Also by Gervase Phinn
Out of the Woods But Not Over the Hill
THE DALES SERIES
The Other Side of the Dale
Over Hill and Dale
Head Over Heels in the Dales
Up and Down in the Dales
The Heart of the Dales
A Wayne in a Manger
Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Stars
A Load of Old Tripe
POETRY
It Takes One to Know One
The Day Our Teacher Went Batty
Family Phantoms
Don’t Tell the Teacher
The Little Village School
GERVASE PHINN
First published in Great Britain in 2011 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK Company
Copyright © Gervase Phinn 2011
The right of Gervase Phinn to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-848-94940-9
Typeset in Plantin Light by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh
Hodder & Stoughton policy is to use papers that are natural, renewable and recyclable products and made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
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Contents
Also by Gervase Phinn
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
About the Author
Out of the Woods but not Over the Hill
I should like to record the debt of gratitude that I owe to my editors, Carolyn Mays and Rowena Webb, and to my literary agent Luigi Bonomi, for their patient good humour, invaluable encouragement and wise advice.
1
‘She was wearing red shoes!’ gasped the caretaker, incomprehension creeping across his face.
‘With silver heels,’ added the school secretary, nodding and pursing her lips.
‘With silver heels?’ the caretaker repeated.
‘That’s what I said, Mr Gribbon. She was wearing red shoes with silver heels and black lacy stockings. Not the sort of outfit I would have thought suitable for someone coming for an interview for a head teacher’s position.’
The caretaker shook his head like a tetchy little dog. ‘Well, I never did. Red shoes with silver heels. You wouldn’t credit it.’
It was the end of the school day, and the caretaker and Mrs Scrimshaw, the school secretary, were in the small office discussing the day’s events. A new head teacher had just been appointed to Barton-in-the-Dale Parochial Primary School, a somewhat controversial appointment by all accounts.
The school secretary sat stiffly at her desk; the caretaker leant idly against the doorframe. Mrs Scrimshaw looked up at the clock on the wall and made a small clucking noise with her tongue. She was obliged to wait until all the staff and pupils were off the premises, and there was still a child in the entrance waiting to be collected, so she couldn’t get off home. For her to remain in her office after school each afternoon was something Miss Sowerbutts, the head teacher, had insisted upon. ‘In case there is an urgent telephone call from a parent or the Education Office,’ she had told her. Mrs Scrimshaw couldn’t for the life of her understand why it was the head teacher who was out of the door a minute after the bell sounded for the end of school, and herself who had to remain, but she didn’t say anything. No one argued with Miss Sowerbutts.
Mrs Scrimshaw, having locked the desk drawers and tidied the pens for a third time, covered the typewriter and put on her coat, glancing up at the clock again. It was a ritual performed each day but it was particularly galling to have to stay that Friday afternoon because she had a Women’s Institute meeting that evening. Dr Hawksley-Pratt was to give a talk on ‘Facing and Surviving a Life Threatening Disease’, a presentation guaranteed to attract a large audience, and she had been asked to be in the chair.
In the thirty minutes after school the caretaker frequently called in to see her, usually to grumble about something or other. Mr Gribbon was a tall, gaunt man with a hard beak of a nose and the glassy protuberant eyes of a large fish. He was brusque and direct in his manner. The school secretary sometimes considered telling the caretaker, whom she found garrulous and self-opinionated and who spent most of his life complaining, to stop his moaning and get on with his work, but she bit her tongue. It was important, she thought, to keep on the right side of him. Caretakers could be extremely useful at times, but they could also be very difficult if crossed.
Mrs Scrimshaw peered over the top of her unfashionable horn-rimmed spectacles, brushed a strand of mouse-coloured hair from her forehead and nodded again. ‘And she had earrings the size of onion rings and bright blonde hair,’ she disclosed.
The caretaker sucked in his breath and blew out noisily. ‘I’ve never heard the like,’ he said, jangling the bunch of keys in his overall pocket.
‘Well, you can imagine the reaction of Miss Sowerbutts when she caught sight of her sitting with the others in the corridor outside her room, red shoes, short skirt, black stockings and all,’ continued the school secretary, smiling at the memory. ‘She had a face like a smacked bottom, as my mother was wont to say.’
‘And you say she got the job then, Mrs Scrimshaw, the woman with the red shoes?’
‘Yes, she did,’ the school secretary told him, before adding, ‘Of course, there wasn’t much to choose from. Between you and me there were very few applicants for the post.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, you would expect that, wouldn’t you,’ the secretary said, in a confidential tone of voice. ‘There were only six applications for the job and two of those were completely unsuitable. I mean, it’s difficult these days getting good applicants for primary headships in small village schools.’
