The Little Village School

by Gervase Phinn

  There was an awkward silence. Elisabeth glanced in the direction of the vicar’s wife. There was something dark and troubling in those green eyes.

  ‘What a delightful picture,’ Elisabeth commented, placing her coffee cup down on the small table next to her and rising to look more closely at the watercolour above the mantelpiece.

  ‘You think so?’ asked the vicar’s wife pointedly.

  ‘Oh yes,’ replied her visitor, ‘it’s superbly painted. The artist has captured so well the atmosphere of autumn. The mist and colours of the leaves are quite superb and the detail on the church is remarkable.’

  ‘You know something about art then, do you, Mrs Devine?’ asked the vicar’s wife.

  ‘Not a great deal,’ Elisabeth replied, ‘but I can recognise a good painting when I see it, and this is exceptionally well painted.’

  ‘I did it,’ announced Marcia Atticus, deciding that she quite liked the new head teacher at Barton-in-the-Dale.

  Mrs Sloughthwaite’s menacing bosom and large hips carried as much weight in the village as she did structurally. She knew everything there was to know in Barton-in-the-Dale and was a most efficient conduit of gossip and information. She saw the letters that were posted, the parcels received and the telegrams sent. She knew who was on benefits, how much savings were in a person’s post office book and who hadn’t bought a television licence. She wanted to know every last detail of a piece of gossip or about a person’s life; she was the eyes and ears of Barton-in-the-Dale.

  Villagers wishing to know the news only had to call in at the shop to receive a detailed and colourful account of the latest happening or hear a fascinating fact about someone’s personal life. She knew that the major had an eye for the ladies, that the vicar’s wife was not a happy woman and that her poor henpecked husband had to put up with her moods and sharp tongue. She knew that Dr Stirling had not been the same since the death of his wife in a riding accident two years before and that his son, a strange, serious little boy who seldom spoke and never laughed, was a real worry to his father. She knew that Mrs Pocock’s husband was a bit too fond of his drink and that Mrs Stubbin’s son, that disagreeable, badly-behaved Malcolm, had to be watched, for she had discovered sweets had gone missing when he had been in the shop. She knew Mr Massey made quite a living on the side by poaching on the Limestone estate and that the landlord of the Blacksmith’s Arms had received a visit from the VAT inspector. She knew that Councillor Smout’s relationship with his brassy secretary was not as platonic as he imagined people thought, and she could have predicted that the sad, timorous little Miss Brakespeare would never get the post of the new head teacher in a month of Sundays.

  The shopkeeper rested a dimpled elbow on the counter and placed her fleshy chin on a hand.

  ‘She came in here puffed up like a Christmas turkey and gave me this look that would turn you to stone,’ she told her customer, a lugubrious-looking woman with a thick brown headscarf wrapped around her head and tied in an enormous knot under the chin. ‘Turned her nose up at my custard creams and my Venetian section she did, and then had the brass neck to ask me if my scones were fresh and tell me the ones she’d bought before were stale. Told me I should tell my supplier. She knows full well I bake them scones myself. I didn’t rise to it. I mean you don’t with her, do you. ’Course, I knew why she was annoyed. She’s had that nose of hers put out of joint and no mistake. According to Mrs Pocock, who’s on the governing body up at the school, Miss Sowerbutts was not involved in the appointment of the new head teacher and they never even asked her opinion. You can imagine how that went down. Bypassed her they did, not that I blame them. She’d have taken over, given half the chance. She clung on to that job like a Whitby limpet, had to be prised out, even though the inspectors said she wasn’t up to the job. I imagine she thought she could pick her successor.’

  There was an air of obvious pleasure in the shopkeeper’s contemplation of Miss Sowerbutts’ misfortune. ‘And, of course,’ she continued, leaning forward over the counter and lowering her voice as if someone was eavesdropping, ‘Miss Brakespeare hadn’t a cat in hell’s chance of getting the job. I mean, don’t get me wrong, she’s a nice enough woman and has a lot to endure, what with being at the beck and call of that disabled mother of hers. The few times Mrs Brakespeare used to come in the shop, she spent a good ten minutes listing her ailments and complaining about her daughter. She wants to get down on her knees and thank the good Lord she’s still standing up. Been on her deathbed, she has, more times than I’ve had hot dinners. I do feel sorry for that daughter of hers, but, let’s be right, Miss Brakespeare couldn’t run a whelk stall, never mind a school. She’s been under Miss Sowerbutts’ thumb all her life.’ She patted her crisp, newly permed hair. ‘Anyway, from what I gather from Mrs Pocock, this new head teacher will get things moving.’

