Trouble at the Little Village School

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Well, if there was anything you could change what would it be?’

  ‘Dunno,’ repeated the boy.

  ‘There must be something,’ she persisted.

  ‘I’ve got to gerron wi’ mi work,’ he told her crossly, looking down at his book.

  Ms Tricklebank left the classroom with a cursory ‘Thank you’ to Miss Brakespeare.

  In the infant classroom the senior education officer sat stony-faced in the corner, listening as the teacher began to read from The Tale of Benjamin Bunny. As the children filed out of the classroom later for playtime, Ms Tricklebank tackled Miss Wilson on the choice of story.

  ‘Don’t you think Beatrix Potter’s stories are rather dated?’ she asked, as if challenging the teacher to disagree. ‘There is so much bright, interesting and perhaps more appropriate reading material available for young children these days.’

  Miss Wilson was taken aback. Then colour suffused her face. ‘If you would care to look in the reading corner,’ she said sharply, ‘you will find plenty of bright, interesting and modern books. I believe children should be exposed to a wide variety of literature, including some which might be considered dated. In my opinion Beatrix Potter is one of the finest writers for young children. If we only presented children with up-to-date material they would never come across fairy stories and fables and classics like The Wind in the Willows, Alice Through the Looking Glass and The Water Babies.’

  Ms Tricklebank held up a hand and gave a small smile. ‘I take your point, Miss Wilson,’ she said, as calm as a nun. ‘I was merely interested in your opinion.’

  After morning break, which Ms Tricklebank spent in the playground talking to the children and watched by the teachers from the staffroom window, she joined Mrs Robertshaw with the lower juniors. The children sat in a semicircle around the teacher.

  ‘Now, children,’ said Mrs Robertshaw, ‘we have with us this morning a visitor.’ All heads turned in the direction of the senior education officer, who sat by the window straight-backed and expressionless. ‘This is Ms Tricklebank and she may wish to speak to you. I am sure you will make her feel very much at home. We are very friendly in this school, aren’t we, children?’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ the class chorused.

  The senior education officer gave a small nod of the head.

  The teacher turned her attention back to her class. ‘Last week Jeremy asked me which was my very favourite story when I was a girl. Well, I am going to read it to you this morning. It’s called ‘The Selfish Giant’.’

  Oscar waved his hand in the air. ‘It’s by Oscar Wilde, miss,’ he volunteered.

  ‘Yes it is,’ agreed the teacher. ‘And—’

  ‘He’s my mother’s favourite writer,’ said Oscar. ‘I was named after him. My father says he was a very colourful character and led a very interesting life.’

  The teacher raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes, I think it could be said he was most colourful and led a very interesting life,’ she replied. ‘I wouldn’t disagree with your father about that, Oscar. Now this is the tale—’

  ‘Miss, I’ve heard this story before,’ the boy told her.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It’s very sad.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ replied the teacher.

  ‘It’s a sort of a parable, isn’t it, Mrs Robertshaw?’ he said.

  The teacher put on a forced smile. ‘Yes, I think you could say that it is.’

  ‘What’s a parable, miss?’ asked a small girl with long blonde plaits.

  ‘It’s a simple story with a—’

  ‘A moral,’ said Oscar.

  ‘What’s a moral?’ asked the girl.

  ‘Well—’ began the boy.

  ‘Oscar,’ snapped the teacher, ‘we can talk about the story later on. Before that I have to read it. Now no more interruptions please, otherwise I shall never finish the story and we won’t find out what happens.’

  ‘But I do know what happens, miss,’ said Oscar.

  ‘Well, you are going to hear what happens again,’ said the teacher somewhat brusquely. ‘Now, children,’ she continued, ‘I read a good many books when I was your age but the one story which I loved the most, the one which brings back so many happy memories of my childhood and the one which I wish I had written myself, is ‘The Selfish Giant’ by Oscar Wilde.’

  ‘He was gay, wasn’t he, miss,’ said Oscar.

  Mrs Robertshaw sighed.

  ‘What does that mean, miss?’ asked the girl with the blonde plaits.

