Trouble at the Little Village School

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘So when I was offered the post of archdeacon by the bishop before Christmas,’ her husband continued, ‘I naturally assumed you would be delighted.’

  ‘But that was before I started to train as a teacher and—’

  ‘And so I accepted,’ the vicar told her bluntly.

  ‘You did what?’ gasped his wife.

  ‘I accepted the position,’ said the vicar. ‘I told the bishop I should be honoured to accept.’

  ‘Without discussing it with me?’

  ‘I assumed you would be very pleased.’

  ‘Well, I am not pleased, Charles. In fact, I am very displeased. It will mean moving to Clayton and I do not wish to move to Clayton. It is true that I did want you to be promoted and I did consider it was very short-sighted of the Church to pass you over for the dean’s position in favour of that sanctimonious little Dr Peacock with the wire-rimmed spectacles and the strident voice, but that was before I started going in to help out with the art in the school. I felt liberated, valued and more fulfilled, a person in my own right and not just the wife of the vicar. Then when I gained a place at St John’s College to train as a teacher and could do my teaching practice here at the village school—’

  ‘I know that, Marcia,’ said her husband quietly. He briefly closed his eyes.

  ‘I love teaching and I think I’m very good at it,’ she told him.

  ‘Of course you are, my dear,’ sighed the vicar.

  ‘I also realised,’ she continued, ‘that being a country parson is your vocation and it is something at which you are very good. You’re a people person, Charles. You would be like a fish out of water as archdeacon, dealing with all the tiresome administration and with disputes about one thing and another.’

  ‘One of the required qualities of an archdeacon, my dear, is that he needs to be a people person,’ said the vicar, ‘and I do feel—’

  ‘I remember how the pressures and tensions of being the archdeacon took their toll on my poor father,’ continued his wife, not listening. ‘He had to implement all these unpalatable diocesan policies, sort out the buildings, inspect the churches and deal with all the problems the bishop pushed his way. It was most stressful for him.’

  This was the first occasion his wife had raised the matter of her father’s pressures and tensions. She had always held him up as the very model of a senior cleric. ‘Well, I am not so sure I couldn’t make a success of it,’ her husband told her. ‘The role does involve the welfare of the clergy and as oculus episcope—’

  ‘As what?’

  ‘Being the bishop’s eye,’ explained the vicar, ‘I feel I could be very useful.’

  ‘I see,’ said his wife coldly, her lips pressed together.

  ‘So having given the matter some considerable thought,’ continued her husband, ‘I feel I could rise to the challenge and be influential as archdeacon and, without sounding arrogant, bring something positive to the position. The more I have thought about it the more it has appealed to me.’

  ‘Well, you seem to have made up your mind,’ said Mrs Atticus, ‘so there is really little more to discuss.’

  ‘Nothing precludes you from training at the college in Clayton and doing your teaching practice in a school near there,’ said the vicar patiently.

  His wife shook her head. ‘That is not a possibility. As you are well aware, I have just started at the village school on the graduate training programme. I am happy there, I get on well with the teachers and head teacher, the children know me and the school is a stone’s throw from the rectory. I really do not wish to train at some new school with colleagues I have never met.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you could stay at Barton-in-the-Dale school?’ suggested the vicar.

  ‘What, and travel out here from Clayton every day? You know how unpredictable the buses are, and what about in winter when the roads are virtually impassable?’

  ‘But next winter, my dear,’ said the Reverend Atticus, ‘your teaching practice will presumably be over.’

  ‘Yes, I am aware of that,’ replied his wife, ‘but I have every hope that I will be offered a post at the village school when I qualify. Anyway, while I am on teaching practice there I would have all the books and materials and equipment to carry. It is out of the question.’

  ‘Perhaps you could learn to drive?’ suggested her husband, ‘and we could get a small car.’

  ‘Oh, Charles, this is just too much to take in.’ Her voice quavered with emotion and tears welled in her eyes. ‘Too much,’ she repeated. ‘If you will excuse me, I shall have to have a lie-down. I can feel a migraine coming on.’

