The Little Village School

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘Oh, Dr Stirling.’ She sniffed and reached quickly into her bag for a handkerchief.

  ‘Mr Williams told me you were here,’ he said, glancing at her nervously. ‘I’m sorry if you were startled.’

  Elisabeth continued to rummage in her bag. ‘I think I must be coming down with a cold,’ she said.

  ‘Perhaps you should call in at the surgery?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I could give you something for your cold. We don’t want you off school in your first few weeks.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said, finding a handkerchief and blowing her nose.

  ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’

  ‘No, no. I’m just having a few quiet moments.’ She sniffed. ‘I find it very therapeutic to get away from everything, school and parents and governors’ meetings and all the paperwork.’

  ‘Yes, I know what you mean. Life can be very hectic at times.’ He gave a reassuring smile.

  He sat down next to the boy and watched him. John, head down, face fierce with concentration, continued to meticulously arrange the beads.

  ‘Hello,’ said the doctor, resting his hand gently on the boy’s. John quickly pulled his hand away.

  ‘Sometimes he doesn’t like to be touched,’ Elisabeth told him, ‘particularly when he’s engaged in some activity.’

  ‘I’ll remember that,’ said the doctor and smacked the back of his own hand playfully.

  Perhaps the man was human after all, thought Elisabeth, smiling. He certainly seemed to be a great deal calmer and pleasanter than when she had last seen him.

  ‘I didn’t know you had a son at Forest View?’ the doctor said. ‘Mr Williams has just told me.’

  ‘Yes, this is John,’ she said. ‘He’s just started here.’

  ‘It’s an excellent school,’ he told her. She noticed that a small bead of sweat had rolled from beneath the curls at the back of his neck. He turned to look at her son, seemingly fascinated by what the boy was doing. ‘You’re making a great job of that,’ he said.

  Elisabeth studied the man’s profile. Seeing him from this angle with his untidy hair and his lopsided smile, he had something of the small child about him, careless of his appearance, innocent, vulnerable. She had a powerful urge to reach out and touch his cheek.

  ‘Of course,’ Elisabeth said quickly, trying to cover her embarrassment, ‘now I have moved closer to him I can visit John whenever I like. He loves to arrange things. I think he finds the repetition comforting and reassuring. I come on Saturdays to see him and during the week if I can manage it.’ She looked down at her hands and for some unaccountable reason her heart began to gallop. What was it about this man, she thought, which put her in such a state?

  ‘How is he doing?’ asked Dr Stirling, turning to look at her. His eyes were as bright as blue glass.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘How is he getting on here?’

  ‘Oh, fine,’ she replied. ‘There’s not been any great change really.’ She looked down, almost afraid of meeting his eyes. ‘I think there’s been some limited progress. Some children with autism have seizures and outbursts and they can punch and bite, as you probably know. Thankfully, John is a quiet and even-tempered boy and seems happy in his own private world. He loves music and can be affectionate at times. I have no idea how much he understands, of course, or whether he really knows who I am, but I like coming here and I hope he enjoys my visits.’

  ‘I am sure he looks forward to seeing you,’ said the doctor. ‘You know, the more I see of this condition, the less I seem to understand.’ He looked back at John, engrossed in arranging the beads. ‘He’s a fine-looking young man.’

  ‘Yes, he is,’ said Elisabeth, looking up.

  ‘John’s about James’s age, isn’t he?’ Dr Stirling asked.

  ‘He is,’ she replied, thinking what a pity it was that the man sitting next to her didn’t understand that his own son was in need of help. She pictured the fragile, silent little boy, like her own son hiding deep within himself, but she said nothing.

  ‘I hear you are quite the dab hand with retrieving paperclips,’ she said.

  Dr Stirling smiled. ‘Ah, you have heard about little Becky. She’s quite a character.’

  ‘However did you manage to get it out of her mouth?’

  ‘I put a paperclip on my tongue,’ he explained, ‘and copied what she was doing. Perhaps not the best way of going about things, but the teachers had tried unsuccessfully all morning to get the clip back and were increasingly concerned that she might eventually swallow it. Anyway, Becky became fascinated when I copied her, sticking out my tongue, and when she was distracted I plucked the clip from her mouth and at the same time closed mine. Actually I very nearly swallowed the wretched thing myself, which would have been rather embarrassing.’

  ‘And how is James settling in at St Paul’s?’ asked Elisabeth.

  ‘Oh, he’s not started yet,’ Dr Stirling told her. ‘The independent schools tend to begin the term a couple of weeks later than the state ones. But, you probably know that. He starts on Monday.’

  ‘As I said,’ Elisabeth told him, ‘I hope James gets on well there.’