  ‘Happy and light-hearted,’ said the teacher quickly.

  ‘No, I meant he was—’ began the boy, waving his hand in the air again.

  ‘Oscar!’ exclaimed the teacher. ‘I said no more interruptions. Now let’s get on with the story. It is about a very mean and bad-tempered giant who prevents the little children from playing in his beautiful garden.’

  The children listened intently as the teacher recounted the tale.

  ‘‘‘My own garden is my own garden”,’ she told the children, ‘“and I will not allow anyone to play in it but myself.” When spring comes the Giant’s garden remains cold and barren and a great white cloak of snow buries everything. The Giant cannot understand why the spring passes his garden by. Summer doesn’t come and neither does autumn and the garden stays perpetually cold and empty of life. One morning the Giant sees a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall the children have crept into his garden and every tree has a little child sitting in the branches amongst the blossoms. They have brought life back to his garden and the Giant’s heart melts. He creeps into the garden but when the children see him they are frightened and run away. One small boy doesn’t see the Giant, for his eyes are full of tears. The Giant steals up behind the child and gently takes his little hand in his. Many years pass and the little boy never comes back to play in the garden. Now very old and feeble, the giant longs to see his first little friend again. One day the small child returns.’

  The teacher read from the book:

  “‘Downstairs ran the Giant in great joy and out into the garden. He hastened across the grass, and came near to the child. And when he came quite close his face grew red with anger, and he said, “Who hath dared to wound thee?” For on the palms of the child’s hands were the prints of two nails, and the prints of the two nails were on the little feet.

  “Who hath dared to wound thee?” cried the Giant; “tell me, that I may take my big sword and slay him.”

  “Nay!” answered the child: “but these are the wounds of Love”.’

  At this point the teacher stopped reading and she stared at the page. Then her eyes began to fill with tears. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, sniffing, ‘I’m sorry, children. I shall have to stop for a moment.’ There was a tremble in her voice. ‘This part always makes me want to cry.’ She reached in her handbag and took out a handkerchief and blew her nose noisily. Many of the children looked moved to tears too and some began rubbing their eyes.

  Oscar came out to the front of the class, took the book from the teacher’s hand and said, ‘I’ll finish it, miss.’ And like a seasoned actor taking centre stage, the boy read the story in a clear, animated and confident voice and the class listened in rapt silence.

  ‘“Who art thou?” said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he knelt before the little child. And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, “You let me play once in your garden, today you shall come with me to my garden, which is Paradise.”

  And when the children ran in that afternoon, they found the Giant lying dead under the tree, all covered with white blossoms.’

  No one spoke when the boy had finished reading. The only noise was from the teacher snuffling into her tissue. Then the small girl with the long blonde plaits spoke. There was a tremble in her voice. ‘This Oscar Wilde doesn’t sound very gay to me, miss,’ she said.

  The last classroom Ms Tricklebank visited was Elisabeth’s. The visitor spent a few minutes looking at t
he displays on the wall and then through a selection of the children’s folders, making notes in a small black book. Elisabeth’s heart sank when, of all the pupils in the class to speak to, the senior education officer selected the two most likely to give the worst impression: Ernest Pocock and Malcolm Stubbins.

  Ernest knew all about Ms Tricklebank, for his mother had returned from the governors’ meeting and spent the entire evening describing the proceedings to the boy’s father. She had been highly critical of the new representative of the Education Department, describing her as ‘a hard-faced, sharp-tongued madam’ with ‘a droopy mouth like last month’s rhubarb’. Three words had come to her husband’s mind as he listened to the diatribe – ‘pan’, ‘kettle’ and ‘black’ – but he had said nothing.

  ‘Can you spell your name?’ Ms Tricklebank asked the boy.

  Ernest looked up scowling. ‘’Course I can,’ he replied. ‘I’m not stupid, you know.’

  The senior education officer sighed. ‘What are you called?’

  ‘Ernest Pocock.’

  The name registered with Ms Tricklebank. This would be the son of that disagreeable governor. ‘May I look at your exercise book?’ she asked.

