The Little Village School

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘That man is devious,’ cried Miss Brakespeare. ‘He’s been poaching children from here for over a year, advertising his school in the local papers, saying how wonderful it is at Urebank and all the facilities they have, and he’s been lobbying parents. Of course, after the poor inspection here, he was in his element and there was an exodus. I shouldn’t wonder if he isn’t still stirring things up. He’s got contacts at the Education Office, you know. As thick as thieves with that bumptious Councillor Smout.’ She saw Elisabeth’s gloomy expression. ‘Anyway,’ she said reassuringly, ‘I shouldn’t worry. I can’t believe that they would close Barton-in-the-Dale.’ But at the back of Miss Brakespeare’s mind she began to share the same doubts with the new head teacher.

  ‘It’s very good to see you, Mrs Devine,’ said Mr Williams, resting his elbows on the desk and steepling his fingers. He was a small, dark-complexioned, silver-haired Welshman with shining eyes.

  It was the following morning, and Elisabeth sat with the head teacher at Forest View Residential Special School in his study. ‘John’s an easy-going young man and copes as well as he can. He’s a grand lad, no problem at all, and is already very popular with the staff.’

  ‘I see,’ replied Elisabeth. ‘He seemed happy enough last Saturday when I saw him, but of course with his condition it’s so difficult to tell.’

  ‘Oh, I think I can safely say your son is a happy enough boy and has settled in here remarkably well.’

  ‘I cannot tell you, Mr Williams,’ said Elisabeth, ‘how relieved I was when he was offered a place here. His teachers at his last school did their best, but I wanted the specialist care for him that you provide here. Even in the short time John has been at Forest View, he seems to have made some progress.’

  ‘Indeed he has, but like many autistic children progress can be slow, and John still seems to be content in his own world. He eats healthy, balanced meals, sometimes takes part in the activities when he feels inclined, but like many of the other children in the school he tends to be independent and likes his own company. You know, there is no disorder as confusing to comprehend or as complex to diagnose as autism and I have no idea how much John understands. The main thing is that we assume that he has some comprehension and we try to give him the best possible care and education and the richest of experiences that we can.’

  ‘Do you think he really knows who I am?’ Elisabeth asked. ‘Sometimes he looks at me and I think I see some recognition in his eyes.’

  ‘That I cannot answer for certain,’ replied the head teacher, ‘but I think it is very likely that he does. He just doesn’t feel inclined to display any recognition, that’s all.’ He rested his hands on the desktop. ‘I should like to think that the visits from parents and visitors are beneficial and I should be delighted to see you at any time, not just on the Saturday visits. You really don’t have to make an appointment, just call in.’ He smiled and coloured a little.

  ‘I shall take you up on that,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I intend to visit John as much as I can.’

  ‘Then you will be one of the very few parents who do frequently visit their children. I find it sad that most don’t come very often or even at all, but it’s understandable I suppose. At the start they visit regularly, sometimes coming long distances to do so, but it tails off over time. They have other children to deal with and they have to work, of course. When they come to understand that there is no cure for this condition, and that they can’t ever foresee a time when their autistic child will lead a truly independent life, they wonder what the point is, and of course it can be upsetting for them as well, so they don’t come as often as before. Most telephone to see how their child is getting on but rarely spend much time with them.’

  Unlike Mr Williams, Elisabeth found it hard to understand why a parent should take such little interest in their child, not to visit regularly, watch them grow, see what progress they were making. ‘They know, I suppose,’ she said, ‘that in this residential school their child will be well looked after, that they get the best attention and care. I think you do an amazing job here.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the head teacher. ‘That’s what the school inspectors said, although they used the word “outstanding” rather than “amazing”. They visited last week, and you, as a parent, will be very pleased, as indeed we on the staff were, with the findings in the report. Actually, one poor inspector felt quite awful during the visit. He was in quite a state. When he was observing a lesson one of the children managed to get hold of a metal paperclip that was on his clipboard. Little Rebecca put it in her mouth and spent the whole of the morning poking out her tongue with the paperclip on it. He, of course, was distraught, but she smiled and continued to tease him. She thought it was some sort of funny game. We had the devil’s own job trying to get the paperclip off her. Every time we made a move, she would clamp her lips together and smile. Of course, it could have been very nasty had she decided to swallow it. Anyway, Dr Stirling, who was in school, came to the rescue. He managed to retrieve it. I think Rebecca has a bit of a soft spot for the good doctor, as indeed do many of the children.’

