The Little Village School

by Gervase Phinn

  Elisabeth looked at her calmly. ‘I am sure she won’t mind me borrowing it,’ she said in a determined tone of voice. ‘Of course, had Miss Sowerbutts been here I would have asked for it, but she isn’t. You will understand, I am sure, that I need to get a view of what needs to change before I start.’ She stared at the secretary with penetrating blue eyes. ‘So if you wouldn’t mind …’ She left the end of the sentence unspoken.

  The secretary swallowed nervously. The last thing she wanted was to get on the wrong side of the new head teacher. ‘Yes, of course, Mrs Devine,’ she replied, rising from her chair and imagining what Miss Sowerbutts would say when she returned. It was just as well she was out of the school, she thought. ‘I’ll get it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Miss Brakespeare said she would like a quick word before you go, Mrs Devine,’ said the school secretary, ‘if you could spare her a few minutes.’

  Elisabeth found the deputy head teacher in her classroom, tidying up after her class.

  ‘Oh, there you are, Mrs Devine,’ said Miss Brakespeare, as Elisabeth entered the room. ‘I’m glad I caught you before you left. I … I just wanted to apologise for Miss Sowerbutts’ behaviour this morning. She’s not been herself of late and has been feeling very hurt and depressed what with the school inspection and then not being involved in the interviews for her successor. She’s spent her whole life at the school and feels very aggrieved. I … I … want you to know that I harbour no resentment whatsoever about you getting the position of head teacher here.’ Her tone was genuine. ‘To be frank, I didn’t want the job and I was very pleased when you were appointed. I would be the first to say that I would not be up to it. It was just that people said I ought to put in an application and I was swayed into doing so. I want you to know, Mrs Devine, that I will be supportive of all your efforts and I look forward to working with you.’ She breathed out heavily. ‘There, I needed to say that before you left.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Brakespeare,’ said Elisabeth, rather touched by the woman’s simple and unpretentious comments. ‘I appreciate your honesty and I too look forward to working with you.’ She held out her hand and smiled reassuringly. ‘I think that if we all pull together, we can make Barton-in-the-Dale Primary School the best in the county.’

  Miss Brakespeare shook her hand lightly and returned the smile. ‘I hope so,’ she replied.

  6

  On arriving home after her visit to Barton-in-the-Dale, Elisabeth read the school inspectors’ report. It was indeed damning of the leadership and management of the school, critical of Miss Brakespeare’s lessons, which were described as ‘poorly planned and uninspiring’, but had many positive things to say about the other two teachers. Elisabeth, referring frequently to the findings in the report, penned a long letter to the Chairman of Governors outlining in some detail what changes she wished to implement when she took over the following September. A copy was sent to the Director of Education and to the inspector who had written the critical report of the school. She asked for the Chairman of Governors to convene an extraordinary meeting of the governing body for late July, at the beginning of the school’s summer holidays, so she could outline her plans. Her second letter was to the teaching and non-teaching staff, saying how much she was looking forward to joining them in September and asking them to attend a short meeting a week prior to the start of the new term to discuss her proposals. Elisabeth then turned her attention to other pressing matters.

  When she received confirmation of her appointment at Barton-in-the-Dale, she resigned from her position at the school at which she was head teacher, put her house on the market, sold it within a fortnight, and started making plans for her new life.

  One Saturday she returned to the village to view the cottage she was determined to buy. It was quite an ordeal getting to the rear of the building. Accompanied by the estate agent, a rather dapper young man in a smart grey suit and designer sunglasses, she found the path to the side of the cottage blocked by a herd of heavy-uddered cows, jostling and pushing at each other, lowing in complaint at the narrowness of the track. A black and white sheepdog ran at their heels, snapping to keep the bumbling beasts moving forward, and behind it ambled a red-faced, narrow-eyed farmer with a bearded chin, his greasy cap set on top of a mane of thick ill-cut hair. He touched his cap as he passed them and growled, ‘Nice day.’

  ‘It appears that some of the farmers have started using this as a means of access to their fields,’ the estate agent explained, ‘but the path belongs to the property, and should you buy it you will need to make this clear. Some of these village folk take advantage of what they call the “off-comed-uns”. I noticed too that the paddock, which also belongs to the cottage, has sheep grazing on it. You will need to find out whose they are if you become the owner of the cottage.’ He looked down at his highly polished shoes, now caked in mud and manure, and made a clicking noise with his tongue. ‘Bloody cows,’ he mumbled.