  The boy slid the book across the table and eyed the visitor suspiciously.

  ‘And how do you think you are getting on?’ she asked, looking at a page of writing in the middle of the book, entitled ‘Bonfire Night’.

  ‘With what?’ he asked.

  ‘Your work.’

  ‘Well, you can see,’ the boy replied, tapping the page with a grubby finger. ‘I think I’m doing OK.’

  Ms Tricklebank scrutinised the writing. Then she looked up. ‘What advice would you give to someone handling dangerous fireworks?’

  ‘To be careful,’ he replied.

  She continued to read. ‘This is quite an interesting account,’ she said, ‘and I can see that there’s been a big improvement in your spelling. However, your grammar is not too good.’

  ‘She were all right when I saw her last Sunday,’ replied the boy.

  The response might have amused another visitor but Ms Tricklebank’s face remained set. ‘No, not your grandmother,’ she said, ‘your grammar – the way that sentences are put together.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re on about,’ said Ernest.

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you do,’ said Ms Tricklebank under her breath. She moved to the next table, where a surly-faced boy observed her.

  ‘What is your name?’ she asked.

  ‘Malcolm Stubbins.’

  ‘And what are you doing this morning, Malcolm?’ she asked.

  ‘Fractions.’

  ‘And how are you coping with fractions?’

  ‘Coping?’ he repeated.

  ‘Do you think that you have got to grips with them?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And if I were to give you a problem involving fractions, do you think you might try and solve it for me?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Well then, if a mother had three children but only four potatoes, how could she divide the potatoes so that each child got an equal share?’

  ‘Make ’em into chips,’ replied the boy.

  ‘Would you like to speak to any of the other children?’ Elisabeth asked the visitor when she saw Ms Tricklebank making for the door.

  ‘No thank you, Mrs Devine,’ she replied. ‘I’ve seen quite enough.’

  On her way out that lunchtime, Ms Tricklebank discovered Oscar in the small school library, poring over a large book. ‘May I ask you what you are reading?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course,’ he replied, removing his glasses and staring up at her. ‘It’s about great British military heroes. I’ve got up to Baden-Powell. He was a general in the Boer War.’

  ‘And do you know what he is connected with?’ the senior education officer asked.

  ‘A hyphen,’ replied the boy.

  Ms Tricklebank raised an eyebrow and shook her head. There was for the first time that morning an imperceptible smile on her lips. ‘Well, young man,’ she said, ‘I shall let you get on with your reading. By the way, that was a very thoughtful thing for you to do, helping your teacher out like that.’

  ‘Well, she was upset,’ replied Oscar, replacing his glasses.

  ‘Yes, I could see that,’ replied the important visitor. ‘It was most considerate of you to do what you did.’

  ‘Oh,’ replied the boy casually, ‘I often have to do it with Mrs Robertshaw.’

  Mr Richardson, headmaster of Urebank Primary School, was a dour, exceptionally thin and sallow-complexioned man, with the smile of a martyr about to be burnt at the stake. He sat at his desk, his hands clenched before him.

  Councillor Smout was seated opposite him in an easy chair. He looked like a toby jug, legs apart and his plump hands resting on his considerable paunch. The councillor was a broad individual with an exceptionally thick neck, vast florid face and small darting eyes. A former governor at the village school in Barton, his had been the only dissenting voice when the governors had voted against the proposal to close the school the previous term, and when the Education Department had rescinded its decision and the school had remained open, he had tendered his resignation. There had been questions asked at County Hall about his excessive expenses, but nothing could be proved conclusively and he continued to be the loud, bullish and blunt member of the Education Committee he had been since winning the seat. He also retained his position as Chairman of Governors at Urebank School.

  ‘I can’t see as ’ow there’ll be a problem,’ said the councillor now.

  ‘You think not,’ replied Mr Richardson, leaning forward and staring intently at his Chairman of Governors. ‘As I explained to you, I assumed that with this amalgamation of the two schools I, as the longer of the two serving heads in the county and with a proven track record, would be appointed as the new head teacher, but it now appears to be in some doubt. I had this call from the new senior education officer, a Ms Tricklebank . . .’

