Trouble at the Little Village School

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘Well, that does make me feel somewhat better,’ said Mr Richardson. ‘I have to say I couldn’t work with Mrs Devine. She is far too assertive and ambitious for my liking and full of her own importance.’

  ‘Yes, I find ’er far too pushy as well,’ agreed Councillor Smout. ‘But that’s by-the-by. I reckon she’ll be ’appy enough to be redeployed to another part o’ t’county when she dunt get t’job. Anyroad, from what I gather she couldn’t work wi’ you either.’ Mr Richardson gave a weak smile. ‘So, as I said, I can’t see as there’ll be a problem.’

  Mr Richardson felt satisfied that the visit of Ms Tricklebank the following week had gone well. The weekend before the senior education officer’s visitation, attractive displays had been mounted in the corridors and in the classrooms, exercise books had been marked carefully, shelves and storerooms tidied, floors polished, toilets cleaned and potted plants arranged strategically around the building. The teachers, having been impressed upon by the headmaster as to just how important this visit was, had practised their lessons and warned the pupils to be on their very best behaviour. The most articulate pupil in the school, a confident and bright-eyed girl from the juniors, had met Ms Tricklebank at the entrance, presented her with a small posy of flowers and conducted her to the headmaster’s room, giving, on the way, a rehearsed little speech in which she said how happy she was at Urebank and how well she was doing in her work.

  Mr Richardson’s only disappointment was how very little the senior education officer had said. She hadn’t commented on anything she saw or the lessons she had observed, and had been non-committal when he raised the question of the amalgamation.

  ‘Nothing has been decided yet,’ she had told him. ‘The Director of Education will, in good time, be seeing you and the head teacher at Barton-in-the-Dale.’

  Still, all in all, thought the headmaster of Urebank School, no visitor could be anything other than impressed with his school.

  Ms Tricklebank’s office was at the end of the County Hall annexe. The austere room was dominated by an old square desk the colour of dried mud, on which were neatly stacked papers, reports and booklets, a plain black telephone, an empty in tray, a full out tray and a box of sharp pencils. There had been no effort to make the room warm and comfortable, for the walls, the colour of sour cream, were devoid of pictures or prints, the floor was covered in a dark green laminate and the two chairs were of the hard wooden straight-backed variety. There wasn’t a potted plant in sight. A row of gunmetal grey filing cabinets had been placed by the small window, the view through which was of a shiny red brick wall. The place, cold and stark, resembled the sort of interrogation room that featured in old black and white war films.

  The senior education officer looked up when Councillor Smout, without knocking, walked in. ‘Mornin’, Ms Tricklebank,’ he said.

  ‘Good morning, councillor,’ she replied.

  Without being asked, her visitor plonked himself down on a small chair which creaked ominously beneath his considerable weight.

  ‘I’m in County ’All this mornin’ for this ’ere meeting about the amalgamation,’ he told her.

  ‘Yes, I was aware that the Education Committee is discussing the proposals today,’ she replied.

  ‘An’ I thought I’d pop in an’ ’ave a word wi’ you. I believe that you will be takin’ t’lead on this one, spear’eadin’ it as they say?’

  ‘That’s correct. How may I help you, councillor?’ She surveyed him unblinkingly.

  ‘Well, t’thing is, Ms Tricklebank,’ he said, leaning back and placing his hands on his paunch, ‘it strikes me that t’headship of t’new set-up should go to t’one what’s got a proven track record an’ ’as been in t’county t’longest.’

  ‘Mr Richardson,’ she said.

  ‘Not to put too fine a point on it an’ lay mi cards on t’table, aye. As you know, I’m t’Chairman o’ Governors at Urebank an’ ’ave known Robin Richardson for donkey’s years. I think ’e’s right for this post. ’E’s been an’ ead teacher a long time, runs a tight ship, keeps good order an’ knows what ’e’s about. I mean, you’ve been into t’school an’ you must ’ave been right impressed wi’ what you’ve seen. I think it’s only right an’ proper Robin Richardson should get t’job. ’E’s better suited.’

  ‘Than Mrs Devine?’ added Ms Tricklebank.

