by Ruth Sutton
Chapter 11
After a break in the weather, just long enough for the remaining fields to be harvested, the autumn gales returned with a vengeance as October moved towards November. High wind always excited and disturbed the children, and they kept Jessie and Mr Crompton fully stretched. Rain and wind often made some of the children late for school, or not arrive at all if they had no shoes fit for the weather. This time of the year caused absences for a different reason too. November was pig-killing month in the village and as the butcher did his rounds from farm to farm children stayed at home to watch and to help. Young Percy Hewer told her how he had to stir a bucket full of pig’s blood while he was eating his supper, and Jessie had never been able to get the image out of her mind.
One afternoon, under the general heading of ‘Nature Study’ Jessie and her class were talking about the wind. They remembered the day of the shipwreck, and the strength of a wind that could drive a big ship onto the beach. Jessie had her opportunity to teach them how such winds happen. First she wanted to hear what they already knew and thought.
‘Where do you think the wind comes from?’ she asked, as the children sat in front of her. They usually worked in two rooms, one on each side of the narrow hallway, but she’d brought all the pupils together to talk. The room was crowded, but there was enough space for each child to sit reasonably comfortably, and she loved encouraging them all to speak and to listen to each other. Suggestions about the wind came thick and fast: ‘My Dad says it’s from God whistling, miss,’ offered Paul, who was small for his age, and sometimes arrived at school bruised and tearful on Mondays, making Jessie wonder what happened over the weekend.
‘It’s the trees, miss,’ said another child. ‘When the branches blow around, that makes a wind.’
‘And what makes the branches blow around, Susan?’ Jessie asked.
Gradually, patiently, asking questions that guided them rather them left them floundering, Jessie teased an explanation out of the children that they would remember as their conclusions rather than hers.
The slamming of a car door, followed by a rush of air as the front door opened, gave Jessie a few moments’ notice of an impending visitor.
‘It’s the vicar, miss,’ said Nora who was closest to the window. ‘I can see ’is big car.’ Jessie braced herself. Two long strides in the hall brought her visitor into the room. The children struggled to their feet.
‘Good afternoon, everyone,’ cried Lionel Leadbetter, his voice bouncing off the walls of the small classroom. ‘My, we’re crowded in here today Miss Whelan, are we not? Is there a problem in the other room?’
‘No, no, vicar,’ said Jessie, gesturing the children to sit down again and smiling at her employer, despite her annoyance at his habit of just bursting in. ‘We’ve been talking about the wind, and I asked Mr Crompton to bring his class in here so that we could discuss it all together.’
‘Ah, Crompton,’ said the vicar, spotting the young man standing in the corner behind him. ‘There you are. Everything alright with you? No problems at home?’
Alan Crompton looked alarmed and slightly pink.
‘The storm and so forth,’ added the vicar. ‘No damage, slates off, that kind of thing?’
‘Oh no, vicar, thank you for asking. Our cottage faces north and we missed the worst of it.’
‘Splendid,’ said Lionel, turning his attention back to Jessie. ‘You’re busy now, Miss Whelan, but I would like to talk to you on a matter of some urgency. Maybe next Wednesday?’
‘I’ll be here,’ she said. ‘Will it take long, do you think?’
‘Do you have to be somewhere else?’ he said, as if she had refused to meet with him altogether. She said nothing. ‘I’m asking Andrew to come, too,’ said Lionel. ‘We may need his expertise.’
Jessie was curious now but determined not to appear so. ‘I’ll be here,’ she said again, trying not to provoke any more discussion in front of the children who were listening to this exchange like spectators at a tennis match, turning their heads from one speaker to another. Jessie was reminded of the hens in the yard of her previous school, who flapped up to sit on the window sill of her room, following the sound, turning their heads in the same way from one side to another as she raised her voice slightly to reprimand a child. She smiled at the memory as she picked her away between the children to usher the vicar back to the front door. He managed to pat a few heads on his way out. Jessie held the door and watched as he climbed into the gleaming blue Armstrong Siddeley parked confidently in the middle of the road outside. He waved as the car purred into life and swept away up the hill. Jessie closed the door and returned to her crowded classroom. ‘He means well,’ she told herself, not for the first time.
