Trouble at the Little Village School

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘I can wait,’ snarled the thief.

  ‘And by then there will be a queue of people outside wanting their pensions and you’ll have to run the gauntlet through them. Many are equipped with Zimmers, walking sticks, crutches and wheelchairs, so it won’t be easy getting past them.’

  ‘Will you shurrup!’ the man ordered. ‘Just fill t’bag from the till, will ya, and stop yer rabbitin’ on!’ From the tone of his voice the thief was getting desperate. The point of the knife hovered at the major’s neck. ‘Do it or granddad ’ere will get it!’

  ‘There’s not much in my till,’ said Mrs Sloughthwaite, remaining surprisingly unruffled. ‘I’ve only just opened, and I cashed up yesterday and took the money to the bank.’

  ‘I’m warnin’ you, missis—’ began the robber.

  ‘Perhaps it might be better not to argue with him,’ said the major weakly.

  ‘Just put t’money in t’bag an’ stop your bloody arguing!’ shouted the thief. ‘You’re doing mi ’ead in!’

  Mrs Sloughthwaite opened the cash register and, taking out a few notes and some change, put the contents in the rucksack. The thief let go of the major’s arm, stretched out, and plucked the rucksack from the counter at the same moment as the shopkeeper reached down and snatched up a large spray can of oven cleaner. She sprayed it liberally in the thief’s face. Screaming in agony, the man dropped the rucksack and the knife and began rubbing his eyes frantically. ‘You daft old bat!’ he shrieked. ‘You’ve blinded me!’

  Mrs Sloughthwaite, despite her inelegant gait, moved with impressive speed and, skirting the counter, sprayed again. ‘Stop! Stop it!’ the man yelled.

  ‘Well, just keep your mouth closed or you’ll get another dose,’ said Mrs Sloughthwaite. She turned to the major, who stood transfixed and open-mouthed, as if caught in amber. ‘Move yourself, major,’ he was ordered. ‘Get that washing line and tie him up.’

  ‘Perhaps we should seek help,’ the major replied feebly. He stretched his collar from his throat and rubbed his neck.

  ‘Major, get the washing line and wrap it around him,’ Mrs Sloughthwaite commanded him. ‘Do as I say.’

  Major Neville-Gravitas did as he was told and wrapped the washing line around the writhing figure until the man was well and truly trussed up.

  ‘Now sit,’ the shopkeeper ordered the thief, as if talking to a dog. ‘And one more peep out of you and you’ll get another eyeful of oven cleaner.’

  ‘Mi eyes,’ moaned the man, falling on his knees. ‘I can’t see. You’ve blinded me, yer vicious old hatchet.’

  ‘You should have thought of that,’ said Mrs Sloughthwaite, ‘before you tried to rob the post office.’ She pulled down the man’s hood, removed the scarf and wiped his eyes with a handkerchief which she produced from her overall pocket. ‘Brainless lump, that’s what you are.’

  The thief, a hulking big-boned lad with jug ears and bloodshot, streaming eyes, suddenly broke into fulsome sobs beyond his control. ‘It’s the first time I’ve done this,’ he howled.

  ‘Well, let’s hope it’s the last,’ said the shopkeeper.

  There was a rap at the door. ‘Are you open?’ came a strident voice from outside.

  ‘That’s Mrs Fish wanting her pension,’ she told the major. ‘Let her in, will you, while I telephone the police.’

  Chapter 17

  Lady Wadsworth did not wish to speak to Elisabeth about being the new school governor; she was far too excited and wanted to share her good fortune.

  ‘The Stubbs was indeed a fake,’ she said, ‘but Mr Markington, the fine art dealer I asked to call, discovered these two marble sculptures. They’ve been tucked away out of sight for I don’t know how long gathering dust, because, well – not to put too fine a point on it – they are rather revealing. My grandmother did not care to have two life-sized naked figures reclining in the entrance to the hall. She thought they might give the servants ideas and corrupt the young. Anyhow, these sculptures, so Mr Markington informed me, are really rather special and collectable and he reckons they could fetch serious money at auction.’

  ‘That’s wonderful news,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Now you will be able to do all the repairs that need doing.’