  ‘She’s a capable woman, I won’t deny that, but she’s not bin in t’county above two minutes. Anyway, Barton was in line for closure an’ ’ers was to be a temporary post. I ’ave to say that some o’ t’councillors, me included, were not best pleased when t’planned closure o’ t’school ’ad to be scrapped, largely, I may add, because of t’campaign what Mrs Devine organised. It’s not as if she’ll end up wi’out a job anyway. She’ll be redeployed an’ offered a post somewhere else.’

  ‘I see,’ said Ms Tricklebank, resting her hands on the desktop. ‘And have you spoken to the Director of Education about this?’

  ‘I ’ave mentioned it,’ the councillor replied, ‘but as you well know Mr Preston is off to pastures new at t’end o’ this term an’ won’t be ’ere when this hamalgamation takes place. You will be ’ere, an’ as I’ve said he’s left things in your ’ands to deal wi’.’

  ‘You are quite right, councillor,’ replied the senior education officer. ‘I am dealing with it, but you must understand that it is not my decision who will be appointed. The decision rests with the newly constituted governing body. I don’t even have a vote.’

  ‘I know that, Ms Tricklebank, but you ’ave influence,’ said the councillor. ‘You’ll be advisin’, tellin’ us what’s what, who you think is t’best candidate. You’ll be recommendin’ who should be offered t’post.’

  The senior education officer on this occasion kept her counsel.

  Councillor Smout smiled, sat up, then leaned over the desk. ‘Changin’ t’subject, I shouldn’t be surprised if you’ll be throwin’ your ’at in t’ring for t’Director o’ Education’s job,’ he said casually.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You’re thought very ’ighly of in t’county, Ms Tricklebank, and I ’ave to say your name ’as bin mentioned by quite a few people as Mr Preston’s possible successor.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yes. When t’post is hadvertised I think quite a lot o’ those on t’shortlisting panel will welcome an application from you.’ The smile had not left his face. ‘’Course, I shall no doubt be asked to be on t’panel an’, even if I do say so myself, I do ’ave quite a bit of influence wi’ t’other councillors.’

  The senior education officer didn’t reply.

  ‘So,’ continued Councillor Smout, rising from his chair, ‘I’m askin’ you, Ms Tricklebank, to give this matter some serious thought.’

  ‘Concerning the headship of the amalgamated schools or the director’s post?’ she asked.

  ‘Both,’ replied Councillor Smout before striding to the door. He turned. ‘I’ll wish you good day,’ he said.

  When he had gone Ms Tricklebank stood and stared out of the window at the brick wall. Then she closed her eyes briefly as if pained, and mulled over what he had said.

  Chapter 6

  Lady Helen Wadsworth sat behind a small gilt desk with gold tasselled drawers, in the library at Limebeck House. It was too ostentatious and colourful a room for a library, with its heavy burgundy velvet drapes, huge patterned Persian silk carpet, deep plum-red armchairs and inlaid tables, but then her grandfather, the second Viscount, had liked things showy. He had been a man with more money than taste. Two walls, panelled in ornate, highly polished mahogany shelving, were crammed with never-read, leather-bound books; the others were covered in a soft green patterned Chinese paper, now faded in places and showing signs of damp. Above the impressive carved marble fireplace, bearing the Wadsworth coat of arms, a huge Chippendale-style mirror caught the light from the dusty chandeliers.

  Lady Wadsworth drummed her fingers on the papers before her and looked up throug
h small gold-rimmed spectacles at an enormous portrait in oils of her grandfather. He gazed portentously back at her. A rotund man with heavy-lidded eyes and surprisingly spindly legs, he posed awkwardly, one hand on his hip, in a tight-fitting Prussian-blue jacket and white silk waistcoat, stockings and breeches, a scarlet robe draped around his shoulders. At his feet were two lazy-looking liver-and-white German pointers. The lady of the house bore an unnerving resemblance to the man in the portrait. She was a large, rather ungainly woman, too tall and stark to be considered handsome, with coarse hair the colour of brown boot polish, and she had inherited the same heavy-lidded eyes and thin legs. She rang a small brass bell on her desk and a moment later the butler arrived.

  ‘You rang, your ladyship?’ he said languidly.