Later in the day, as the children played in the field behind the schoolhouse, Jessie sat on the bench watching them and wondered about the meeting. She thought she was quite well attuned to local affairs, but she really had no idea what Lionel might want to talk about. Agnes didn’t miss much and would surely have told her if anything was brewing. They’d seen something in the Whitehaven News about women teachers threatened with the sack: some school boards were unhappy about employing women teachers when there were so many men out of work. Surely someone would have hinted if she were going to be faced with that. The teachers’ union had won re-instatement for two women further up the coast. Maybe she should join the union. If it wasn’t that, what else could it be? There’d been no complaints about her work, as far as she knew. The school was running well; although she had some doubts about Alan Crompton and the behaviour of some of his pupils, it was nothing that would cause the vicar any concern. And he was going to bring Andrew with him, which was even more of a mystery.
In the few days since the harvest supper Jessie had managed to convince herself that Andrew thought of her only as his mother’s friend, and his father’s employee, an older woman with whom he could flirt in the most chivalrous of ways, meaning nothing. She liked him. She found him attractive, handsome even. His singing had charmed her. That was all, she was sure now. But still she anticipated their next meeting with a kind of trepidation she hadn’t felt for twenty years. Maybe it was ‘the change’, she said to herself. Hormones all over the place, like an adolescent girl. Silly.
The following Wednesday, the day appointed for Lionel’s meeting, Jessie and Alan made themselves a cup of tea after the children had gone home, and waited for their visitors. Alan didn’t want to be there, but Jessie had persuaded him to stay. She felt she might need someone on her side. Just after four, the front door of the schoolhouse opened again, and Lionel and Andrew Leadbetter made the small classroom look even smaller. Alan had brought in some full-sized chairs from the village hall, but even so the four of them struggled to find space round Jessie’s desk in the corner of her classroom. In the end they gave up, moved the children’s chairs to one side and sat awkwardly facing each other.
Andrew sat next to Jessie, unable to see her properly unless he turned around. ‘You know Miss Whelan I’m sure, Andrew,’ Lionel had said as they sat down.
‘Of course,’ said Andrew, ‘How are you, Miss Whelan?’
‘I’m well, thank you, Mr Leadbetter,’ she replied, thankful that he understood the protocols of formal address while she was at work. She felt nervous. She wanted to believe she was nervous about Lionel and the meeting, but she knew this wasn’t true. It was Andrew. He was the problem. She could not look at him.
Lionel sat up in his chair as though bringing the meeting to order, leaned forward and spoke in an uncharacteristically quiet tone. ‘Now I haven’t mentioned this yet to anyone else,’ he said, looking around him as he spoke as if expecting eavesdroppers, ‘so we must keep this between ourselves.’ He paused for dramatic effect. ‘I want to build a new school. This one is far too small and the village deserves something better. I’ve been thinking about it a long time, and seeing you all crowded in here last week convinced me that we have to do this.’ He sat back and crossed one leg over the
other, as if the matter was already a certainty.
Andrew looked aghast at his father. ‘A new school? I thought you wanted me here to talk about some of the repairs. How could we build a new school? Where’d the money come from?’
‘Ah,’ said his father, leaning forward again. ‘That’s where you come in, Andrew. Now you’re in charge at the quarry we can get all the stone we need, and there are plenty of people in this village with the skills to do the job. Think how they built the cathedrals in times past. Good men with the right skills and fierce commitment. That’s what we need. Who wouldn’t be proud to have our children properly housed in a school built for the purpose, not crowded together, falling over each other?’
Jessie looked down, feeling Andrew’s growing annoyance.