  ‘Marcia,’ said the vicar, rising from the table. ‘I little appreciated how much working at the school meant to you.’

  ‘Well, it does, Charles,’ she replied, her eyes blurred with tears. ‘It means a great deal to me.’

  ‘Then I shall speak to the bishop,’ her husband told her.

  ‘And?’ asked his wife, dabbing away her tears.

  ‘And tell him I have changed my mind,’ he replied, giving her a small resigned smile.

  Mrs Sloughthwaite, the fount of all village information and gossip, folded her dimpled arms under her substantial bosom.

  ‘It’s not often we see you in here, vicar,’ she said, watching the Reverend Atticus as he ran a long finger along the canned goods on the shelf.

  ‘No, Mrs Sloughthwaite,’ he replied, ‘and I have to say it’s not often I see you in St Christopher’s. I was delighted to see you there yesterday.’

  ‘I don’t like to miss a wedding, vicar,’ she told him. Mrs Sloughthwaite didn’t like to miss anything that occurred in Barton-in-the-Dale. She had closed the village store especially to attend.

  ‘Well, maybe I will see more of you in future.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘That must be the last of Joyce Fish’s granddaughters to get wed then?’

  ‘I believe so. She’s a pleasant young woman, is Tracey.’

  ‘She was a bit of a handful at school, by all accounts, and I reckon her new husband will have his hands full as well.’ Then she added under her breath, ‘In more ways than one.’

  The vicar gave a weak smile and turned his attention back to the tinned goods on the shelf.

  ‘I thought she looked a picture,’ remarked the shopkeeper, ‘though I did think for somebody with her build she’d have been better off not wearing such a tight-fitting gown. Mind you, all the Fish family are big-boned. I was told that they had to have a special coffin made for her great-grandmother when she passed on. Took eight men to carry her.’

  The vicar looked at the formidable bulk of the shopkeeper but said nothing.

  ‘She must have been frozen to death, the bride, in that low-cut dress, and as I said to Mrs Lloyd, the bridesmaids were blue with cold, shivering down the aisle.’

  ‘It was indeed a rather bitter day,’ said the vicar, examining a tin of stewed steak.

  ‘I’ve never seen such multicoloured outfits in all my life,’ the shopkeeper rattled on. ‘Every colour under the rainbow but not a hat in sight. They were all wearing those fornicators, or whatever they’re called.’

  ‘I believe they are called fascinators,’ corrected the vicar amiably.

  ‘Well, they don’t fascinate me – a couple of coloured feathers glued to an Alice band. I wouldn’t give them house room.’

  The vicar selected a tin of beans with pork sausages and an individual fruit pie from the shelf and placed them on the counter.

  ‘I should have thought you’ve have been sitting down to roast beef and Yorkshire pudding this Sunday lunchtime, Reverend,’ she observed, placing the items in a plastic bag.

  Chance would be a fine thing, thought the vicar. ‘No, I have been left to my own devices today.’ Marcia had informed him that morning that she had far too much preparation and lesson planning to do for the coming week and that she hadn’t the time to make him any lunch. The vicar was not unduly perturbed. Beans on toast would be a welcome change from the usual unap
petising fare his wife served up.

  ‘And how is she liking it at the village school?’ asked the shopkeeper.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Mrs Atticus. How is she getting on at the village school?’

  ‘Oh, very well indeed,’ replied the vicar. ‘She has taken to teaching like a duck to water.’

  ‘I hear from Mrs Pocock that she’s a dab hand with a paintbrush.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said the vicar. ‘How much do I owe you for the—’

  ‘She was telling me that her Ernest had come on by leaps and bounds in Mrs Atticus’s art class. Very artificated, she said he is.’

  ‘Yes, I believe so.’

  ‘She’s not a proper teacher, is she?’

  ‘Pardon?

  ‘Your wife, she’s not fully matriculated?’

  ‘No, she’s training at the school,’ the vicar told her. ‘She has been very fortunate to have a placement there. It’s a new scheme called graduate training.’

  ‘On the job.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘She’s learning how to do it on the job.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Well, I take my hat off to teachers having to cope with some of the youngsters these days. They don’t know what discipline is, some of them. And as for morals. You’ve no doubt heard about that Bianca?’