  ‘Yes, she’s tekken ovver from Mester Nettles,’ the councillor told him. ‘’E’s been moved to school meals. She’s quite a character, is Ms Tricklebank, an’ ’as a reputation for being summat of a troubleshooter. She’s been tipped to tek ovver as t’Director of Education from Mester Preston when ’e leaves at t’end o’ March. She’s been purrin charge of this amalgamation.’

  ‘She intends to visit the school next week to meet the staff and look around,’ Mr Richardson told him.

  ‘She’ll be sussing out t’place,’ said the councillor, ‘so you ’ad best put your stall out and mek t’right impression.’

  ‘I got the distinct feeling, when she phoned me up to make the appointment and I broached the matter of the amalgamation, that things are not that certain about the headship and that—’

  The councillor held up a fat hand as if stopping traffic. ‘Robin,’ he interrupted, ‘it’s a formality. Everything’s got to be done above board. There’s procedures what we ’ave to follow. Don’t you worry your ’ead. I’ve ’ad a word with t’Director of Education.’

  ‘And he gave you the impression I would be offered the post?’ asked Mr Richardson. There was a searching look in his eyes.

  ‘Well, no, not in so many words,’ replied the councillor, scratching his double chin. ‘What he said was that you and Mrs Devine would both be called for interview and t’likelihood is that one of you would be appointed.’

  ‘With respect, councillor,’ said Mr Richardson, ‘it doesn’t sound like a formality to me.’

  ‘Men are much better at handlin’ difficult lads than women,’ said the councillor. ‘They’ll want a man for t’job.’

  ‘I’m not so sure they will,’ murmured Mr Richardson.

  ‘Anyway, in t’long run it’s not up to Mester Preston, is it? Or Ms Tricklebank, for that matter. It’ll be up to t’newly constituated Board o’ Governors what will decide who gets t’job.’

  The headmaster of Urebank School looked down at
his hands and sighed.

  ‘Let me put mi cards on t’table ’ere, Robin. I wants you for t’job. This new governing body will be made up of some o’ them what are at Barton and some o’ them what are ’ere at Urebank.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘Let me finish,’ said Councillor Smout. ‘Now on this new governing body they will ’ave four of those from Barton-in-the-Dale: old Major Neville-Gravitas, who ’appens to be a pal of mine and is in my golf club, t’vicar, some lady of t’manor who they intend co-opting, and Councillor Cooper, who has just been appointed to replace a Mrs Bullock who was well past it and as deaf as a post. I’ve ’ad words with Councillor Cooper and he knows on what side ’is bread is buttered. T’parent governors what are at Barton now, a loud-mouthed woman called Mrs Pocock and t’local GP, won’t be illegible because their kids will ’ave left Barton for t’secondary school by t’time t’schools are amalgamated. So we won’t ’ave them to contend with.’ He counted on his fat fingers. ‘So that’s four governors from Barton. Now then, ovver ’ere at Urebank we’ll ’ave four governors an’ all and that’s not countin’ t’chairman who will ’ave t’casting vote should there be a tie in t’voting.’

  ‘I see this, councillor, but—’

  ‘’Old on! ’Old on! So, there’ll be four o’ them and five of us. I reckon I’ll be asked to be t’chairman of t’new governing body. I don’t reckon Major Neville-Gravitas will want to tek it on. ’E ’ad ’is fingers burnt when t’ Barton village school were up for closure.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And I will therefore ’ave t’castin’ vote, not that I shall need to use it because Councillor Cooper will vote with t’Urebank governors, who will all vote for you.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’

  ‘As sure as I can be. Councillor Cooper is a nice enough young chap, a bit wet behind t’ears but keen to get involved in things, and I’ve bin showin’ ’im t’ropes. I’ve ’ad a word with ’im and ’e’ll vote for you.’

  ‘He said so, did he?’

  ‘No, not in so many words, but I’m sure ’e will when push comes to shove, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Major Neville-Gravitas casts ’is lot in wi’ us an’ all.’ He tapped his fat nose. ‘He owes me a favour.’