Gifthorse: The next instalment of the riveting Marnie Walker series

by Leo McNeir

  “Your point being?”

  “It gives him an unfair advantage over the other children.”

  Margaret sat back in her chair and regarded Mr Meadows.

  “I’m sure you’re not suggesting that in your professional judgment this would be a reason for discriminating against a boy.” She spoke quietly but her words had a disconcerting effect on Mr Meadows. “Is there a particular reason why you find him difficult to handle compared with the other children?”

  Mr Meadows looked down. “It’s his attitude, like you said, his manner.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “He acts bored in the classroom. He finishes his work before everyone else then takes out a book and starts reading. When I ask him what he’s doing, he just says the lessons are too easy.”

  “Perhaps he has a point. Does he disrupt the others, prevent them from getting on?”

  “Well,” Mr Meadows shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “He sets a bad example, undermines what I’m doing.”

  “What methods have you tried to help him develop?”

  Mr Meadows frowned. “Methods?”

  “Presumably you don’t leave him reading a book while the other children catch up?”

  “This morning we were doing arithmetic. He finished all the sums almost before the others had got their books open. When I asked him about this, he said he’d done that kind of thing years ago with his mother and it was easy, so I …” His voice tailed off.

  “What did you do, Mr Meadows?”

  “I told him to learn the thirteen and fourteen times tables.”

  “How long did it take him to do that?”

  “He recited them to me there and then, without hesitation. The other children looked on. They seemed to think he was …”

  “Exceptional?”

  “I was going to say weird.”

  *

  In his study on Thyrsis, Ralph put down the phone. He had left a message on voicemail thanking Graeme for his hospitality on Sunday and asking, enigmatically, if the date the ninth of April meant anything to him. Returning to his analysis of economic trends in Far Eastern markets, he suspected it would be some time before they resumed contact.

  He would be proved wrong about that before the week was out.

  *

  Margaret Giles accompanied Mr Meadows when he left her office. She needed to speak to Valerie Paxton, but the school secretary was not at her desk.

  As he was turning to leave, she said, “You know, Mr Meadows, I think we have to accept the fact that in Ben Haycroft we may have a highly gifted child in the school.”

  “Gifted? That’s not a term to use lightly.”

  “It isn’t, but it’s something I want you to think about very carefully. Ben may only be with us for a short while, but we have to do the best for him while he’s in our care.”

  “I assure you –”

  Margaret raised a hand. “I was thinking in terms of our teaching resources and methods, not you personally.”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “Perhaps it would do no harm to look at our materials and our expectations. Sometimes a village school can become too cosy. Perhaps we teach to an assumed average level of ability.”

  “We’ve always got good results, Mrs Giles. Think of our Ofsted ratings.”

  “I do, Mr Meadows, quite often. But this is a different matter. The question is, are we up to the job of teaching a gifted pupil and do we need to review our approach? It could have an impact on how we teach all the children.”

  “We have to follow the curriculum.” Even as he spoke, Mr Meadows realised how weak that sounded. “How do we single one out from the rest?”

  Mrs Giles looked him in the eyes, then turned to a blank piece of paper on the secretary’s desk. She bent forward and made a sketch in pencil: the outline of a tree. Mr Meadows looked on in bewilderment.

  “I saw this diagram at a conference on teaching the more able child a few years ago. The trunk represents the body of knowledge in any given subject that all the children need to understand. From there it’s up to us to enable pupils to pursue their studies up the boughs and branches as far as their abilities and inclinations allow them to go.”

  “You think Ben ought to have the chance to reach the top branches of the tree.”

  “That’s not quite the emphasis I would use, Mr Meadows. I would prefer to think that all the children should have that chance. How far they go is partly up to their abilities, partly up to our skills as teachers.”

  “But Ben should be able to go all the way, you think.”

  “If Ben is a gifted child, he at least should have that chance, and not find himself having to do exercises of no educational value just to keep him occupied.”

  A sound behind them made them turn. A boy was standing in the doorway.

  “What is it, Stephen?” said Mrs Giles.

  The boy looked from the head teacher to his class teacher. “Please sir, should we get changed for PE?”

  “Yes. I’ll be along straight away. Thank you, Stephen.”

  The boy spun on his heel as if to sprint off.

  “Stephen.” Mrs Giles’s voice immobilised him where he stood. “Remember to walk, not run.”

  “Yes, Mrs Giles.”

  They watched him walk quickly away. Margaret handed the tree sketch to her colleague with a meaningful nod. Both were wondering how much of their conversation Stephen had heard.

  *

  In the snow-bound wastes of the boat’s docking area, supper on Sally Ann was more comfort food. With the oil lamps glowing, Anne came aboard from checking Poppy and drew the curtains together to shut out the frosty night. Marnie had made a fish pie with salmon, smoked haddock and prawns in a creamy sauce to which she added chopped hard-boiled eggs, and topped everything off with herby mashed potato. A small dish containing grated cheese stood ready on the workbench. While Anne laid the table, Ralph opened a bottle of Australian shiraz cabernet, which he called instant sunshine.