  The vicar hadn’t heard about Bianca but decided not to give the shopkeeper the prompt to relate one of her long accounts, so he just smiled.

  Mrs Sloughthwaite shook her head. ‘They leave a lot to be desired, young people these days. He can be a difficult lad, can Ernest Pocock. I hope your wife doesn’t have trouble with him.’ Mrs Sloughthwaite left the door open for the vicar to comment. She was adept at that.

  The Reverend Atticus smiled again but remained silent, knowing that any comments he might make would be relayed around the village in quick time. His cheeks were beginning to ache with the set expression.

  The shopkeeper was not one to give up. ‘So the lad’s no trouble?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ replied the vicar, ‘the young man seems biddable enough.’ He could have revealed that his wife found the sullen-faced boy a bit of a handful at times but she recognised he had a talent and, from what she had been told, he was certainly better behaved than he had been in the past, when he spent a deal of his time standing outside Miss Sowerbutts’s room. ‘How much do I owe you for the beans and the pie?’ he asked, desirous of escaping from the grilling.

  ‘The beans are on special offer,’ he was told. ‘Three tins for the price of two.’

  ‘I’ll just have the one tin, thank you,’ said the vicar. ‘One can have a surfeit of beans.’

  The door opened and a woman with a hard, stern expression on her face entered. She was wearing a shapeless grey knitted hat, matching scarf and gloves and a heavy black coat. A battered canvas shopping bag hung loosely over her arm.

  The vicar sighed inwardly. There was little chance now of him getting away to his beans on toast.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Sowerbutts,’ he said brightly.

  ‘Good morning, Reverend,’ she replied.

  ‘It’s a lovely bright day, isn’t it?’

  ‘If you like the cold,’ she replied.

  ‘I trust you had a pleasant Christmas?’ he enquired.

  ‘Not really, but I don’t wish to go into that.’

  ‘I see that your cottage is up for sale,’ remarked the cleric.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ she told him. ‘I shall be moving before Easter. There is nothing for me in the village these days and I find the many changes not to my liking, added to the fact that I find my garden far too big for me to manage.’

  The vicar was tempted to tell her that she would be missed but resisted the temptation, for he knew it would have been disingenuous of him to do so. ‘Well, I hope you will be very happy,’ he said. ‘And are you to stay in the area?’

  ‘I have bought a luxury apartment in Clayton, one of a select development – De Courcey Apartments – overlooking the river and the cathedral. It has everything I require.’

  Mrs Sloughthwaite, in common with most others in the village, disliked the former head teacher of the village school with her brusque manner, preening self-satisfaction and permanent scowl. The woman never had a good word for anybody and felt she should give everyone the full benefit of her opinions. She rarely called into the shop, and when she did she complained about the produce and bought few items. She was one person the shopkeeper would not miss if the woman took her custom elsewhere. Mrs Sloughthwaite, who had been ignored, drew herself up and folded her arms across her bosom. ‘Good morning, Miss Sowerbutts,’ she said loudly.

  Miss Sowerbutts swivelled around. ‘Oh, good morning,’ she replied curtly, before turning her attention back to the vicar. ‘Anyway, Reverend,’ she said, ‘I am glad I have met you. It will save me calling at the rectory. There is something I would like you to do for me.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the vicar unenthusiastically. He managed a small smile.

  ‘Now, my cat has gone missing, Reverend.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the vicar in his most sympathetic of voices, which he had perfected over the years when responding to a distressed parishioner.

  ‘Yes. Tabitha is a very superior breed: a Lilac Point Siamese. She has a special diet of fish and chicken. I disposed of an empty salmon tin but she must have found it in the waste bin and pushed her head into it and the silly cat got her head stuck.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ repeated the cleric.

  ‘I tried to extricate her but she ran off.’

  ‘With a salmon tin stuck on her head?’ said Mrs Sloughthwaite, making no attempt to suppress a smile.

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Sowerbutts crossly.

  ‘And what colour is your cat?’ asked the vicar.

