Trouble at the Little Village School (8 page)

‘Sadly, it may be necessary for us to close some of the less viable schools,’ said the senior education officer, ‘but I should stress that for the moment there is no intention to close this particular school; I can assure you all of that.’

‘That is good to hear,’ said the Reverend Atticus.

‘As I said,’ she continued, ‘this school is not threatened with closure. The changes envisaged concern the future of the whole of the Education Service and it involves some of the small schools in the county.’

‘In what way?’ demanded Mrs Pocock.

‘If I might be allowed to finish,’ replied Ms Tricklebank sharply.

Mrs Pocock scowled. The major drew a deep exasperated breath.

‘You will be aware that cuts have to be made in the education budget as a result of the declining numbers of children in the county, and that—’

‘They’re not declining in this school,’ interrupted Mrs Pocock. ‘If anything they are on the increase. Isn’t that right, Mrs Devine?’

‘Yes, it is,’ she replied. ‘In fact six new pupils started at the beginning of the term.’

‘Of course, from your point of view this is very good news,’ said Ms Tricklebank, ‘but in other schools the numbers are dropping and in some cases quite dramatically.’

‘Well, what happens in other schools is no concern of ours,’ said Mrs Pocock.

‘Well, it is, actually,’ the senior education officer told her. ‘There needs to be some reorganisation, with a number of smaller schools combining to make the most effective use of resources.’

‘So this school might be amalgamated with another one?’ asked the vicar.

‘It is likely,’ Ms Tricklebank replied. ‘They would form part of a grouping or consortium.’

‘And when might these amalgamations take place?’ asked the vicar.

‘Not until there has been a full consultation with all the affected parties – governors, parents and local interest groups. I should think, if it does happen, it would be at the start of the new academic year.’

‘Next September,’ said the Reverend Atticus.

‘I should think so,’ replied Ms Tricklebank.

‘And were we to enter into this consortium, the school we would amalgamate with would be the nearest one to Barton-in-the-Dale?’ observed Dr Stirling.

‘Possibly, yes,’ replied Ms Tricklebank.

‘Which is at Urebank.’ said Elisabeth.

‘Well, I don’t like the sound of that for a start!’ exclaimed Mrs Pocock.

‘Nothing has yet been decided,’ said the senior education officer, ‘but that could be an option. This meeting is just to acquaint you with the situation. There will be further discussions and consultations in due course.’

‘Well, I don’t want us to join up with Urebank,’ said Mrs Pocock.

‘You may not have a choice,’ replied Ms Tricklebank.

Chapter 4

Elisabeth had a sleepless night. She lay in bed listening to the wind tugging fretfully at the window frames and a thin rain pattering on the glass. The term had started so well, she thought, and now there was this bolt from the blue. The idea of Barton-in-the-Dale school combining with Urebank and her having to work with Robin Richardson, the headmaster there, filled her with a deep dismay.

She had crossed swords with the man in question soon after she had started in her new post. Now it appeared they might very well be working together – in what capacity she just did not know.

The following morning Elisabeth looked out of the kitchen window. The weather reflected her mood. It was a dull, cold, overcast Saturday, the sky a blanket of gloomy grey clouds. Danny was in her garden, busy digging in the borders, his elbows moving up and down like pistons. He was dressed in his grandfather’s old waxed jacket and substantial rubber boots, and wore a flat cap a size too large pulled down over his forehead. It was good to see him so happy. It had been hard for the boy the previous year.

She put on her outdoor coat and joined him.

‘Hello, Danny,’ she said, coming up behind him, her hands dug deep in her coat pockets.

The boy jumped as if touched with a cattle prod and dropped the spade. ‘By ’eck, Mrs Devine, tha med me jump.’

‘Sorry about creeping up on you like that,’ said Elisabeth. ‘You looked as if you were in a world of your own.’

‘I were just thinkin’ about mi granddad,’ the boy told her. ‘He allus ’ated this time o’ year. He used to stick ’is ’ead out o’ caravan dooer and say, “Nowt growin’, nowt movin’ and so cowld you can ’ear yer bones a-clickin.”’

‘It’s a bit chilly for doing this sort of work, isn’t it?’ Elisabeth asked. ‘Perhaps you ought to wait until it gets warmer.’

‘Nay miss. I was stuck in t’house. I likes to be out and about, and yer garden needs fettlin’. Now I’ve left them pile o’ leaves ovver theer behind yon tree ’cos you’ll like as not ’ave some ’edgehogs in there.’

‘Yes, I think I have,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Last summer I saw them on the lawn at dusk.’