  Inside, the cottage looked damp and cheerless with its thick and faded curtains, threadbare carpet, window-panes which had been broken and replaced by cheap glass and a naked light bulb dangling from a yellowing electric flex, but Elisabeth immediately saw its potential.

  ‘It’s in a bit of a run-down state,’ the estate agent admitted, looking around unimpressed, ‘and needs a fair bit doing to it. I should have thought that someone in your position, Mrs Devine, would be more interested in one of the new state-of-the-art apartments we are selling at Ribbledyke. Modern, spacious, low-maintenance and wonderfully well equipped – they’re selling like hot cakes.’

  Elisabeth gave the young man a disarming smile. ‘Then you would be mistaken,’ she told him. ‘This is exactly the sort of place I want.’

  To the estate agent’s surprise, she made an offer there and then and was informed the following day that it had been accepted.

  At the beginning of the summer holidays she moved in. Now she stood in the small front room of the cottage, a bucket, sweeping brush, mops and dusters before her, looking around and wondering where to start. ‘What have you done, Elisabeth Devine?’ she murmured to herself. ‘What have you let yourself in for?’

  ‘Quite a bit, by t’looks on it.’

  Elisabeth jumped as if ice-cold water had been flicked in her face and she swung around. In the doorway stood an old man. The visitor had a friendly, weathered face the colour of bruised parchment, grizzled, smoky-grey hair and an untidy beard, and his smiling eyes rested in a net of wrinkles. He was dressed in a clean, long-sleeved, collarless shirt, open at the neck, baggy corduroy trousers and heavy boots.

  ‘Gosh, you startled me,’ she said, placing a hand on her heart.

  ‘Beg pardon, missis,’ said the speaker. ‘I din’t mean to frit you. I’m Danny’s granddad. He telled me he’d met you. We live in t’caravan on t’yonder field. I ’eard that thy ’ad bought t’cottage and thowt tha might welcome a bit of an ’and. Tha’s a fair bit to do, knocking this place into some shape.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Mr—’ began Elisabeth.

  ‘Just Les, Mrs Devine,’ he told her. ‘Everyone ’ereabouts calls me Les. Never Leslie. Just Les. I ’ates the name Leslie. Can’t understand for the life o’ me why my old ma called me such a name. Leslie! Sounds like summat out of one o’ them romantic novels, dunt it?’

  ‘Well, I’m very pleased to meet you, Les,’ said Elisabeth, extending her hand, which he shook vigorously.

  ‘Our Danny telled me abaat thee. He said tha were reight tekken wi’ this owld place when ’e fust met thee and that ’e ’ad an idea that tha’d buy it. ’E also said ’e reckoned tha could do wi’ a bit of an ’and. Builders in t’village will be queuing up to get crackin’ on t’place soon as they ’ear it’s been sold, but between thee and me and t’gatepost, there’s some of ’em who ’ud tek thee for a ride. Charge t’earth for doin’ nowt. Single woman like thee. Now, I do charge for mi services but I can promise thee that I’m reasonable, fair, hard-working, tidy and punc
tual. Thas’ll not be regrettin’ it if tha tek me on. Ask anyone in t’village and they’ll tell thee that Les Stainthorpe is an ’ard worker and won’t let thee down.’

  Elisabeth smiled. She warmed to the man straight away. ‘Well, Mr Stainthorpe … Les,’ she said, ‘if you are as good a worker as you are a salesman, I think I’ve found a builder in a million. So, where do we start?’

  Any doubts Elisabeth had about buying the cottage were soon dispelled by Danny’s granddad.

  ‘This place’ll look gradely when we’ve fettled it,’ he told her. ‘Solid as a rock, been ’ere for a fair few centuries and wi’ best view in t’village. I’d ’ave bought it missen ’ad I ’ad t’brass. It just needs a few repairs an’ a bit o’ paint, then it’ll look champion when it’s done.’ He stared at a bulging wall and winked. ‘An’ mebbe a bit o’ plasterin’ and a few other things.’

  The next month and a half saw a transformation in the cottage. Danny’s granddad was true to his word and worked tirelessly and painstakingly. He re-plastered the bulging wall, re-pointed the stonework, exposed the beams and stained them a lustrous brown, replaced the broken guttering, sanded down and varnished the old pine doors, repaired the rotten window frames and fitted some shelves. When Elisabeth had looked doubtful at the times when he had scratched his beard and come up with suggestions for improvement, he had smiled, winked and told her, ‘Trust me.’ And she had trusted him and it had paid off.