‘And that dreadful report from them poker-faced school inspectors must have put a lot of people off,’ observed the caretaker. ‘I mean, they’d not be queuing up to come to a place which got that sort of write-up and where parents are sending their kids to other schools.’
‘Actually, the report never got a mention in the information I sent out to the candidates,’ divulged the secretary. ‘I don’t think any of the candidates was aware of it. I suppose the governors wanted to keep it under wraps.’
‘Aye, well, the new head teacher will find out soon enough,’ said the caretaker grimly, ‘and she’ll have a job on her hands and no mistake.’
‘Yes, she will,’ agreed Mrs Scrims
haw, glancing up at the clock again.
The caretaker sniffed noisily. ‘’Course, I came out of the report not too badly. They said the premises were clean and well kept, as I recall, despite the fact it’s an old building in need of a lot of work. Something I’ve been saying for years, not that Miss Sowerbutts ever listens.’
Mrs Scrimshaw gave a slight smile. She had read the school inspectors’ report in some detail, and the section on the state of the premises had hardly been as positive as the caretaker maintained – it had contained a number of issues that needed addressing. There was the question of the cockroaches, for a start. The insects crawled out from under the skirting-boards in the night. Many times she had arrived in the morning to discover several of the large black beetles wriggling on their backs in their death throes after the caretaker had sprinkled that dreadful-smelling white powder down the corridor. She had asked him more times than she could remember not to lure the revolting insects out from under the skirting-boards. They weren’t doing any harm, so why didn’t he just leave them be? She didn’t say anything about that or the other recommendations of the inspectors, but turned her attention back to the appointment of the new head teacher.
‘Of course, it wasn’t a unanimous decision, you know,’ she revealed.
‘No?’
The school secretary lowered her voice conspiratorially. ‘Evidently the governors were split. Dr Stirling wanted to re-advertise the position, from what I gathered, but the major, with the help of that objectionable councillor with the fat face and the red nose, the officious man from the Education Office and the vicar, pushed it through. He said the school needed a new head teacher straight away to get things moving.’
The caretaker gave a dismissive grunt.
‘They had the interviews in Miss Sowerbutts’ office and, of course, me being next door, I couldn’t help but overhear what was going on,’ said the school secretary airily. ‘There were raised voices on a number of occasions.’
‘Really?’
‘Dr Stirling got quite hot under the collar, which is not like him at all,’ confided the school secretary. ‘He’s usually such a placid, easy-going sort of man.’
‘I must see him about my back,’ said the caretaker, stretching theatrically. ‘It’s playing me up again. It’s not been right since I moved them bins.’
When had his back ever been right, thought the school secretary. He’d been complaining about his wretched back ever since he’d started at the school a good ten years ago. She said nothing, but put on a sympathetic expression.
‘Well, they couldn’t have picked anyone more different from the present head teacher,’ observed the caretaker. ‘And that’s the honest truth.’
The school secretary thought for a moment of the present incumbent, Miss Hilda Sowerbutts, dressed in her thick pleated tweed skirt, crisp white blouse buttoned up to her thin neck, heavy tan brogues and that silly knitted hat like a tea-cosy perched on top of her head. She allowed herself another small smile. She tried to imagine her wearing red shoes, a short skirt and black lacy stockings. Yes, the new head teacher was certainly very different.
‘So what did she have to say?’ asked the caretaker, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
‘I beg your pardon?’ asked the secretary, returning from her reverie.
‘Miss Sowerbutts. What did she have to say about the appointment?’
‘Nothing,’ Mrs Scrimshaw told him. She brushed another loose strand of hair away from her face. ‘I was taking the candidates a cup of coffee before the interviews when Miss Sowerbutts walks down the corridor, stares at them for a moment, gives this dry little smile, nods and then leaves the school, telling me she’ll be back when the interviews are over. I mean, it was embarrassing. She never spoke to them. I didn’t know where to look. When she got back to the school after the governors had appointed, she never said a word, not one word. Never asked who got the job or anything. Went into her office, closed the door and carried on as normal. Then she was out of the door when the bell sounded for end of school as if her life depended upon it. Of course, she was not best pleased that the governors hadn’t seen fit to involve her in the appointment, that’s why she was in such a black mood. They never showed her the shortlist, you know, although I have an idea she went into my drawer and looked through the applications, and they didn’t ask her opinion or invite her to sit in on the interviews.’
‘That must have stuck in her craw,’ remarked the caretaker, sniffing again.
‘Oh, it did,’ said the school secretary. ‘She went off alarmingly the week before when she met the Chairman of Governors. She gave the major a piece of her mind and no mistake. I couldn’t help but overhear because they raised their voices in the corridor. Well, she raised her voice. He didn’t get so much as a word in.’