  There was an embarrassing silence.

  ‘Yes, yes, I hope so too,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Well, I had better be making tracks. I have quite a list of patients to visit today.’ He held out his hand. ‘Well, goodbye then, Mrs Devine.’

  ‘Goodbye, Dr Stirling,’ she replied, placing a small cold hand in his.

  Why was it, he thought, that this woman made him feel so uneasy and awkward? Why was it that she seemed to be in his thoughts so much of the time? He stopped at the door and thought for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose. Then he turned to look at Elisabeth with searching, worried eyes. ‘I was a little short with you when you called in at the surgery,’ he said. ‘I said things which I now regret. I’m sorry if I appeared rude and dismissive. I’m sure that your comments were well-intentioned and I spoke out of turn.’ Elisabeth looked into his face, which suddenly seemed to wear a dejected expression, and felt a great surge of sympathy for him. Her lips moved slightly, as if she was about to say something, but the words would not come.

  ‘It was good to see you again, Mrs Devine,’ said Dr Stirling, and with that he was gone.

  10

  The Reverend Atticus, rector of Barton, surveyed his usual Saturday breakfast. He sometimes said a silent prayer that he would be given a lightly fried egg, a rasher of crispy bacon, a slice of black pudding and some wild mushrooms, but his wife was innocent in the use of the frying pan. In the centre of the plate was an insipid-looking, undercooked poached egg on a square of burnt toast.

  ‘Is there something the matter with your breakfast, Charles?’ asked the vicar’s wife.

  ‘No, no, my dear,’ he replied, smiling wanly, ‘I was just thinking about what I might say in my sermon tomorrow.’ He cut a corner from the toast. ‘I thought I could focus on the Good Samaritan.’

  ‘Well, don’t make it too long,’ she told him.

  ‘I shall endeavour not to,’ replied her long-suffering husband. The vicar chewed thoughtfully and nodded. ‘I was prompted to think of this theme when I was told that the new head teacher has let old Mr Stainthorpe, the odd-job man, site his caravan on the field adjoining her property. That was very good of her, was it not?’

  ‘Yes, I’d heard,’ replied his wife. ‘It was indeed very good of her. I certainly wouldn’t want that unsightly caravan near my house.’

  ‘The caravan’s not that unsightly, my dear,’ said the vicar. ‘It’s just a trifle the worse for wear. I guess the poor man has little money to maintain it.’

  His wife sighed inwardly, resisting the temptation to remind her husband yet again of his irritating habit of always putting a positive gloss on things of which she spoke critically. ‘The garrulous woman in the village store, who is forever trying to foist those stale Viennese chocolate biscuits on me, was informing all and sundry. Evidently th
at unpleasant Mr Massey threw him off his land after some argument in the public house.’

  ‘It has to be said that Mr Massey is not the easiest of characters,’ observed the vicar.

  ‘Not the easiest!’ snapped his wife. ‘He’s a lazy, mean-minded, grasping old man who thinks he owns the village, and please do not start to list his excellent qualities, Charles. He is a most objectionable individual.’

  The vicar refrained from comment and stared at the corner of dry toast.

  ‘And I really cannot see why you still employ him to cut the grass in the churchyard. He leaves it for so long that the weeds have grown waist high by the time he gets around to it and dandelion seeds have blown over into our garden. You need to have another word with him or find somebody else.’

  ‘It’s difficult to get people to do that sort of thing,’ the vicar replied, ‘but I shall, however, speak to him.’

  The vicar contemplated what to do with the remainder of his deeply unappetising breakfast, by now cold on his plate. He had once secreted a particularly inedible concoction of his wife’s in his handkerchief and deposited it later down the toilet bowl but decided against this, as he was sure he would be observed. He posted the piece of toast in his mouth and crunched.

  ‘I met Mrs Devine in the village,’ remarked his wife. ‘She has asked me to go into the school.’

  ‘Really?’ The vicar looked up, suddenly taking an interest.

  ‘Yes,’ continued his wife. ‘We had a pleasant conversation actually. I have quite taken to Mrs Devine. She has a lot about her and has made a great many changes for the better since she arrived. Of course some of the changes have not been welcomed by the Luddites in the village, but then any changes are likely to be met with opposition in Barton. It’s so insular and claustrophobic. It’s a wonder that they allowed gas to be replaced with electricity.’

  ‘Omnia mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis,’ said the vicar.

  Mrs Atticus sighed. ‘I wish you wouldn’t do that,’ said his wife. ‘Not all of us have a knowledge of Latin.’

  ‘Times change, and we change with them,’ the vicar translated.