  Marnie bent down to remove the pie from the oven, rested it on the chopping board and sprinkled a light topping of cheese onto the potato surface. Slipping the pie under the grill, she raised the glass to her lips for a first sip of wine. Ralph and Anne were not slow to follow.

  A serving of haddock and prawns had been set aside for Dolly and, when they took their seats for the meal, they were accompanied by a steady background purring from a very contented cat.

  The chef received justified praise with a smile and asked how everyone’s day had been.

  “I’ve found out something,” said Anne. “Or at least, I think I have.”

  “Does this follow on from your newspaper research?” Ralph asked.

  Anne outlined her foray to the library and the results of her enquiries. After she had finished, they ate in silence. Marnie spoke first.

  “So, something happened in early April the year before last. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “That’s what Larry Whittingstall’s saying.”

  Marnie turned to Ralph. “Any idea what that might’ve been?”

  Ralph looked thoughtful. “Nothing immediately comes to mind. It’s not as if there was a Black Monday or a Black Friday around that time.”

  “I was hoping the date might be significant to you,” said Anne. “You can’t think of any major upheaval in the business world back then?”

  Ralph shook his head. “Not especially. Business is always fluctuating. It’s a constant phenomenon. Change is the norm.”

  “It must’ve been something pretty seismic,” Marnie added.

  “You’d think so,” said Anne, “judging from Mr Whittingstall’s comment.”

  Ralph began topping up their wine glasses. “I can’t think of anything particular going on back then, at least nothing that impacted on the business community as a whole.”

  “So we’re no further advanced,” said Anne. “I was pretty sure we’d know what was at the back of all this if we could only work out when th
ings actually went wrong.”

  “Your approach was sound, Anne,” said Ralph. “A great deduction.”

  A rueful smile from Anne. “But I bagged a brace of wild geese, it seems.”

  “Don’t look at it like that. You came closer than any of us so far. It’s just …”

  “What is it, Ralph?” said Marnie.

  “I have the feeling I’m missing something here. I don’t know what it is, but I sense that whatever it might be, it’s probably staring us in the face.”

  Chapter 22

  Donovan

  Ralph was surprised to receive a phone call first thing on Tuesday morning. Graeme McKinnon rarely contacted anyone so early.

  “I must say, Ralph, I think your Marnie’s an absolute cracker!” Graeme laughed. “Frankly, when I heard you’d got involved with some woman who’d been mixed up in the murder of the local vicar, I had an entirely different impression of what she’d be like.”

  “So Marnie didn’t strike you as the vicar-murdering type, then?”

  “You know what I mean.” Another guffaw. “You’re a dark horse, Ralph, whatever the hell that means. Good luck to you.”

  “Thank you, Graeme.”

  “Now, this date you mentioned, April … ninth was it? What’s that all about?”

  Ralph explained about Anne’s researches and how she had pinned down a precise timing for Dekker’s cataclysmic lapse of judgment by tracing Larry Whittingstall’s birthday.

  “Smart work! Who is this Anne?”

  “A friend of Marnie’s, works with her when she’s not at college, studying to be an interior designer’

  “Bright girl, but that date still doesn’t ring any bells for me, I’m afraid.”

  *

  After dealing with the correspondence that morning, Margaret Giles asked Valerie Paxton to summon Mr Meadows to her office with Ben and his school work.

  “You saw his books just the other day and again yesterday.”

  “Ben’s hardly been here five minutes, Valerie. I want to discuss his progress with him directly.”

  “Who’s going to look after the class?”

  Margaret took a slow breath. “It’s Tuesday.” She smiled. “Perhaps you hadn’t noticed. I’m sure the teaching assistant will cope.”

  Margaret had spent the evening before thinking of nothing but how best to handle Ben. That he was intelligent was not in doubt. The question was, how bright was he? No. On reflection, perhaps that wasn’t the real question. The main issue was what could she do about it. In a few days, as soon as the freeze had ended and the canal was navigable, he and Willow would be gone, and she would probably never see him again.

  Margaret was plagued by a sense of duty to the boy and his mother. It was true that Willow had brought him up very well so far, but the next few years could be crucial to his development. Was an untrained mother capable of nurturing her son through the difficult phase of education on which his future life would depend? Aware that the system often failed the brightest children, Margaret feared that the chances of Willow guiding Ben towards the higher education he deserved and needed were slim.

  What would become of him? Presumably Ben and his mother did not envisage spending their whole life continuously plodding along the canals behind a horse. Thoughts of Ben’s future made Margaret feel uncomfortable. It was difficult enough meeting the needs of a gifted pupil in a settled school environment, let alone trying to plan for a nomad. Her musings were interrupted by a knock at the door.

  *

  Anne came down the wall-ladder from her attic room holding a pressed flower, a white rose. Looking up from her desk, Marnie watched her friend step down from the bottom rung and smiled.

  “How very theatrical.”

  Anne looked puzzled. “What?”

  “Seeing you holding the flower like that, you look as if you should be on a stage set, A Midsummer Night’s Dream or something.”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve been meaning to put it in my scrapbook folder. I came across it in my room the other day and just remembered it.”

  The significance was not lost on Marnie.

