Trouble at the Little Village School

by Gervase Phinn

‘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.’

  ‘H . . . he’ll not be h . . . happy, Miss Sowerbutts,’ said Clarence.

  ‘I couldn’t care less whether he is happy or not, he won’t get a penny out of me.’

  ‘Well, is there anything else you want doing?’ he asked uncertainly. ‘My Uncle Fred asked me to ask you.’

  ‘Anything else!’ exclaimed Miss Sowerbutts. ‘If the cottage fell down around my ears the very last person I should ask for help is your Uncle Fred, and you can tell him that from me. Now, be on your way and take your bottle of bleach with you.’

  A moment later, as Miss Sowerbutts had settled down in an easy chair with a glass of dry sherry and the crossword, there was another ring on the doorbell. ‘For goodness’ sake,’ she said to herself. ‘You can’t have a minute’s peace and quiet.’

  On the doorstep stood Ashley Underwood, muffled up in a thick winter coat and with a woollen hat pulled down over her head. Miss Sowerbutts clearly did not recognise her.

  ‘If you are selling anything, I do not require it,’ said Miss Sowerbutts crossly, ‘and if you are canvassing for a vote I know for whom I shall vote, and if you are in the hope of converting me you are wasting your time.’

  ‘I’m the new curate at St Christopher’s,’ explained the visitor, rather taken aback by the brusque manner of the woman. ‘I just came to introduce myself.’

  ‘The new curate? Oh yes, I saw you at Mr Fish’s funeral. I didn’t recognise you.’

  ‘I’m doing the rounds of the village to get to know people,’ said Ashley. ‘I didn’t have much of a chance to speak to you after the service.’

  ‘No, I had to rush away,’ said Miss Sowerbutts. She had indeed made a quick exit, angry that she had not been invited to speak at the funeral. ‘I am not a member of your congregation, Reverend Underwood,’ Miss Sowerbutts informed her, ‘and to be quite frank I don’t agree with organised religion.’

  ‘Well, if there is anything I can do for you,’ said the new curate. ‘If I can be of any help—’

  ‘No, thank you. I am quite self-sufficient,’ she was told. ‘Anyway, I shall be moving to Clayton in the near future.’

  When the Reverend Underwood had departed, Miss Sowerbutts returned to her easy chair, her glass of dry sherry and her crossword, only, a moment later, to be disturbed again.

  There was an elderly couple on her doorstep, accompanied by a young man in a smart grey suit, highly polished shoes and designer glasses. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Sowerbutts,’ said the young man cheerily. ‘I’m Paul from the estate agents. We’ve come to view the cottage.’

  On his way back from Miss Sowe
rbutts’, Clarence was accosted by Mrs Atticus.

  ‘Will you ask that uncle of yours,’ she said sharply, ‘to come and tidy up the graveyard? How many times does he need asking?’

  ‘I’m doing it tomorrow, Mrs Atticus,’ Clarence told her.

  ‘You are doing it?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll be there first thing.’

  ‘With your arm in a sling? And pray tell me how you intend to cut and prune and dig and rake with your arm in a sling?’

  ‘Well, my Uncle Fred—’ began the boy.

  ‘Look,’ said Mrs Atticus. ‘Tell that uncle of yours to get off his backside and sort the graveyard out himself. And tell him there is a big dead branch on the oak tree that wants cutting off. And you can also tell him that should he not have it all done by the end of the week, I shall be dispensing with his services.’

  ‘I’ll tell him,’ said Clarence, thinking of what his uncle would say.

  Elisabeth called into the village shop on Saturday morning to find Mrs Sloughthwaite and Mrs O’Connor in earnest conversation.

  ‘Oh, hello, Mrs Devine,’ said the two of them in unison.

  ‘Good morning,’ replied Elisabeth. ‘Another cold day, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t mind the weather,’ said Mrs O’Connor, ‘so long as it’s dry.’

  ‘We were just looking at Mrs O’Connor’s horoscope in the Gazette,’ Mrs Sloughthwaite told her. She glanced down at the newspaper on the counter. ‘It says, “Jupiter’s friendly location heralds a period of optimism. Your relationship with someone younger will assume a greater impotence over the coming weeks—”’

  ‘Impotence?’ repeated Mrs O’Connor.