  ‘Reverend Atticus, the colour of my cat is of no consequence. I am sure if anyone sees a cat running around the village with its head in a salmon tin they will know it is mine.’

  ‘It might have come off by now,’ ventured the shopkeeper.

  ‘Yes, well, it may have, though she had her head firmly wedged and I fear for her. She is cream in colour with a black face, glossy coat and large pricked ears, and she is very sensitive.’

  ‘So, how may I be of help?’ asked the vicar, hoping she would not suggest that he join a hunt for the animal.

  Miss Sowerbutts plucked a card from her bag. ‘I should like you to place this notice in a prominent position in the church porch. You might also put a piece in the parish magazine. Someone may have seen her.’ Then, turning to the shopkeeper, she placed a similar card on the counter. ‘And I should be obliged if you would do the same and display this in the shop window.’

  The shopkeeper left the card on the counter and stared at it for a moment. ‘And I should be obliged if you would occasionally buy something from the village store rather than doing your shopping elsewhere,’ she said.

  The woman bristled. ‘Where I do my shopping is my concern,’ she replied sharply.

  ‘And what I put in my shop window is mine,’ retorted the shopkeeper.

  Miss Sowerbutts snatched up the card and thrust it back in her bag. ‘Very well. You can be assured that I shall never patronise this shop again,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I can’t say that I shall lose any sleep over that,’ the shopkeeper told her, ‘and I should imagine you’ll find there are plenty of other places to patronise.’

  Miss Sowerbutts stiffened and fixed Mrs Sloughthwaite with a piercing stare. ‘And what do you mean by that?’

  ‘What I mean—’ Mrs Sloughthwaite began.

  ‘I am sorry to hear about your cat, Miss Sowerbutts,’ interrupted the vicar, attempting to defuse the situation. ‘I should be happy to display the card for you. I’m sure the animal will turn up.’

  ‘Well, I hope so.’ Then with an icy stare at the shopkeeper she departed, banging the door and clanking the bell behind her.

  ‘Not a happy woman,�
� sighed the vicar.

  ‘I wish she’d get a salmon tin stuck on her head,’ said Mrs Sloughthwaite, ‘and leave it there.’

  Chapter 7

  Mr Preston sat behind the large mahogany desk in his office contemplating what he would say to the visitors, the first of whom he was keeping waiting outside. He was a shrewd man, the Director of Education, clever with words and with that plausible, friendly persona able to win people over to his way of thinking. He would need all his skills, he imagined, to deal with the two head teachers he was about to see. He gazed out of the window, which gave an uninterrupted view over the busy and bustling high street, and considered how best to approach what could prove to be a tricky and troublesome business. His one consolation, he thought, would be that by the time the village schools had been reorganised into the consortiums, which had been agreed at the last meeting of the Education Committee, he would be well out of it. He had been appointed as chief executive for a city in the Midlands and would be moving to his new post at the end of term, leaving it to his successor to pick up the pieces.

  He stood, adjusted his expensive silk tie, buttoned his expensive dark blue suit, stroked his hair and walked to the door, which he opened widely and with a flourish. He put on his professional smile and gestured for his first visitor to enter.

  ‘Do come in, Mrs Devine,’ he said. He pressed Elisabeth’s hand warmly. ‘I am delighted to meet you again and I do appreciate your coming in to County Hall to see me.’ He touched the back of a small leather chair with the tips of his fingers. ‘Do please take a seat.’ He was perfectly courteous but his voice was slightly flat. ‘May I offer you a cup of tea?’

  ‘No, thank you, Mr Preston,’ Elisabeth replied, returning his smile. As he went to sit down, she looked around the room. It was plush, with its large mahogany desk, great glass-fronted bookcase full of leather-bound tomes lining one wall, and framed pictures and prints drawn and painted by the county’s children and students displayed on the other. Opposite the bookcase a huge window looked out over the main street.

  ‘I gather congratulations are in order,’ she said.

  ‘Ah, you mean my move to the Midlands,’ he replied. ‘Yes, I am looking forward to the challenge. I gather there is much to do. I shall, of course, be sorry to leave the county.’