  ‘One hopes so,’ said Lady Wadsworth. ‘Should they fetch a good price I intend to have all the stonework on the exterior of the house repaired and then start on the refurbishment of the interior. After that it’s the garden and grounds. I shall have to employ someone to help Watson. He is getting a little long in the tooth these days and things are getting too much for him.’

  At this point the butler entered with a tray of tea, which he set down on an occasional table. ‘If that will be all, your ladyship,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, thank you Watson,’ replied his mistress.

  ‘It’s just that I have to visit the dentist in Clayton this afternoon,’ he told her, his face betraying no emotion. ‘I need to have a couple of fangs out.’

  ‘Oh dear, he heard,’ whispered Lady Wadsworth as Elisabeth tried to hide her amusement. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, now that I am in a position to do so, I need to get him some help. Of course it’s so difficult to get good staff these days, and one has to spend all the time and trouble finding someone.’

  ‘I think I may be able to help you there,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I know a man who might just suit.’

  The following day Emmet O’Malley called at Limebeck House to see Lady Wadsworth and was employed as her handyman-cum-gardener.

  ‘It must have been quite traumatic for poor Mrs Sloughthwaite,’ remarked Archdeacon Atticus, ‘confronted with an armed robber as she was.’

  It was the evening when Dr Stirling had been invited for dinner at the rectory. The four diners sat around the table having enjoyed a sumptuous meal, cooked by the new curate, of roast pheasant with onion gravy, roast potatoes done to a turn and buttered parsnips, followed by lemon tart and fresh cream.

  ‘From what I heard it was far more traumatic for the robber,’ replied his wife. ‘Evidently she covered the man in oven cleaner and trussed him up like a Christmas turkey before the police arrived.’

  ‘And I was told this was a very sleepy, uneventful place,’ said the new curate.

  ‘It usually is, Ashley,’ said the archdeacon’s wife. ‘The only event of any consequence was last century when the notorious Dean Steerum-Slack, he of the outlandish mausoleum in the churchyard which wants knocking down, burnt the original rectory to the ground with himself and his dogs inside.’

  ‘A very courageous act on her part,’ observed the archdeacon, not wishing to hear again about the tomb of his notorious predecessor. ‘Do you not think so, Dr Stirling?’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ replied the doctor. ‘A very brave act.’

  ‘Well, let us not dwell on the matter,’ said the archdeacon, ‘and thank the good Lord that no one was hurt.’

  ‘Except the armed robber,’ added Mrs Atticus, ‘who deserved everything he got.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said her husband. ‘Well, this is most pleasant, is it not?’ he continued, rubbing his long clerical hands together and keen to change the subject. ‘I have to say you have done us proud, Ashley. We have had an excellent sufficiency.’

  ‘Well, you certainly have, Charles,’ remarked his wife. ‘You’ve put on a good few pounds since Ashley arrived and took over in the kitchen.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the new curate, ‘perhaps I should prepare something less fattening in future.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not your fault,’ said Mrs Atticus. ‘The increase in the archdeacon’s waistline is entirely due to his over-indulgence in having second portions of everything.’ She looked at her husband. ‘I can never recall you having second helpings when I did the cooking.’

  The archdeacon felt it politic not to reply, but thought for a moment of the last meal his wife had placed before him: a slab of gristly dry ham, watery overcooked cabbage, charred roast potatoes and lukewarm lumpy gravy.

  Mrs Atticus turned back to Dr Stirling, who h
ad been very quiet throughout the meal. ‘It’s all about healthy eating, isn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘It is,’ he agreed.

  The archdeacon’s wife continued. ‘It’s about cutting the fat intake, getting some daily exercise, eating plenty of fruit and vegetables and watching the alcohol consumption. Is it not?’

  ‘Mrs Atticus,’ said Dr Stirling, ‘you should give talks on leading a healthy lifestyle.’

  ‘Since my wife has started training as a teacher,’ remarked the archdeacon, ‘Marcia has become very pedagogical.’

  ‘Meaning?’ asked his wife with a note of pique in her voice.

  ‘Just that you have become very practised in teaching others, my dear,’ replied the archdeacon pleasantly.

  ‘I am sure that Dr Stirling is much better qualified than I to lecture on healthy eating,’ said Mrs Atticus.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not too good as a speaker,’ confessed the doctor.