  ‘Sorry,’ said the shopkeeper, ‘importance. I’m wearing the wrong glasses.’ She continued reading. ‘“Your relationship with someone younger will assume a greater importance over the coming weeks and you should not be afraid of giving sound advice to someone you love”.’

  ‘I am afraid I take this sort of thing with a pinch of salt,’ said Elisabeth.

  ‘Come on, Mrs Devine,’ said the shopkeeper, ‘it’s only a bit of fun. Let me read your horoscope. I bet you’re a Libra.’

  Elisabeth laughed. ‘Yes, I am as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Let’s have a look,’ said Mrs Sloughthwaite, poring over the newspaper. ‘Now then, it says, “The new moon refreshes your energy and recharges your batteries. An opportunity arises which you least expect and that you should grasp with both hands. There will be a drastic change in a relationship and this will bring emotional prizes and romantic rewards. Something from your past will reappear and you will have to make a serious choice. Your planetary pattern is thoroughly supportive and—”’

  ‘I think I’ve heard quite enough, thank you, Mrs Sloughthwaite,’ said Elisabeth smiling. ‘It would be a dreadful thing if we could all see what was in store for us.’

  ‘Well, what can I get you?’ asked the shopkeeper, folding the newspaper.

  ‘I just called in for some paper tissues,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I think I’m coming down with a cold.’

  ‘There’s a terrible catching flu about at the moment, so there is,’ said Mrs O’Connor. ‘You’ll have to mention it to the doctor when you see him. He’ll give you something for it.’

  ‘Yes, I will. I’m glad to have bumped into you, Mrs O’Connor,’ said Elisabeth, not wishing to discuss Michael in the presence of Mrs Sloughthwaite. ‘I had your nephew in school earlier this week. He caused quite a stir, and not only with the children. Mrs Scrimshaw has not quite got over it yet. I never knew you had a famous footballer in the family.’

  ‘He’s my sister Peggy’s boy,’ Mrs O’Connor told her. ‘He’s a good lad is young Tommy.’

  ‘It was thoughtful of him to call into the school and speak to the children,’ said Elisabeth.

  ‘Yes, he said he’d been. I had to smile, so I did, when he said you asked him to talk to the kiddies about reading. He never picked up a book when he was at school. Football mad he was. That was the only thing that interested him. Mind you, he said if he had had a teacher like you when he was a lad he might have taken to reading a bit more.’

  ‘I think your nephew has a touch of the blarney, Mrs O’Connor,’ said Elisabeth.

  ‘I gather from Mrs O’Connor,’ said the shopkeeper, ‘that Dr Stirling hasn’t heard from Danny since he went to live with his grandmother?’

  ‘So I believe,’ said Elisabeth.

  ‘No, the doctor’s not heard a word,’ said Mrs O’Connor. ‘Young James has been pestering his father to give Danny a ring, but Dr Stirling felt it better to leave things as they are for the time being and let the lad settle in with his grandmother.’

  ‘Yes, he was telling me,’ said Elisabeth.

  ‘But I’ll tell you what, Mrs Devine,’ said Mrs O’Connor, ‘I can’t see the lad ever settling in there. He’ll never be content where he is. The boy’s lived here all his life and was so happy at the doctor’s. It was a crying shame when they made him go and live in Clayton with his grandmother. Fancy her turning up after all these years and dragging the poor wee lad away. I’ve never liked that woman – hard-faced she is and selfish as they come.’

  ‘Yes, I think many of us felt that Danny should have been allowed to stay,’ agreed Elisabeth. ‘It would be good to know how he is getting on, though. I think I might give the head teacher of Clayton Juniors a ring next week and see how Danny is doing.’

  ‘You will let us know?’ said Mrs Sloughthwaite. ‘He’s a nice lad, is Danny.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Now I must be making tracks.’

  Mrs Sloughthwaite slid a box of tissues over the counter. ‘I’ll put these on the slate,’ she said. ‘You’re off to Forest View this morning then, are you, to see your son?’

  Was there nothing this woman didn’t know? thought Elisabeth. ‘Yes, I am,’ she replied.