  ‘You see, Mrs Devine,’ the old man told her one bright sunny August afternoon, towards the end of the school holidays, as they sat at the table in the newly decorated kitchen, ‘I’ve ’ad all these ideas in mi ’ead for years. I’ve been in this cottage many a time when old Mrs Pickles were alive and thowt to missen that if I owned it, I knew just what I’d change.’

  ‘You’ve done a splendid job,’ she told him. ‘I’m so pleased with it.’

  Elisabeth had the oak floors polished, new carpets laid, put up some bright curtains and hung some colourful prints and pictures on the walls, arranged the chairs and sofa and the old oak dresser in the sitting room and put the long-case clock in the hall. The place looked like home – warm and cosy. She invited Les around for a drink to celebrate the completion of the work.

  As she stood with the old man at the door of the cottage she suddenly began to cry.

  ‘Hey, hey, Mrs Devine,’ said Les Stainthorpe, ‘I din’t reckon I’d done that bad a job.’

  ‘It’s wonderful, Les,’ she told him, wiping her eyes. ‘It’s just what I imagined.’

  During the time of the cottage’s restoration, Danny had kept his distance. He seemed embarrassed to be in Elisabeth’s company and spent most of the time in the garden, hacking away at the overgrown bushes, pruning the trees, mowing the lawn and digging in the borders. He also laid traps for the rats.

  ‘He’s quite a little worker, is Danny,’ Elisabeth told his grandfather as they watched him through the kitchen window.

  ‘Aye, ’e’s a good lad,’ said the old man, nodding.

  ‘He’s been keeping out of my way these past few weeks,’ she said. ‘Have I said something to upset him?’

  ‘Gracious me, no, Mrs Devine,’ spluttered the man. ‘It’s just that t’lad dunt want to be ovver familiar like, what with you being t’new ’ead teacher at ’is school an’ all. He reckons tha not like the last ’un, owld Miss Sowerpuss. Nivver liked ’er an’ I can’t say as ’ow I blames ’im. Always at ’im she was about ’is work. Our Danny might not be t’brightest apple in t’orchard when it comes to readin’ and writin’ and arithmetic an’ such but ’e’s good-natured an’ ’e can turn ’is ’and to owt if it’s practical.’

  ‘Yes, he’s a nice young man,’ Elisabeth told the boy’s grandfather. ‘He’s a credit to you.’

  The old man coloured up. ‘I tries me best, Mrs Devine. It’s not been easy, I can tell you. Danny’s mi daughter’s lad. She were a bit of a tearaway was my Tricia. Stubborn she was, and wayward. I reckon I was a bit soft with ’er after ’er mother up and left and I was left to bring ’er up. She ’ad Danny at seventeen. No father in sight, of course. Any road, one neet police called and said she’d been knocked down on t’way ’ome. Driver never stopped. ’It an’ run, it were. She were walking down some dark lane she were, pushing ’er babby in ’is pram. I mean, you expect that you’ll outlive yer children, don’t you, but it ’appens they sometimes go afore you. You think you’ll allus go ahead of ’em but sometimes it’s not t’case.’ The old man rubbed his beard. ‘Social worker passed little Danny to me and ’e’s been wi’ me ever since. There’s just ’im and me now. We’re like two peas in a pod.’

  ‘So Danny doesn’t see anything of his grandmother?’ asked Elisabeth.

  ‘Tricia’s mum? No, no, Maisie’s not been in touch. She came to t’funeral, of course, but I’ve not seen ’ide nor ’air of ’er since. Danny sometimes asks about ’er but what can I say?’

  The boy looked up from digging as if he knew they were talking about him. He waved. ‘Just ’im and me,’ his grandfather repeated under his breath, waving back.

  Mrs Sloughthwaite stopped mid-sentence as Elisabeth walked though the door. She had been in animated conversation with a customer, leaning over and resting her substantial bosom and her chubby arms on the counter, but she stopped talking suddenly at the sight of the new head teacher.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Devine,’ she said, standing upright and straightening her overall. She turned to her customer, an extremely old, wrinkled individual with a long gloomy face. ‘This is the new head teacher of the school,’ she told her, speaking slowly, like a nurse to a senile patient.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,’ said the woman glumly, looking Elisabeth up and down like a teacher inspecting a child’s school uniform. Elisabeth smiled. The woman’s eyes lingered on the shoes.