  ‘Dr Stirling visits here, does he?’ asked Elisabeth.

  ‘Yes, he’s the local doctor on whose services we frequently call. Nice man. Do you know him?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I know him. He’s on my governing body – well, for the time being anyway. I can’t say that I have found him very nice. He’s quite a cold fish.’

  ‘He’s not actually,’ Mr Williams told her. ‘Until you get to know him, that reserve almost amounts to aloofness, but he is far from cold and unfriendly. The death of his wife had a real effect upon him. He was a very gregarious man until her death. Then he became much quieter and more thoughtful. His wife was such a lively and outgoing woman, a doctor like himself. It was such a tragic accident. Outwardly Michael Stirling might appear a bit distant, but I reckon his demeanour is a kind of deceptive covering to protect the sensitive man beneath. My goodness, I’m sounding like the educational psychologist.’

  ‘I’m afraid that Dr Stirling and I are not seeing eye to eye at the moment,’ Elisabeth told him.

  ‘Really?’

  She was tempted to tell the head teacher about James and the fact that his father was blind to the boy’s problem, but she felt it would be unprofessional to do so. ‘He intends to resign from the governing body,’ she said.

  ‘That is a great pity. He is the sort of person you need on your side. By the way, I hope you have settled in at Barton-in-the-Dale. From what I gather there is a lot to do there but I am sure you will “fettle it”, as they say in this part of the world.’

  ‘Well, I’ve at least made a start,’ Elisabeth told him.

  ‘It’s a very pleasant little school and set in some of the most magnificent countryside in the county. The former head teacher, as you have probably heard, had a fearsome reputation. Not a woman to argue with, I gather. I believe she ordered one of the inspectors out of the school when he had the temerity to criticise her.’

  ‘Yes, she is quite a character,’ Elisabeth replied, non-committally.

  ‘So you are just down the road from us now,’ said Mr Williams, ‘and you won’t have a long journey every time you wish to visit us.’

  ‘That was the main reason for moving,’ she told him, ‘so I could see more of John. As soon as he got a place here I started looking for jobs in the area, and Barton was the first school that came up. Sometimes I think I was a bit impetuous and should have waited rather longer.’

  ‘You sound as if you have some regrets,’ said Mr Williams. ‘Is it not what you expected?’

  Elisabeth thought for a moment and looked out of the window, as if reminded of something. ‘I have mixed feelings at the moment,’ she said. ‘The children and staff are fine, but some of the governors and the parents I reckon will be hard work, and I think I am going to cross swords with those at the Education Office. I have a sneaking suspicion they want to close the school.’

  ‘
I very much doubt it,’ replied Mr Williams. ‘Why would they appoint a new head teacher and then close the school?’

  ‘It’s just that certain things have been said,’ Elisabeth told him, ‘and my Chairman of Governors and the education officer have been very evasive. I have this sneaking suspicion that there is more to it than they are telling me.’

  ‘I have to say that I’ve had battle royals with the education people over resources,’ the head teacher told her. ‘They always want to cut costs. You want to try and hang on to Dr Stirling. He was massively supportive when we put in a bid for more equipment and extra staffing.’

  ‘I don’t think I can rely on Dr Stirling’s support,’ Elisabeth told him. ‘I am afraid, as I have said, we don’t see eye to eye on a number of matters. He’s taken his son away from the school and is sending him to St Paul’s, the preparatory school in Ruston. He thinks it will offer him a more appropriate education.’