  ‘And how is he doing?’

  ‘He’s making steady progress. He’s very happy there. Well, I must rush. I’ve been invited for lunch up at Limebeck House after I’ve been to Forest View.’

  ‘Mixing with the aristocracy, eh?’ observed Mrs Sloughthwaite.

  ‘I think Lady Wadsworth wants to see me about school matters. She’s recently been co-opted on to the governors and I guess she wants to speak to me about the various duties and responsibilities that the role involves.’

  It was later that morning that Major Neville-Gravitas made his appearance at the village store.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said breezily. ‘Just a packet of my usual panatellas please, Mrs Sloughthwaite.’

  ‘So when is it the interviews for the head teacher’s job are taking place, major?’ the shopkeeper asked. She turned and plucked a packet of cigars from the shelf and slid them across the counter.

  ‘Oh, not for a while yet,’ he replied.

  ‘And from what I gather, Mrs Pocock and Dr Stirling won’t be on the interview panel?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Why is that then? They are governors at the school, after all.’

  ‘They are governors at present, but their children will have left Barton by the time the two schools are amalgamated next September, so they will not be eligible as parent governors of the consortium. I have been asked, of course, to be on the new governing body.’

  ‘Well, I hope you know where your loyalties lie when you come to vote,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘You will not be very popular in the village if Mrs Devine doesn’t get the job, I can tell you that for nothing.’

  ‘So you have been at great pains to tell me repeatedly, Mrs Sloughthwaite,’ replied the major, ‘and as I have pointed out to you and to everybody who has waylaid me on the high street, mine is but one vote amongst many. I shall have to judge both candidates on their merits and cannot be seen to favour one, however good she may be, prior to the interviews. It would be unfair to dismiss the other candidate without even hearing what he has to say. Having said that, I shall certainly acquaint my fellow governors on t
he interview panel with the excellent work Mrs Devine has done since she has been head teacher here at Barton. I am sure that Councillor Smout, the Chairman of Governors at Urebank, will do the same for Mr Richardson, who I believe—’

  ‘Are you going to pay for these cigars?’ interrupted Mrs Sloughthwaite, wishing she had never raised the matter.

  As the major dug into his pockets to pay for the cigars, the door to the village store was thrown open with a loud bang, shaking the glass and rattling the bell. A hooded individual, his face save for his eyes covered with a thick scarf, slammed the door shut, locked it, turned the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’ and pulled down the blind.

  ‘Hey,’ shouted Mrs Sloughthwaite, ‘what do you think you’re doing?’

  The man threw a dirty rucksack on the counter, pulled a vicious-looking knife from his pocket and took hold of the major’s arm. He held the weapon to the major’s throat.

  ‘I say!’ protested Major Neville-Gravitas.

  ‘Shut it, granddad!’ he was told. The man turned to the shopkeeper. ‘Fill it up, missis!’ he shouted. ‘Empty your till and put in any cash and t’stamps from t’post office or t’old bloke ’ere gets it.’ He held the knife closer to the major’s throat.

  ‘The post office doesn’t open until nine-thirty,’ the shopkeeper told him coolly, pressing a fat fist firmly on the top of the cash register.

  ‘Well, oppen it!’

  ‘I can’t be doing that,’ Mrs Sloughthwaite told him. She had the dull glare of a defiant child. ‘It’s against regulations, and anyway the safe’s on a time lock.’

  ‘I’m warning thee, missis,’ growled the man, ‘either tha does as I say or this old bloke gets it.’

  ‘I don’t think you’ll be so stupid as to add murder to robbery,’ she said evenly. The shopkeeper stood four-square and sturdy, her fist still pressed on the cash register.

  ‘I think it might be a good idea, Mrs Sloughthwaite,’ said the major in a frail, trembling voice, ‘if you did as he asks.’

  Mrs Sloughthwaite, stone-jawed, stood impressively behind her counter like a large and solid Eastern statue. She folded her arms over her substantial bosom. ‘I’ve already told you,’ she told the thief calmly, ‘that the post office safe is on a timer and doesn’t open until nine-thirty, so you’ll get no money or stamps from there.’