Mrs Scrimshaw had left the office door slightly ajar at the time of the major’s visit, the better to hear the heated exchange. The chairman of the governing body, Major C. J. Neville-Gravitas, late of the Royal Engineers, had informed Miss Sowerbutts that it was not really appropriate for her to take part in the appointment process, and this had not been received very well at all. The head teacher had argued with him, of course, but to no avail. He had explained that, although he personally had no objection to her sitting in on the interviews, Mr Nettles, the representative of the Local Education Authority, had raised an objection and was adamant that she should not attend.
Miss Sowerbutts had responded angrily when it had been suggested that on the day of the interviews she might welcome the candidates, show them around the school and keep them company during the morning.
‘I think not,’ she had told him icily.
‘Well, what did she expect?’ said the caretaker now. ‘I mean, after that damning report from the school inspectors, she’d be the very last person to take any advice from. I mean, let’s face it, Mrs Scrimshaw, she’s well past her sell-by date, is Miss Sowerbutts. She was teaching in this school when I was a lad. She should have retired years ago. School’s been going from bad to worse; parents complaining, children leaving to go to other schools like nobody’s business, behaviour not all it should be and poor standards to boot, and her walking round the school with a face like a death mask.’
‘You don’t need to tell me, Mr Gribbon,’ said the secretary. ‘I’ve read the school inspectors’ report as well.’
Yes, thought the caretaker, and she hadn’t come out of it with flying colours either. Hadn’t the inspectors said something about more efficiency, better record-keeping and greater attention to detail in the school office?
‘So how did Miss Brakespeare take it then?’ he asked. ‘I suppose as the deputy head teacher she thought she was in with a chance of getting the job.’
‘I think she found it a bit of a relief not to have got it, to be honest,’ replied the school secretary. ‘I’m pretty certain Miss Sowerbutts pushed her into applying. I don’t wish to be unkind, but I guess they only interviewed Miss Brakespeare to fill up the numbers, and she would have been very upset had she not been called for interview having applied.’
‘I don’t want to be unkind, either,’ said the caretaker, jangling the heavy bunch of keys in his pocket, ‘but, let’s face it, she hadn’t a cat in hell’s chance of getting the job. I mean, she’s a nice enough woman, but if truth be told, she’s another one who’s well past her sell-by date and to be fair she’d not be up to it. I mean, I’ve been into some of her assemblies and the woman could bore for Britain. What was it that school inspector described her as? Dull and dreary, wasn’t it?’
‘No, no, he didn’t single anyone out,’ the school secretary told him, ‘although it did say in the report that some of the teaching in the juniors lacked vitality and could be more interesting and challenging. I think he might have been referring to Miss Brakespeare, because the other two teachers seemed to have got good enough reports by all accounts. No, the inspector’s target was Miss Sowerbutts rather than her. He said the senior management was “lacklu
stre” and the school “moribund” and there were “serious weaknesses which needed addressing urgently”.’
‘I’d like to have been a fly on the wall when Miss Sowerbutts heard that little lot,’ chuckled the caretaker, jangling his keys again. ‘I can just picture her face. When she puts on that expression of hers, she could freeze soup in pans.’
‘Anyway,’ continued the school secretary, ‘I think Miss Brakespeare was relieved not to have got the job, if truth be told. As you know, I’m not a one for gossip, but I don’t think she or anybody else really thought she was in with a chance. I guess she didn’t want it anyway, what with having that disabled mother to look after and her near retirement. She came into the office after the interviews in quite a jolly mood. As I said, if you want my opinion she only applied for the post because Miss Sowerbutts pushed her into it. You know how forceful she can be.’
‘Tell me about it,’ muttered the caretaker. ‘So did you meet her then, the new head teacher?’
‘Yes,’ replied the school secretary. ‘She seemed very pleasant and chatty and certainly had more about her than the other candidates. She popped into the office after the interview to say she looked forward to working with me and would be calling in to the school next week to look around and meet people. She was a bit put out when she said she’d like to have a word with Miss Sowerbutts before she left and I told her that the head teacher wasn’t on the premises.’ A self-satisfied look came across Mrs Scrimshaw’s face. ‘Actually, she said that in her opinion the school secretary is a vital cog in the educational machine and, as I said, she looked forward to working with me.’
‘Did she mention anything about the school, then?’ asked the caretaker.
Mrs Scrimshaw knew exactly what he meant, fishing for compliments, but feigned ignorance. ‘In what way?’ she asked.
‘Well, the state of the building. Did she mention anything about that?’
‘No, she didn’t,’ replied the school secretary pointedly.
‘I spent most of the weekend giving the place a good onceover,’ moaned the caretaker petulantly, ‘so that it would look nice and clean for the interviews. I would have thought some mention would have been made of that. I spend half my life getting a sheen on that parquet floor and sorting out the problem with the cockroach infestation, and what credit do I get?’
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