  ‘Nonsense! You are far too modest,’ said the archdeacon’s wife. ‘Perhaps you could persuade Dr Stirling to speak to the Mothers’ Union, Ashley?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the new curate, ‘I am sure they would find a talk from Dr Stirling most interesting and informative.’

  ‘I fear not,’ replied the doctor, recalling the last time he had given a talk to a group of women. It had been to the Barton-in-the-Dale Women’s Institute just before Christmas and it had not been a great success. Most of his audience had looked bored from the start, some had shuffled in their seats, and when the doctor had showed a series of slides and turned off the lights, several elderly members had fallen asleep and snored audibly throughout.

  Mrs Pocock, who had been present, had reported back to Mrs Sloughthwaite that it had not been one of the most riveting talks she had heard. ‘To be honest,’ she said, ‘the Reverend Atticus’s sermons are more interesting, and that’s saying something. Of course,’ she went on to divulge, ‘it’s always fatal to put the lights off after we’ve eaten. It puts most of us to sleep.’

  After Dr Stirling’s talk the president, Mrs Bullock, whose hearing aid had whined throughout his lecture, had asked those present to show their appreciation in the usual way. Following a ripple of applause, she continued. ‘And I would ask you ladies,’ she said, ‘to have a word with Mrs Scrimshaw, our speaker finder, if you have any suggestions for future speakers.’ Then she added, ‘Because we tend to be scraping the barrel these days.’

  ‘She’s quite a catch,’ observed the archdeacon to his wife as he poked the coals in the sitting-room fire to bring them to life.

  Dr Stirling had gone, Ashley was busy washing the dishes in the kitchen and Mrs Atticus had settled into her favourite armchair.

  ‘To whom are you referring?’ asked the archdeacon’s wife.

  ‘Why, the new curate,’ replied her husband.

  ‘She is not a trout, Charles,’ said his wife. ‘Quite a catch, indeed. What a strange expression to use.’

  The archdeacon sighed. ‘Let me then rephrase it, Marcia,’ he said wearily. ‘The Reverend Dr Underwood has proved to be most suitable.’

  ‘Now you sound as if you’re giving her a reference,’ remarked his wife. ‘Put some more coal on the fire, it’s like an igloo in here.’ The archdeacon did as he was asked and settled down into his favourite armchair.

  ‘Ashley has indeed proved to be a great asset,’ remarked Mrs Atticus eventually. ‘I really do not know what I should have done without her, what with all my school work and you shooting backwards and forwards to Clayton every day.’

  ‘I will not disagree with you there, my dear,’ concurred her husband.

  ‘One wonders why she isn’t married,’ said Mrs Atticus. ‘She’s attractive, clever, has a good sense of humour and is most personable. She would make someone a splendid wife.’

  The archdeacon remained silent. He had an idea where this was leading.

  ‘She seemed to get on very well with Dr Stirling,’ continued Mrs Atticus. ‘Don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ replied her husband.

  ‘They make quite a couple.’

  ‘Oh dear, Marcia,’ said the archdeacon, ‘I do earnestly hope that you are not setting yourself up as some sort of matchmaker. It was a trifle obvious you suggesting he speak to the Mothers’ Union.’

  ‘Nonsense, Charles! You know the man. He’s nice enough and a very good doctor, but probably very lonely. He needs a wife to take him in hand, but he’s inordinately shy. He hardly had a word to say for himself this evening. What he needs is a bit of a push.’

  Well, if there is any pushing to do, thought the archdeacon, his wife was admirably qualified in that respect.

  The following week the village was buzzing with talk of the attempted robbery. The Gazette devoted the front page to the incident, with the headline: ‘PLUCKY PAIR FOIL ARMED ROBBER’, including a photograph of Mrs Sloughthwaite holding aloft the spray can of oven cleaner and standing next to the major, who struck an appropriately military pose with the washing line draped over his arm like a lasso.

  The village store had never been busier. The salesman who sold the oven cleaner presented Mrs Sloughthwaite with a great bouquet of flowers, and a representative of the Post Office called to congratulate her on her outstanding actions. It went without saying that Mrs Sloughthwaite’s customers were royally entertained as they listened to the graphic account.