‘I can’t just give you the stone,’ said Andrew finally. ‘The quarry is a business, not a charity. We work hard for that stone, to sell it, not give it away. The church would need to buy it at a proper rate.’
‘Don’t you worry about that,’ said his father, with a wave of his hand, batting away Andrew’s objections like a troublesome fly. ‘We know who owns the quarry, and we’re all in this together. If Skeffington gives his word, which he will, the deal is done. All we have to do then is decide how big the school should be, how much stone we need, and when to start.’
A brief silence fell. Jessie glanced at Andrew and saw him bite his lip. She stirred in her seat, searching for something to say, to lower the tension if she could.
‘Of course we would all be happy to have a new school for our children. They deserve the best we can offer them. But I have to share Mr Leadbetter’s concern about the practicalities. Parents of our pupils would be willing to help, I’m sure, but there are many people in Newton who don’t have children at the school, and who might not want to be involved.’
‘Come now, Miss Whelan,’ said Lionel, ‘this is about a Christian community, not about who will benefit directly. This will be a school for our grandchildren, for the children who are the future of this village, whoever their parents happen to be. I would expect you to understand that, you of all people.’
Jessie did not respond. She heard Andrew draw a breath between his teeth and wondered how long it would be before his anger with his father boiled over. She wanted to touch him, to calm him, but she did not dare. She dropped her head for an instant, and then raised it again to speak, with the same deliberation as before.
‘I hope I understand something about our neighbours and friends, Mr Leadbetter, although not as much as you, of course. There is no urgency, it seems to me. We can manage very well for now in this building, and there is time to make a detailed plan, and then talk to the board and the parish council about the proposal.’ She hesitated for a moment before deciding to say more. ‘I’m sure no one in Newton would like to think that they’d been pushed into something before they’ve had enough time to consider it.’
Lionel Leadbetter leaned forward again, and his voice was louder now. ‘And I’m sure you’re not implying that I could push anyone around, in this village or anywhere else. I’ve worked for this community for twenty years, long and hard. Who got running water piped into this very building? Who will get electricity into this village? I know what’s needed, Miss Whelan, and we need a bigger school. I’ve got a few years left before I can rest, but I’m not finished yet.’
The old man leaned back again as if the last word had been spoken, but Andrew would not be intimidated.
‘Just a minute,’ he said, in a tone more measured than Jessie had feared. ‘Miss Whelan has to think of the children, the children who are in school now, as well as those in the future. No one doubts your ability to get things done, but you’ve just sprung this idea on us and we have to think about it.’
‘We?’ shouted his father, pushing his chair further back. ‘Who are “we” may I ask? I’ve brought you here to sort out the details, not to gang up against me.’
Jessie raised her hand, aware that Andrew was getting up from his chair in anger. ‘Of course, no one is ganging up, vicar. We all appreciate your wonderful work in the village. It’s just such a big idea – to build a new school – and all of us are trying to consider the details, that’s why we’re hesitating.’
Lionel looked hard at her, then at Andrew who had now turned towards Jessie, and then at Alan Crompton, who lowered his eyes under the force of the stare. He pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. ‘Very well,’ he said quietly. ‘You will have to “consider”, while the rest of us do something more productive. I have arranged to go up to the Hall this evening to see Skeffington. I had hoped that you would come with me, to support my plan and help with the first decisions, but I can see that you are not ready for that yet. I shall go alone. In the meantime, I think it would be wise for both of you to remember who pays your wages.’ He stepped back, moved the chair to give himself space and left the room, leaving door open behind him.
For a moment the only sound in the room was the tiny puff of Alan’s breath, breath he’d been holding during the last exchanges. ‘Well,’ he said brightly. ‘That was interesting, wasn’t it? I’m already late, so I’m off, if that’s alright. Jessie?’
‘Yes, of course Alan, you go. We’ll talk more tomorrow. Good night.’