  ‘Well, Mrs Widowson,’ said the shopkeeper, keen to get rid of the customer and have Elisabeth all to herself, ‘I should imagine you’ve got a deal to do. I’ll not be keeping you.’

  ‘I’m not in any hurry,’ said the woman, making no effort to move.

  ‘Yes, well, I want a quiet word with Mrs Devine, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the customer, looking peeved. ‘I’ll be on my way then.’

  When the old lady had departed, shaking her head and mumbling something to herself, Mrs Sloughthwaite turned her attention to Elisabeth.

  ‘I don’t want all and sundry listening in to our conversation,’ she said in a confidential tone of voice. ‘Least of all Edith Widowson. She’s a terrible gossip that woman. Tell her anything and it goes round the village like a dose of salts.’ Elisabeth smiled. Three words came to her mind – ‘pan’, ‘kettle’ and ‘black’. ‘Husband hasn’t done a day’s work in his life,’ continued the shopkeeper, ‘and spends most nights in the Blacksmith’s Arms or at the betting shop. She’s a sad case. Now, Mrs Devine, what can I get you?’

  ‘I have a list here,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Quite a lot, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’m not complaining,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘Keeps me in business. Them who come to live here in the village usually shop at the new supermarket at Gartside.’

  ‘Well, I won’t be,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I think it’s important to support the local businesses. I shall be placing an order each week.’

  Mrs Sloughthwaite glowed. The more she saw of the new head teacher the more she liked her. She glanced down the list. ‘As regards the biscuits, Mrs Devine, could I interest you in a box of my special Venetian selection?’

  ‘Why not,’ said Elisabeth.

  ‘I hear you’re doing up old Mrs Pickles’ cottage?’ said the shopkeeper as she placed the various items on the counter.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Elisabeth. ‘That’s one of the reasons for calling in, to thank you for drawing my attention to it. It’s exactly what I wanted.’

  ‘I’m very pleased. I always try to be of help. That’s what my husband used to say, God rest his soul. Always there t
o give a helping hand and listen to people’s problems. “You’re too good-hearted for your own good, Doris,” he used to say. I also heard you’ve got old Les Stainthorpe doing the place up for you.’ Elisabeth opened her mouth to answer but the shopkeeper rattled on. ‘He’s a rum one is Les, and no mistake, but he’s a good worker and he’ll not take you for a ride.’

  ‘He is. I’ve been delighted with the work he has done. He’s really transformed the place.’

  ‘’Course, he’s had a rough time of it what with his wife running off and then his daughter getting killed.’

  ‘Yes, I heard,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Very sad.’

  ‘He married late in life, you know.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh, yes, he was a confirmed bachelor was Les Stainthorpe until Maisie Proctor appeared on the scene and set her cap out for him. Worked behind the bar at the Royal Oak at Gartside she did – big brassy blonde in her thirties. I mean, he must have been getting on for fifty when he married her. Everyone in the village could see she was a gold-digger but not Les. Too trusting and good-natured by half, that’s his trouble. After his money, that was her little game, and when she got her hands on it, my goodness, she knew how to spend it. Cleaned him out before she ran off with a brush salesman from Rotherham and left him with the kiddy.’

  Elisabeth made a mental note not to tell this woman anything or it would be around the village in a flash.

  ‘Rumour was,’ continued Mrs Sloughthwaite, leaning over the counter and lowering her voice, ‘that the child wasn’t his, but I’m not one for gossip. You wouldn’t like another box of Venetian biscuits, would you? They’re on special offer.’

  ‘No thank you,’ replied Elisabeth. ‘I need to watch my figure.’

  ‘She was a tearaway was young Tricia. You would never believe the clothes she used to wear. Nothing left to the imagination. Like a firecracker waiting to go off, she was. Then she goes and gets pregnant. People said she had had a bit too much to drink when she was knocked down and shouldn’t have been pushing a pram with a kiddie down a darkened road anyway, but I don’t believe a word of it. I don’t think she was that bad a mother. Mind you, he’s done a good job has the lad’s grandfather, bringing up young Danny. It’ll be an upheaval for him having to move his caravan.’