  ‘Well, he’s mistaken. The boy would be much better off at Barton,’ Mr Williams told her. ‘Knowing St Paul’s, I very much doubt whether he will enjoy it there. The school is a hothouse. I should know, my brother’s boy attends.’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ agreed Elisabeth, ‘but there’s little I can do. Dr Stirling is adamant that his son will be better off and he’s determined to move him.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ said Mr Williams. ‘Well, I’ll take you along to see John.’

  Elisabeth, like most mothers with their newborn baby in their arms, had thought her son was the most beautiful child in the world. Baby John had great blue eyes and a dazzling smile, tiny fingers like sticks and nails as pink and shiny as seashells. Simon, his father, had held him high in the air and told him he would be a son in a million, go to Cambridge as he had done, make everyone so proud of him. At the hospital, her bed surrounded by flowers and cards, Elisabeth had held her smiling, healthy baby in her arms and had felt happier than she had ever been.

  The baby had smiled early and fed easily, but when he had made no effort to walk like other children of his age or to speak and began increasingly to reject physical contact, Elisabeth had known something was wrong. The doctor and health visitor had reassured her that the child was fine. She had seen in their expressions that they thought her a fussy, over-protective mother. Children develop at different rates, she had been told; the little boy was healthy and happy and would soon start making progress.

  ‘Oh, he’s just a bit slower than other children,’ Simon had said dismissively, when she had tried to talk to him about her worries. ‘Stop fussing.’ She had seen in his eyes that he refused to believe that there was anything wrong with his son.

  But Elisabeth had known that things were not right. At three and still not speaking, John had stiffened when touched, avoided eye contact and was happiest when left alone sorting out shapes. He had been meticulous in arranging things, and would spend hours organising his bricks and making sure everything was exactly in order. He had become quite obsessive about neatness and routine.

  The meeting with the specialist, which Elisabeth had insisted upon, had confirmed her misgivings. The parents had learnt that their son was a child with a disorder called autism, which meant he would likely never speak, interact with others, embrace her, kiss her, never understand humour or irony and could be subject to seizures and maybe violent outbursts. He would never lead a ‘normal’ life, if this meant going to the local school, passing examinations, finding a job, getting married and having children. Her husband had been devastated and, on hearing this diagnosis, had stared out of the window as if in a trance. She had reached out to hold his hand. It had felt cold and dead. That night Elisabeth had held the child in her arms and wept.

  Her marriage began to teeter on the rocks. Her husband spent less and less time at home. There was always an excuse why he had to be away on business, always some reason why he couldn’t go with her to see the specialist or spend time with his son. Whereas she wanted to find out more about her son’s condition, desperate to know about education and diet and therapy, Simon was reluctant even to talk about it. He wouldn’t move from the expectation that the boy would grow out of it, that there was a kind of cloak that shrouded his true self and which one day would finally fall away to reveal the clever and articulate child he had always hoped for. Then the illusion that nothing really was wrong gradually disappeared, and her husband knew that for the rest of his life his son would have to cope with this disability and be totally dependent on adults. He felt guilty and hopeless, unable to cope with this silent little boy who lived in his own closed world. Although he denied it furiously, Elisabeth knew Simon found the child an embarrassment. His colleagues at the prestigious accountancy firm where he was a senior partner would talk about their offspring, how clever and articulate they were, how well they were doing at school, the instruments they could play and the sports they enjoyed. Simon kept a miserable silence, thinking of his own son. No one ever asked him about John.

  There were arguments and simmering silences, and one day when John was five, Simon packed his things and left. Following the divorce, Elisabeth heard that Simon had remarried. She had telephoned him up just the once to tell him how John was getting on, and had been told it would be for the best if she didn’t get in contact again. It distressed Simon’s new wife. Since then Elisabeth had heard nothing from him. She had felt depressed and isolated.