Jessie and Andrew remained sitting where they had been, saying nothing more. Jessie began to look around her, thinking about the things she needed to take home with her, but Andrew remained in the same position, and she did not get up. The room seemed oppressively quiet. After a few moments, and still not looking at her, Andrew leaned back on the wooden chair and rubbed his large hands down his face. Then he put his hands back on his knees and sat still with his eyes closed. Jessie didn’t know what to say to him. She got up, put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. She could feel the bones and muscle under the rough tweed of his jacket. Andrew said nothing, and his eyes remained closed. Jessie turned away, towards her desk in the corner of the room.
‘Well, we may have to brace ourselves, Andrew,’ she said, taking a big canvas bag from her desk. ‘Once your father gets hold of an idea, things tend to happen.’
Andrew coughed and struggled to his feet, catching the back of his leg on the chair as he did so. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, bending to pick up the chair.
‘Oh, don’t worry about the chairs,’ said Jessie. ‘We have to use the village hall chairs for visitors, and they’re on their last legs …’ She laughed at her own pun. Andrew stood with his hand on the door handle, watching her as she placed some books into her bag. ‘I’ll be off, then,’ he said. Jessie noticed that he seemed upset.
‘All we can do for now is wait and see,’ she said, following him out of the room into the narrow hallway which led to the front door. ‘If your father gets the go-ahead from Sir John, we’ll both have to jump to it.’ She looked up at him as she opened the door. ‘Don’t worry about it. We’ll work something out. We can always have a chat at my house if we need to work out a plan of action.’
He said nothing more, looking at her as he stepped out into the lane. Jessie closed the door behind him. Each of them stood for a moment, the door between them, before they turned away. Jessie didn’t see the young man feel his shoulder. Nor did she know how she occupied his thoughts that night.
On Friday evening, two days after the meeting with the vicar, Jessie heard a knock on the back door of the schoolhouse. She opened it and saw Andrew standing there.
‘I’ve come for the chat you suggested the other day,’ he said, a line he had rehearsed before leaving home. Confusion swept over her. She stepped back to let him in, anxious to shut the door before the rain blew into the house, and before anyone saw him.
‘Have a seat,’ she said, pulling a chair from the table for him to sit down. ‘Looks pretty bad out there.’ Andrew watched as she filled the kettle and set it on the range. Jessie began to chat brightly about what she guessed he was there to talk about, the school, the space they needed, the reactions of the parents. His continu
ed silence disconcerted her. Did he know what she’d been thinking? Was it too obvious that she liked him? She couldn’t tell him, or even hint at it. What if he laughed at her, or was repulsed? She turned away from him.
‘I need to talk to you, Jessie,’ he said. She picked up something different in his tone, but she was unaware of the expression on his face.
‘Shall I get the notes I’ve been making?’ She hesitated now, seeing him looking at her.
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Nothing like that.’
She put the pot and cups on the table and retreated into the pantry to find some biscuits and give herself time to think. There was a slight sound behind her, and she felt his hands on her shoulders. She didn’t move.
‘Jessie,’ he said her name, so softly, and she turned towards him. He was very close to her, his face in darkness.
‘Andrew … but, no –’ she said, stepping back, away from him.
He looked down, but stayed where he was, very close to her.
‘You must know,’ he said.
‘Know what?’
‘How I feel about you.’
‘How … no, I don’t know.’ She was struggling to deal with the closeness.
‘I thought it must be obvious.’
‘I like you Andrew, and I thought, I think, you like me …’
He smiled at her. ‘It’s more than that.’
‘But I’m old, old enough –’
‘You’re not old, you’re beautiful.’
‘Oh no,’ she said, looking down, confused, wordless. She could hear her heart.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he said again, taking a step towards her.
She did not move away, and looked up into his face.
‘You’ve noticed me too,’ he said, ‘I know you have. You touched me, the other day. You squeezed my shoulder. I knew then.’