‘They’d ’ave been snuffling for food,’ Danny told her. ‘’Edehogs won’t be out at this time o’year. They’ll be wrapped up in balls under them leaves. Yer need to look after yer ’edgehogs, Mrs Devine, ’cos they eat slugs and snails what can kill yer plants. They’re t’oldest mammals in t’world, tha knaas, but pesticides what kill yer beetles and caterpillars mean they go ’ungry, so they need feedin’. Yer ’edgehogs that is, not yer beetles and caterpillars. What they really like are chopped peanuts, peanut butter and meat scraps, but don’t put any out now ’cos you’ll attract yer rats.’

‘I’ll remember that,’ said Elisabeth.

‘And t‘branch o’ yon sycamore tree, one what got split oppen wi’ lightning, that wants cutting off. It might come down on yer cottage in a strong wind and end up through yer roof.’

‘Yes, I’ve been meaning to get that seen to,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Don’t you go trying to do it.’

‘Nay miss, I don’t like ’eights,’ Danny told her. The boy patted his pocket. ‘I’ll put some food out for t’birds afore I go, an’ all.’

‘So you’re the mystery bird-feeder are you? I guessed it might be you. That’s very kind of you, Danny.’

‘You gets all sooarts o’ birds in this garden an’ t’kestrel knows it an’ all. I’ve seen ’im ’overing up theer in t’sky watchin’ an’ waitin’. ’E got a pigeon last week. I don’t mind ’im gerrin’ pigeons because they’re a blasted nuisance – tree rats, mi granddad used to call ’em – but I don’t like it when ’e teks a blackbird or a linnet. Mind you, they’re offen too quick for ’im.’ He pointed to the chattering sparrows in the large sycamore tree. ‘Just listen to ’em. Yer blue tits and great tits are partial to nuts, but yer goldfinch and greenfinch and siskins, they likes them nyjer seeds.’

‘Whatever is a siskin?’ asked Elisabeth.

The boy chuckled. ‘Yer might be t’ead teacher o’ t’school, miss, but tha dunt know much abaat birds, do ya?’

‘Not really,’ replied Elisabeth smiling. ‘I’m what you village folk call an “off-comed-un”. I’ve a lot to learn about the countryside.’

‘Well, a siskin is like yer greenfinch but smaller and with a streaked belly and forked tail. You can tell t’males ’cos they ’ave a black cap on their ’eads and they’re reight show-offs. Mi granddad liked siskins. Ya don’t see much of ’em in summer but you see lots in winter if ya keep your eyes oppen. “There’s nowt like t’sound o’ t’sweet twittering of a flock of siskins feeding among the trees in the wintertime.” That’s what mi granddad used to say.’ The boy became suddenly pensive and looked up at the sky. Then he rubbed his eyes.

Elisabeth put a hand on Danny’s shoulder and squeezed it gently. ‘You think a lot about your grandfather, don’t you?’ she said.

‘Aye, I do. I do miss ’im,’ said the boy. ‘This were fust Christmas I’ve ’ad wi’out ’im.’

Neither spoke for a moment but looked beyond the garden to a vast and silent landscape of fields and hills, criss-crossed by thin white walls which rose like veins impossibly high to the craggy fells.

‘You shouldn’t be spending all your money on food for my birds, Danny,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I’ll give you some money for the nuts before you go.’

‘Yer all reight, miss,’ said the boy, sniffing. ‘I get pocket money and don’t ’ave much else to spend it on after I’ve bought t’food for mi ferret.’

‘Where is your ferret, by the way?’ asked Elisabeth.

Danny reached into the pocket of his jacket and produced the little sandy-coloured, pointed-faced creature with small bright black eyes. He held the animal under its chest, his thumb under one leg towards the ferret’s spine, and using the other hand he gently stroked the creature down the full length of its body. ‘I never go anywhere without Ferdy,’ he told her. Then he recalled the time he had taken the creature to school and it had bitten Malcolm Stubbins and landed him in trouble. ‘Except, of course, tekkin’ ’im to school.’ He returned the animal to the warmth of his pocket.

Elisabeth smiled. ‘You’re happy with Dr Stirling, aren’t you, Danny?’

‘“Like a pig in the proverbial,” as mi granddad used to say. It’s champion, miss, it really is. ’E’s a proper gent is Dr Stirling. That’s summat else mi granddad used to say.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Mrs Devine,’ he said.

‘Yes?’

‘Can I asks you summat?’

‘Of course you can.’

‘When I’m adopted like, I’ll be sort of like Dr Stirling’s son, won’t I?’