  ‘I did, Watson,’ she replied. ‘I’ve been going through the accounts.’ The butler rolled his eyes. ‘I am afraid that things are not too good, not too good at all.’

  There’s an understatement if ever I heard one, thought the butler, but he merely nodded.

  ‘There is so much that needs doing,’ continued Lady Wadsworth, sighing. ‘One doesn’t know where to start.’

  The butler could have ventured to suggest that she might start with a complete overhaul of his bedroom, that cold, damp, draughty room in the east wing with the peeling wallpaper, threadbare carpet and noisy pipes, but he remained silent.

  ‘Yes,’ she sighed again, ‘so much to do.’ She peered at a sheet of paper. ‘What is the state of the lodge?’ she asked.

  ‘Derelict, your ladyship,’ he replied.

  ‘And the damp?’

  ‘Still rising, your ladyship.’

  ‘The stonework?’

  ‘Still crumbling, your ladyship .’

  ‘The paintwork?’

  ‘Still peeling, your ladyship.’

  ‘And the roof?’

  ‘Still leaking, your ladyship.’

  ‘The windows?’

  ‘Still rotting, your ladyship.’

  ‘Is there anything to feel happy about?’ she asked tetchily.

  ‘We had a particularly good crop of mushrooms from the cellar this year, your ladyship,’ he replied.

  ‘Really, Watson,’ she tut-tutted, before looking back at the papers on her desk. ‘This is not a time to be flippant. I have all these bills to pay. This one, for the plaque I commissioned to commemorate the opening of the village school library which I endowed, is outrageously expensive. I never appreciated how much it would cost.’

  ‘Well, it was, as I recall mentioning to you at the time, your ladyship,’ remarked the butler, ‘a trifle excessive, and a simpler wooden tablet might have sufficed rather than the brass.’

  ‘And I recall saying to you that if a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing properly,’ she retorted. ‘Excessive indeed! Since I have endowed the library I think it was only right and fitting to have a tasteful brass plaque put up on the wall stating as much. What I want from you, Watson, are not comments and criticisms and frivolous remarks but suggestions on how I might get out of this financial mess that I have found myself in.’

  ‘I am not an accountant, your ladyship,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps you need to consult a financial adviser.’

  ‘Fiddlesticks!’ she exclaimed. ‘They take a massive commission for telling one very little.’

  ‘I take it the idea of selling Limebeck House to the big hotel chain is not an option?’ he remarked.

  ‘Out of the question!’ snapped his mistress.

  ‘Then the only other alternative, your ladyship, is for you to sell something.’

  ‘Yes, I have thought along the same lines. But what?’

  ‘Perhaps the Stubbs painting in the drawing-room?’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t sell the Stubbs,’ she told him. ‘I’ve grown up with those horses. It would break my heart to part with it.’

  ‘The Chinese porcelain?’

  ‘No, no. That was my mother’s.’

  ‘The Chippendale chairs?’

  ‘And where do you suggest I sit?’ she retorted. ‘No, I couldn’t part with the chairs. Anyway, they are not authentic.’

  ‘Might I suggest, your ladyship, that were you to sell the Stubbs you could commission a copy. I believe there are artists who can produce a reproduction so very like the original that only an expert could tell the difference.’

  Lady Wadsworth looked up at the portrait. ‘If only you could advise me, Grandpapa,’ she said. The second Viscount Wadsworth gazed down self-importantly.

  ‘Is there anything the matter, Charles?’ asked the vicar’s wife.

  Her husband, the Reverend Atticus, surveyed his dinner: a circle of cold, insipid-looking pork edged in fat and surrounded by several undercooked bullet-like potatoes, a lump of pale watery cabbage, a mound of hard peas and a ball of crusted stuffing. It looked deeply unappetising, but he said nothing.

  ‘No, no, my dear, I was just thinking,’ he replied, giving a watery smile. He speared a potato and ate it slowly. It was, as he could have guessed, hard and tasteless.

  ‘About what?’ she enquired. A forkful of fatty meat hovered before her mouth.

  ‘I beg your pardon, my dear?’

  ‘You were thinking about what?’ she asked.