  The door of the shop opened and an elegant woman entered.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said pleasantly.

  ‘Morning, love,’ replied the shopkeeper, rising to her full height and then stretching further over the counter to get a glimpse of the woman’s shoes. They were not the expected red with silver heels but of copper brown leather. Mrs Sloughthwaite turned to her other customer and dismissed her with the words, ‘Well, if there’s nothing else, Mrs Appleyard.’ She wanted no other person privy to the conversation she was going to have with the new head teacher of Barton-in-the-Dale school. If there was any information to glean she was the one to get it first.

  When Mrs Appleyard had departed, the shopkeeper gave Elisabeth her undivided attention. ‘Now then, love, what can I get you?’

  ‘I would just like the local paper, please.’

  ‘You’re the new head teacher up at the school, aren’t you?’ said Mrs Sloughthwaite, reaching under the counter for the newspaper. The question was academic, for she knew who this elegant woman was. She had received a blow-by-blow description of the woman, red shoes, black stockings and all, from Mrs Pocock the day before.

  ‘That’s right,’ replied Elisabeth.

  ‘I thought so,’ said the shopkeeper, nodding. She peered at her customer with more than a little interest. ‘We don’t get many unfamiliar faces in the shop, other than the day-trippers, and you don’t look like a day-tripper.’

  ‘Do I look like a head teacher?’ asked Elisabeth, an amused expression on her face.

  Mrs Sloughthwaite laughed. ‘No, love, you don’t,’ she said, thinking of Miss Sowerbutts’ dowdy ensemble. ‘You don’t look like the present one and that’s for sure. One of the governors popped in yesterday and mentioned in passing what you looked like.’

  Elisabeth laughed. ‘I see.’

  ‘Well, I hope you are going to be happy at the school.’

  ‘I am sure I will.’

  ‘So, are you intending to live in the village?’ asked the shopkeeper bluntly.

  ‘Yes, in fact that’s why I want the local paper,’ Elisabeth told her. ‘I thought I’d spend the afternoon looking at some properties.’

  ‘You’ll not find a deal in the Saturday Gazette. There’s not much on the market in the village, I’m afraid. People tend to stay here and they don’t like new developments. There’s a new block of flats at Ribbledyke, a couple of miles away, and some houses the size of egg-boxes on the estate at Urebank, but if you have a family I don’t think one of those would be suitable.’

  Elisabeth smiled to herself. Like the vicar’s wife, here was another person determined to find out as much about her personal life as she could. She sidestepped the invitation of the shopkeeper to supply the information.

  ‘I was thinking of something rather older with a bit of character, perhaps a stone cottage,’ she said.

  Mrs Sloughthwaite thought for moment. ‘The only place like that around here what I know of is Wisteria Cottage, old Mrs Pickles’ place up Stripe Lane, but it’s been empty for a couple of months and will need a lot doing to it. Nice position though, overlooking fields and in walking distance of the school, and
it has a good bit of garden and a paddock at the side.’

  ‘That sounds promising,’ said Elisabeth.

  ‘I’ll point you in the right direction before you go,’ said Mrs Sloughthwaite, feeling pleased that she had at least extracted some information about the new head teacher that she could impart to those who called in at the shop. ‘Will you still be wanting the paper?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes please,’ Elisabeth replied, reaching into her handbag.

  ‘We had the present head teacher in the shop only this morning,’ said the shopkeeper. She hoped this would prompt a response but it fell on stony ground.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, she’s been at the school for as long as I can remember. Some would say too long. Her family has been part of the village for centuries and used to be quite important in their day. They owned a mill down by the beck. It made shoddy. ’Course, that’s all gone now. They say her grandfather lost everything over a game of cards. She’s quite a character is Miss Sowerbutts.’

  Elisabeth resisted the temptation to enquire more about the woman she would be meeting the following Wednesday, when she had arranged to visit the school. It would, she guessed, be a strained encounter. The woman was clearly a difficult customer by all accounts, and at the interviews she had lacked the common courtesy to welcome the candidates, speak to them or show them around the school.

