligence than I credited him with – which I have to say was never very much in the first place. You have to lay traps for moles and that’s what will get rid of them, not a bottle of bleach. In any case, how do you think you can be of any help to me with your arm in a sling?’

‘I . . . I can dig with one hand,’ said Clarence, ‘and I just need to pour some bleach down the runs.’

‘Did you not hear what I said?’ snapped Miss Sowerbutts. ‘I have just told you that putting bleach down the holes is of no use!’

‘B . . . but m . . . my Uncle Fred told me to do it.’ He swallowed nervously, his gullet moving up and down like a frog’s.

‘Well, you can tell that uncle of yours that he is incompetent, ineffectual and unreliable and that I am most displeased with him. I have lost count of the number of times I have rung him up to come again and deal with these wretched creatures, and I have not seen hide nor hair of him since he ruined my lawn with his bleach. He is most untrustworthy. I shall of course not be paying for his services – such as they were.’