‘You won’t be
sort of
like Dr Stirling’s son, Danny, you will be his son. It will be all legal.’

‘I don’t want to change mi name,’ said the boy, his forehead furrowing. ‘I want to still be called Danny Stainthorpe.’

‘I don’t think there will be a problem with that.’

‘Mrs Devine?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do ya reckon Dr Stirling will let me call ’im Dad, like James does?’

‘I should think that he will insist on it,’ replied Elisabeth.

The boy’s face broke into a great beaming smile. ‘I don’t know what it’s like to ’ave a dad. I never knew mi real dad and I don’t remember mi mum.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Mrs Devine?’

‘Yes, Danny?’

‘Thanks for all you’ve done for me. After mi granddad went into t’hospital, I just din’t know what to do. I were frightened and I just couldn’t think straight. If it ’adn’t ’ave bin for you and Dr Stirling . . .’ His voice trailed off.

‘I know,’ Elisabeth said gently. ‘Now come along, young man, I think you’ve done enough in my garden for today.’

The boy touched her arm with the tips of his fingers. ‘I just wanted to tell you that,’ he said.

Elisabeth felt tears pricking the corners of her eyes. She changed the subject. ‘Do you think things might brighten up?’ she asked.

The boy stared up at the leaden sky. Then he took off his cap and ran a hand through his dusty hair, wrinkled his forehead again and broke into a frown. ‘I reckon not,’ he said sagely.

‘By the way, I meant to have a word with you,’ said Elisabeth.

The boy pulled a face. ‘Nowt up, I ’opes?’

‘Well, I think there may be.’ The boy looked worried. ‘Should Mr Massey’s sheep grazing in my paddock be lambing at this time of year?’

Danny shook his head and laughed. ‘No, they shouldn’t. It’s wrong time for lambing. It were Clarence, ’is nephew, what did it. ’E let t’jock gerrin in ’mongst yows.’ He saw the quizzical expression on Elisabeth’s face. ‘Jock’s yer ram and ’e should ’ave been kept away from yows at this time o’year. It’s not reight time for tuppin’. ’E allus seems to get things wrong, does Clarence. Can’t seem to do owt reight. ’Is Uncle Fred went barmy. It’s not reight time for lambs is January, what wi’ cold an’ all.’

‘No,’ agreed Elisabeth. ‘I don’t suppose it is.’

‘Ya see,’ continued Danny, ‘ya usually puts yer jock in wi’ yows around Bonfire Neet, then ya gets yer lambs in early April. Ya keeps ’im away at other times o’ year or if tha does purrim in t’same field ’e wears ’is winter clouts.’

‘You’ve lost me there, Danny,’ said Elisabeth.

‘Yer winter clout is a sort of triangle o’ tweed cloth what’s fastened underneath yer jock and coverin’ ’is you-know-what. That stops ’im doin’ what comes natural. If ’e’s wearin’ ’is winter clout he can’t—’

‘I think I’ve got the idea, Danny,’ interrupted Elisabeth, colouring a little. ‘Thank you for explaining that to me.’

‘No problem, miss,’ said the boy. He thought for a moment and then put his cap back on the back on his head and chuckled. ‘It’s funny though, in’t it, miss?

‘What is?’ asked Elisabeth.

‘’Ere I am, teaching t’teacher,’ he said, shaking his head.

Later that morning Elisabeth visited Forest View Special School. John had been a pupil there for just over a term. He was an easy-going, contented boy who had settled in remarkably well in this peaceful, spacious and secure environment, surrounded by beautiful rolling green countryside. The walls were in pale restful colours, the lighting was soft and there were no strident bells sounding every hour.

When John was born Elisabeth, like every mother with her newborn child, had thought her baby to be the most beautiful little miracle in the world, with his great blue eyes, soft skin and tiny fingers and toes. Simon, the proud father, had held the baby high in the air and told him he would be a son in a million. Then as the weeks passed Elisabeth had begun to feel that there was something not quite right. At first the baby had seemed a model child; he had smiled early, fed easily and slept soundly, but when he had made no effort to walk like other children of his age or to speak, and had begun increasingly to reject any physical contact, she had begun to feel more and more anxious. The doctor had reassured her that there was nothing to worry about. She could tell he thought her to be just another overanxious parent. Her husband at first had been unsympathetic when she shared her misgivings with him, and had told his wife to listen to the doctor and not to fuss, that everything would be fine. He had realised with a shock, after a visit to the specialist which Elisabeth had insisted upon, that things were not right with his son.