  ‘I don’t think she was too keen on taking early retirement,’ continued Mrs Sloughthwaite, ‘but after the report …’ Her voice tailed off. She awaited a response.

  Elisabeth smiled. ‘I am sure she will enjoy it.’

  ‘Enjoy it?’ repeated the shopkeeper.

  ‘Her retirement.’

  ‘Have you met her?’ she was asked bluntly. Mrs Sloughthwaite knew that Elisabeth had only met her briefly and then not to speak to. Mrs Pocock had informed her of Miss Sowerbutts’ angry departure from the school before the interviews.

  ‘Not really, no,’ replied Elisabeth, ‘but I’ll look forward to meeting her when I call in at the school.’

  I bet you will, thought Mrs Sloughthwaite, dropping the coins that had been passed over the counter into the till. She folded her arms under her expansive bosom. I wish I could be a fly on the wall, she thought to herself.

  4

  Barton-in-the-Dale Parochial Primary School was a small, solid, stone-built Victorian structure with high mullioned windows, a blue-patterned slate roof and a large oak-panelled door with a tarnished brass knocker in the shape of a ram’s head. Set back from the main street, which ran the length of the village, it was tucked away behind the Norman church of St Christopher and partially hidden by a towering oak tree with branches reaching skywards like huge arms. It was an imposing if rather neglected building. The small garden to the front was tidy enough but, apart from a few sad-looking flowers and a couple of overgrown bushes, it was bereft of plants. The paint on the window frames was beginning to flake and the path leading up to the entrance had several cracked and uneven flagstones.

  It was later the same afternoon and Elisabeth was sitting on the bench by the oak tree, considering whether she had done the right thing in applying for the post of head teacher here. It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, something completely out of character, for she was by nature a practical and prudent person and always thought long and hard before she made important decisions. Perhaps applying for this post had been too hasty and ill-considered. She should have found out more about the school before applying and then she might have learnt of the problems she would have to face. Of course there was a good reason for her wanting to come to this particular school, but she certainly had had second thoughts when she had first seen the building, which was in need of redecoration, and had got such a cold reception from the present head teacher. Then there was Miss Brakespeare, the dowdy, serious and dull deputy head teacher, who, despite her friendly approach after the interview, would no doubt be resentful that she had not been offered the post and would not take kindly to any changes Elisabeth would wish to implement. She sighed. It was not too late to give back word now. She chased the thought from her mind.

  No, she would start at the school and was determined to make a success of it. She closed her eyes and let the sun, breaking through the overhanging branches of the ancient oak, warm her face. She thought for a moment, considering how she might start to make the necessary changes. The state of the building was the first priority. The school was in need of a coat of paint, the flagstones on the path wanted replacing, the hedge trimming, the garden to the front tending and the fence around the perimeter repairing. It needed to look cheerful and welcoming. She would put some large tubs of bright geraniums by the door, have vivid flowers in window-boxes and a bird table on the small lawn. This was cosmetic and would be the easy part. Her main challenge, she knew, was to raise the standards, gain the confidence of the teachers, the governors and the parents and stem the haemorrhaging of children to other schools. It would not be easy.

  Helen, her deputy at the inner-city school where Elisabeth worked at present, was the sort of colleague every head teacher would wish for – enthusiastic, committed, creative and hardworking. When things had become difficult and times demanding, Helen had always been there to listen and support. She was a good friend. Elisabeth had tried to persuade her to apply for the post she was vacating. She deserved to be promoted and was sure to be appointed, but Helen had told Elisabeth that headship wasn’t for her. Elisabeth thought again of the deputy head teacher at Barton-in-the-Dale. Miss Brakespeare was a very different character by all accounts. The dumpy little woman with the round face and staring eyes, dressed in ill-fitting cotton suit, dark stockings and sandals, could hardly be described as enthusiastic and creative. Elisabeth tried again to put such thoughts out of her mind.

  She opened her eyes. The trees had a lustre to them that bright afternoon and the air was clear and fresh. Beyond the small school was a vast and silent panorama of fields and hills, dotted with lazy-looking sheep and flecked in sunlight. No, she told herself, it was the right decision she had made.