  “Has he been in touch?”

  “No.”

  “How long has it been?”

  “Ages.” Anne crossed to her desk and slipped the rose into a folder. “Weeks.”

  He was Donovan, a young man who had entered Anne’s life two summers earlier and played a significant part in their confrontation with extreme right-wing political factions. Half German himself, he had been orphaned when his parents were killed in a coach crash in South Africa when he was ten years old. He had been sitting on the other side of the aisle when the coach ran off the road and had emerged from the wreckage uninjured, at least physically.

  When the far right had sought to make trouble in Northamptonshire at the time of a European Parliamentary by-election, Donovan had used his skills as a photographer to oppose them and expose their propaganda as lies. Disguising himself as a neo-Nazi – with his short blonde hair and preference for black clothing he had no difficulty in looking the part – he infiltrated the far-right candidate’s inner circle and was present when the candidate was shot dead.

  No one could testify with any certainty, but Donovan took no chances and spent the intervening period eluding pursuers on both sides of the law. Fortunately for him, neither the police nor the neo-Nazis knew his identity, but he remained eternally vigilant.

  The previous year he had reappeared and been useful in making contact in Germany with the daughter of an officer of the Wehrmacht who had operated a fifth column in Britain during the second world war. Donovan’s involvement had been successful in solving a mystery that had lain hidden beneath the surface of life in Knightly St John for half a century. It had also brought Donovan and Anne close to disaster. Now, once again, Donovan had retreated into the background, returning to his house in London, making it difficult if not impossible for anyone to trace him or link him with Anne and her friends at Glebe Farm.

  Sooner or later Anne knew he would emerge from the shadows. Until then she would wait as patiently as she could, respecting Donovan’s self-imposed black-out.

  The first time Donovan had departed, following the assassination of the far-right politician, he had left a single white rose for Anne to let her know that he was still alive despite the best efforts of the neo-Nazis to track him down. It was a reminder of Hans and Sophie Scholl, brother and sister students who had led the White Rose anti-Hitler movement in Munich during the war and been executed by the Nazis.

  Anne walked to the kitchen area and switched the kettle on. Watching her across the office, Marnie wondered why she had taken the pressed white rose out of its folder at that time.

  “Are you thinking of contacting Donovan, Anne?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Can’t do any harm.”

  Anne frowned. “You never know with him what’s best to do.”

  Marnie smiled. “Our man of mystery.” She sat back in her chair. “He usually turns up when he’s ready, of course.”

  “He always used to say it was so that we weren’t put in danger on his account,” Anne observed.

  “I know, but I seriously think all that business with the far right is over now. I don’t believe anyone is keeping tabs on us in the hope that we’ll lead them to him. Are you worried about him, Anne?”

  Anne returned to her desk, picked up the rose and stared at it in her fingers. “Not as much as I used to be. I can’t go on dithering like this, can I? What would you do, Marnie?”

  “I’ve already said.”

  *

  Margaret Giles was mildly surprised when Mr Meadows entered her office alone and closed the door behind him. The thought flashed through her mind that Ben had finally decided after all to give up on the school and just leave. She put down her pen, placed the letter she had signed in the out-tray and stared at Mr Meadows without speaking.

  “Mrs Giles,” Mr Meadows began awkwardly. He cleared his throat. “You’ve already
seen Ben’s work twice in the past few days. I wondered if you really wanted to see it again.”

  “That was the upshot of my message, Mr Meadows. Ben’s work and Ben with it.”

  He looked down at his shoes. “I can’t help feeling …”

  “What can’t you help feeling?”

  “That this is, in some way, a reflection on myself as a teacher.” His words came out in a staccato jumble.

  “It’s interesting that you should take it that way, but I assure you it’s Ben’s progress that’s the focus of my attention, at the moment.”

  Mr Meadows glanced at the door. “He’s waiting outside.”

  Margaret flashed him an encouraging smile. “Then let’s bring him in, shall we?”

  Mr Meadows walked to the door. Before opening it he said quietly, “I’d like to think that if he is making good progress, it has something to do with my teaching.”

  Or despite your teaching? Margaret thought. She simply smiled again. “Let’s talk to Ben.”

  *

  With the severe weather holding up deliveries of materials to the building site, Marnie and Bob the foreman builder decided to meet in the farmhouse to see what work could be carried out. Marnie had moved to Glebe Farm two summers before and in thirty months had established the office barn as her workbase and completed the renovation of three cottages for letting. It was a respectable achievement, but she was now growing increasingly impatient to complete the main house and move in.

  She groaned as she stood up and grabbed her pen and notebook.

  “What’s up?” Anne asked.

  “Oh, you know, the usual.” There was a sigh in her voice.

  “No, I don’t know.”

  Marnie pointed towards the window. A whole section of the barn wall was of tinted glass like a shop front, giving a view across the courtyard to the cottages on the opposite side. It all looked charming in the snow.

  “Yet more delays. And work on our clients’ projects is being held up, too, which means our cash flow will suffer.”

  “It’s only a temporary blip,” said Anne. She knew the state of the company finances to the penny. “Walker and Co are more than solvent.”