  Determined to give her son the best possible education, she enrolled John at a local special school with an excellent reputation. Here the teachers were committed and hardworking and seemed able to handle autistic children who struggled to communicate and interact. Elisabeth, by now a deputy head teacher, would drop him off in the mornings and a carer would collect him in the afternoons and stay until she arrived home. It worked well for a time, but when her son reached eleven, the age when children transfer to secondary education, the head teacher took her aside. John, he felt, could make greater progress and receive more help at a school that could offer more specialist care for young people with his condition. Forest View, a residential special school for young people with autism, was suggested. Elisabeth managed to secure her son a place. Here the teaching was simple, coherent and structured to meet the individual needs of the pupils. It was a calm and secure environment with soft lighting and no strident bells sounding every hour, and there was plenty of space. The school was surrounded by beautiful countryside and the air was fresh and clean. The problem was that it was fifty miles away in the heart of the Yorkshire Dales.

  Elisabeth, by now a head teacher, realised that the long journey each weekend to Forest View to see John would inevitably begin to take its toll. Her job had become increasingly demanding and time-consuming. She knew she would feel guilty when a conference or training course came up which she had to attend and which meant she couldn’t make the journey to see her son. So she scoured the educational papers looking for a head teacher’s position in a school near Forest View, and when the post came up at Barton-in-the-Dale, a small rural primary school only a few miles away, she applied for the post, got it and started her new life.

  Elisabeth now found John sitting at a table carefully arranging small coloured beads in straight lines. His forehead was furrowed with concentration. She sat next to him and watched for a moment. He was such a good-looking eleven-year-old, with his large dark eyes, long lashes and curly blond hair.

  ‘Hello,’ Elisabeth said cheerfully. ‘What are you up to?’

  Her son continued to arrange the beads. He seemed oblivious of her.

  ‘You used to love playing with my beads when you were younger. I remember once when I broke a rope of pearls and they scattered all over the floor and you managed to find every one and arrange them in the exact order. Quite a feat.’

  John stopped what he was doing for a moment, as if recalling a distant memory, and then returned to the beads.

  ‘The cottage is just about finished,’ she said, placing her hand next to his. ‘Carpets are down, curtains are
up, walls painted and the garden is taking shape. I did have moles in the garden but they have mysteriously disappeared. I have an idea Danny, who I told you about last week, has been putting down traps.’ Her son never looked around but edged his fingers towards her until they touched her own. Elisabeth talked for some time, telling her son about the teachers at her school, the changes she was making and her niggling worry about a possible closure. He continued to arrange the beads, never looking up. His face was expressionless.

  ‘Oh, John,’ Elisabeth sighed. She remained silent for a moment. ‘I love you so much, you know,’ she told him. ‘I hope that you know that, and that I’m so proud of you.’ How she wished that she could hold him and smooth his hair and kiss his cheek, but she knew she couldn’t. To do so would distress him greatly. He couldn’t be touched. If was as if he lived in a glass case, silent, cut off, unreachable. It broke her heart that he would probably never know how much she loved him and that he was incapable of loving her back. But in spite of all that, she would not have him any other way.

  As a teacher she had taught many children, bright, articulate and healthy youngsters. She would sometimes watch the boys of John’s age as they ran and chased each other around the playground and think of her son locked away in his own distant world. But she never felt bitter or angry that he was not like these boys, or envious of the children’s parents. John was her quiet, gentle son and she loved him just as he was. He never argued, offered advice, sympathised or criticised; he merely listened and reminded her that much of life was not so very important. Bright spots of tears appeared in the corners of her eyes. She quickly brushed them away with the back of her hand.

  ‘Mrs Devine.’ Elisabeth jolted up in her chair as if she had been bitten. She swung around to find Dr Stirling at the door. He was wearing the same crumpled linen jacket he had worn at their last meeting, and his hair looked unbrushed and curled around his ears and at the back of his neck.