  She stood, breathed in and smoothed the creases in her coat. She would now go in search of this little stone cottage that she had heard about from the shopkeeper.

  It took quite a while for Elisabeth to discover Wisteria Cottage. It stood alone at the end of a track of beaten mud overgrown with nettles, a small pale stone building with a sagging roof, peeling paint and a neglected garden. Rough, spiky grass sprouted like clumps of green hair from the guttering, and dandelion, daisies and ragwort, left to blow to seed in a sudden wind, sprouted between the broken paving slabs leading to the porch. Great plumes of wisteria hung from the wall. The front door, partially covered by dense holly and laurel bushes, was colourless, the paint having peeled away many months ago. To the side was a heavy horse-chestnut tree, its leaves fanning out like fingers and one huge branch split and charred by lightning.

  Elisabeth knew that she had to have this cottage. She stood on the tussocky lawn with its bare patches and molehills, bordered by waist-high weeds, rank thistles, tangled brambles and rampant rose bushes, and gazed through the trees at a vista of green undulating fields criss-crossed with silvered limestone walls which rose to the craggy fellside, and she marvelled at the view. The sky was delicate and clear as an eggshell. Sparrows squabbled and chattered in the dust and swallows darted and swooped. There was the smell of hay and scented flowers in the air. Somewhere in a distant field a tractor chugged. She knew she could transform this old cottage into her dream home.

  Beyond the five-barred gate at the end of the track was a small boy of about ten or eleven, lifting a dry cowpat with a stick and disturbing a buzzing cloud of yellow horseflies. He stopped when he caught sight of Elisabeth and, having watched her for a moment, came over.

  ‘’Ello,’ he said cheerfully, climbing up on to the gate, sitting on the top and letting his spindly legs dangle down. He was a small boy with large low-set ears, a mop of dusty blond hair and the brigh
t brown eyes of a fox, and was dressed in a faded T-shirt, baggy khaki shorts and wellington boots that looked sizes too big for him. The child’s face and knees were innocent of soap and water.

  ‘Hello,’ replied Elisabeth.

  ‘Grand day, in’t it?’ said the child, grinning broadly.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I likes this time o’ year,’ he said, scratching a muddied knee.

  ‘So do I,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I hope this nice weather continues.’

  ‘Oh, it will that,’ said the boy. He waved his stick like a conductor with a baton. ‘If t’rooks build low, it’s bound to blow, if t’rooks build ’igh, t’weather’s dry.’ That’s what mi granddad says, and ’e’s never wrong.’

  ‘He sounds a clever man, your granddad,’ said Elisabeth.

  ‘’E is,’ the boy agreed. ‘I’ve seen a nuthatch in that ’orse-chestnut tree,’ he told her, pointing with the stick. ‘We gets all sooarts o’ birds in this garden – blue-tits, jays, redstarts, hawfinches, linnets, magpies and t’odd pheasant from t’big estate – and when that buddleia’s out you should see t’butterflies – red admirals, peacocks, tortoiseshells, cabbage whites and some reight rare species an’ all.’

  ‘You’re fond of this garden, aren’t you?’ asked Elisabeth, charmed by the boy’s cheerful good humour.

  ‘Aye, I love comin’ ’ere,’ he said. ‘Mrs Pickles who used to own it, she used to let me come ’ere. She’s deead, tha knows.’

  ‘Yes, I heard.’

  ‘She were nice, Mrs Pickles,’ said the boy. ‘She used to give me a drink of ’er ’omemade ginger beer an’ a biscuit when I called.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t have any ginger beer or biscuits,’ Elisabeth told him.

  ‘Oh, I weren’t ’intin’. I were just sayin’.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful view.’

  ‘Aye, ’tis that,’ agreed the boy. ‘’Course it changes wi’ every season but it allus looks grand. I collect sloes from them bushes for mi granddad to make ’is sloe gin,’ continued the boy, ‘and rose ’ips and wild blackberries an’ mushrooms. There’s lots of stuff you can find in t’country if you ’ave a mind.’ He pointed with his stick to an oak tree with long horizontal branches and a gnarled bracket of fungi clinging to the craggy bark. ‘But I don’t touch that, it’s poisonous.’ The boy cocked his head to one side ‘You thinkin’ o’ buying this place then?’