  The vicar placed his knife and fork down carefully and stroked his high forehead with pale, slender fingers.

  ‘Whether or not this is the most opportune time for me to broach a matter which has given me not a little unease over the festive season,’ he told her.

  ‘This sounds ominous,’ said his wife. She placed her own knife and fork down upon the table and folded her hands in front of her. ‘Do tell.’

  The vicar had thought long and hard about what he would say to his wife and he had put it off. Before Christmas the bishop had telephoned to enquire if he might be interested in the position of Archdeacon of Clayton. The Reverend Atticus had been offered preferment in the past, when the dean’s position had arisen, but, without discussing the matter with his wife, he had declined. A gentle-natured, contemplative and easy-going man, he was quite content as a country parson and neither desired nor sought promotion, despite his wife’s persistent pestering of him to be more assertive and ambitious. Her constant complaints about life in the village and her frequent reminders of how her sainted father, a former bishop, had risen up the ranks of the Church of England had become wearisome. So when the senior post of archdeacon had been offered the Reverend Atticus had immediately accepted, thinking his wife would be delighted that at long last he had been promoted and they could move to the city and live in the shadow of the great cathedral. However, a fly had appeared in the ointment. Soon after agreeing to the bishop’s offer and before he had told Mrs Atticus, he learned that his wife had been accepted to train as a teacher and would be based at the village school, a few hundred yards away from the rectory. He had never seen her quite so happy and, perhaps more importantly, occupied. She now seemed very content to stay where she was and would not take too kindly to having to uproot.

  ‘Well, my dear,’ said the vicar, looking up into his wife’s eyes, ‘for some time now you have been pestering me—’

  ‘Pestering!’ snapped Mrs Atticus. ‘Really, Charles, I never pester.’

  ‘Well, perhaps that is a little too strong a word to use,’ said the vicar. ‘Let me rephrase it. You have been at great pains to point out to me on many occasions how I have been, as you term it, “passed over” for preferment within the Church, that I have remained a mere country parson while others have climbed the ecclesiastical ladder leaving me, as it were, on the bottom rung.’

  ‘Really Charles, you do tend to go around the houses,’ said his wife. ‘What exactly are you trying to say?’

  ‘Many has been the time, Marcia,’ continued the vicar, ‘when you have reminded me of the fact that I have not been promoted, although deserving of it, and that your late and revered father, the former Bishop of Clayton, was an archdeacon by the time he reached thirty-five and a bishop when he w
as forty-six.’

  ‘Well, that is true,’ agreed the vicar’s wife. ‘Furthermore—’

  The vicar held up his hand. ‘My dear, if I may be allowed to continue. I have given what I am about to tell you some considerable thought. If I might proceed . . .’

  His wife raised an eyebrow and the corners of her mouth twitched. She was about to say something sharp by way of reply but held her tongue.

  The vicar pressed on with barely a pause between words. ‘As I have said, you have frequently mentioned to me how you hoped I might get preferment within the Church and become a dean or an archdeacon, and maybe a bishop like your esteemed father, how you were unhappy as a country parson’s wife, that you have no privacy and people tend to put upon your good nature. You have told me many times how you constantly get stopped by my parishioners asking about church functions and services, and that you are always the vicar’s wife and not a person in your own right.’

  ‘Well, that is very true,’ began his wife.

  ‘Furthermore,’ continued the Reverend Atticus, ‘you have told me how you hoped that one day we might live in the cathedral precinct and be at the centre of the city, meet different and interesting people and have something of a life.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Charles!’ snapped his wife, at last managing to get in a word, ‘but this is becoming wearisome. It sounds like one of your sermons. Will you stop beating about the bush and tell me exactly what is on your mind? You have been—’

  ‘Please, Marcia,’ interrupted the vicar, ‘do allow me to finish.’

  Mrs Atticus gave a great heaving sigh, pursed her lips and shook her head. The vicar could sense her irritation but was determined to complete what he wished to say.

  ‘As I have said, I know how unhappy you have been in Barton-in-the-Dale.’ He took a deep breath. ‘So, when I was offered the position of Archdeacon of Clayton—’

  His wife gasped. ‘Offered the post of archdeacon!’ she exclaimed.