  ‘Of course I was told something like this would happen,’ she told the clutch of women gathered around her counter. ‘My horoscope said that I would be meeting a stranger who would bring trouble. I know you were very septical, Mrs Pocock, but it was written in my stars.’

  ‘It was fortunate you had the oven cleaner to hand,’ remarked Mrs Widowson.

  Mrs Sloughthwaite reached under the counter and produced a rolling-pin, which she held up like a club. ‘And if he had succeeded in getting over my counter,’ she said, ‘he’d have had a dose of this.’

  ‘It must have been a terrible ordeal,’ remarked Mrs O’Connor, ‘confronted as you were by an armed robber like that.’

  Mrs Sloughthwaite placed the rolling-pin down on the counter and folded her chubby arms across her impressive chest. ‘Well, I’ll admit it’s not something you welcome, but he was such a big useless lump of a lad and he hadn’t the first idea of how to go about a robbery.’

  ‘And poor Major Neville-Gravitas having a knife at his throat,’ said Mrs Widowson. She touched her neck and gave a small shudder.

  ‘Huh,’ scoffed Mrs Pocock, ‘knowing him he’d have talked his way out of it. Slippery as an eel in a barrel of oil, is that one.’

  Mrs Sloughthwaite smiled to herself. She resisted the temptation of telling her audience exactly how the major had reacted. She would save that for another time.

  The locals in the village pub were also treated to a blow-by-blow account of the incident, although with a rather different slant. The major, looking every inch the retired army officer in his blue blazer with brash gold buttons, pressed grey trousers, crisp white shirt and regimental tie, was giving his version of events.

  ‘So my army training stood me in very good stead,’ he told the landlord at the Blacksmith’s Arms. He had decided to return to his former drinking haunt, not wishing to get into another conversation with Councillor Smout at the golf club.

  ‘Since when did soldiers in the Catering Corps have commando training?’ asked Fred Massey from the end of the bar.

  ‘For your information, Mr Massey, I was in the Royal Engineers and I went through rigorous military training. Of course you never did National Service, did you, so you wouldn’t know anything about the armed forces.’ He turned to the landlord. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, I managed to keep calm, disarm the blighter and tie him up before the police arrived.’

  ‘Well, you deserve your whisky, major,’ said the landlord. ‘It was a mighty brave thing to have done. This one’s on the house.’

  There was a smattering of applause from one or two customers.

 
; ‘Thank you kindly,’ said the major, stroking his moustache and basking in the praise.

  ‘We don’t often get a hero in here,’ said the landlord, and then, turning to Fred, added, ‘it’s usually grumblers and grousers that I have to put up with.’

  ‘Hero? Huh,’ huffed Fred. ‘From what I heard it was old Ma Sloughthwaite who tackled the robber.’

  ‘I hardly think that a defenceless woman would be able to disarm a lunatic with a knife, wrestle him to the ground and subdue him,’ said the major.

  ‘Defenceless woman!’ he exclaimed. ‘She could take on the SAS single-handed, that one.’

  ‘Well, major,’ said the landlord, ‘you are to be congratulated. A lot of people in the village have much to thank you for.’

  ‘That’s good of you to say,’ said the major. ‘I have to admit I have been very surprised and quite overwhelmed by the goodwill messages I have received. Why, only this morning I received a card from Mrs Devine—’

  ‘Don’t mention Mrs Devine to me,’ said Fred glumly. ‘She’s not in my good books at the moment.’

  ‘And why is that?’ asked the landlord.

  ‘Because I usually do the jobs in this village,’ Fred told him.

  ‘When you can get your Clarence to get around to it,’ said the landlord under his breath.

  ‘And Mrs Devine,’ continued Fred, undeterred by the comment, ‘has got some gypsy fellow repairing her fence, fixing things for her and cutting down branches on her trees. Now Miss Sowerbutts is going elsewhere as well. She got Danny Stainthorpe to get rid of her moles and the vicar’s wife had the lad doing the churchyard until I put a stop to that. Taking bread out of my mouth, is this.’

  ‘Well, Mr Massey,’ said the major, finishing his whisky in one great gulp, ‘if you were more amiable, industrious and dependable, then people might ask you.’ And with that he bid the landlord, ‘Good day,’ and left Fred Massey seething at the end of the bar.