  ‘Whatever,’ said his wife. ‘Anyhow, Mrs Devine is trying to encourage people with some expertise to go into the school and wondered if I might give a helping hand with the artwork there. Evidently the children have had little experience of any sort of painting and Mrs Devine would like some advice. As you know, she was quite taken with my work. I have to say I was somewhat reticent at first, but she persuaded me and you know I think I might enjoy it. It’s a while since I picked up a paintbrush.’

  ‘I think that is an excellent idea,’ said her husband, deciding not to tackle the egg. ‘It will take you out of yourself.’

  ‘Charles,’ sighed his wife. ‘I do not wish to be taken out of myself. I am quite content as I am, to some extent anyway, although I still would like to have moved to the city. It is merely one afternoon of my time. I am not taking on a permanent teaching position there.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said.

  ‘Mrs Devine did mention that she would welcome a visit from you, to take an assembly and speak to the children.’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘More than the last head teacher ever did. Why, when she was there you were never asked to go into school to talk to the children and to become more involved. How you put up with her for so long, I shall never know. And when you once suggested having the children take part in the Harvest Festival and having a Nativity play in the church, she nearly had a seizure.’

  ‘Speaking of the Harvest Festival, my dear, ‘said the vicar, ‘the bishop has intimated that he would like to attend our celebrations this year.’ Mrs Atticus rolled her eyes. ‘I thought I might ask his lordship to call into the school while he is here. I am sure Mrs Devine would not be averse to a visit.’

  ‘I think it’s very good idea,’ agreed his wife, ‘if that means that he will be spending less time with us. You know how I dislike his irritating good humour.’

  The Reverend Atticus decided to ignore his wife’s uncharitable observation. He chuckled. ‘He was telling me that at one school he visited he was showing the children his mitre and his crozier and was explaining to the children the significance of his pointed headdress and his hooked staff. Some time later he received a letter from one pupil thanking him for coming in and saying that he now knew what a crook looked like.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Atticus, pointedly not amused, ‘children can be very honest.’

  The Reverend Atticus felt it prudent not to continue with this conversation. ‘Mrs Devine seems to have settled in very well by all accounts,’ he said. ‘The school looks so much brighter from the outside and I am hearing very good things from some of the parents. Mrs Pocock—’

  ‘Oh, that dreadful woman with the shouty voice,’ interrupted his wife, ‘and that disagreeable child of hers.’

  ‘Mrs Pocock,’ continued the vicar, deciding, against his better judgement, not to spring to the woman’s defence, ‘tells me her son is making much better progress and speaks very highly of Mrs Devine. I did see her in church last Sunday, sitting at the back.’

  ‘Mrs Pocock? I don’t recall ever having seen her in church.’

  ‘No, no, Mrs Devine. She slipped away at the conclusion of the service and before I could have a word. I thought I might prevail upon her to join us on the fund-raising committee. What do you think, my dear?’

  ‘I think it’s a very good idea,’ replied his wife, agreeing with her husband on this rare occasion. ‘That committee needs some fresh blood. They sit there like the living dead. Yes, I think you should ask her.’

  Miss Brakespeare dabbed perfume on her wrists and behind her ears and stared at herself in the mirror. Beneath, in pride of place on the mantelshelf, was a photograph of her father in a silver frame. He looked trim and happy in his army uniform, eternally young, his hair recently cropped short and neatly parted and his moustache a dark shadow on his upper lip. She often looked at the photograph and vaguely remembered the quiet, gentle-natured man who had died when she was a girl.

  ‘Are those new shoes?’ asked her mother. Her voice was doleful and plodding.

  ‘They are, yes,’ replied her daughter.

  ‘They’re not the sort you usually wear. They’re a bit fancy for you, aren’t they?’

  ‘I thought I’d go for something a bit different this time.’

  ‘And I’ve not seen that dress before, either.’

  ‘No, Mother, that is because it is new as well.’

  ‘It’s too bright for your colouring, Miriam,’ the old woman grumbled, shaking her head. ‘You don’t suit emerald green with your colouring. It’s too loud.’

  ‘I like it,’ replied her daughter.

  ‘You’re splashing out a bit, aren’t you?’ observed her mother.

  ‘As you know, I spend little enough on myself,’ replied Miss Brakespeare. There was an edge to her voice.

  Her mother gave her a quizzical look. Was there something pointed in that remark, she wondered. But she decided not to pursue the matter. ‘And where are you going?’ she asked.

  ‘Into town.’

  ‘Into town,’ Mrs Brakespeare repeated. ‘It’ll be chock-a-block on a Saturday. It’s so crowded at the weekends these days that people don’t go there any more. Why are you going into town?’

  ‘I’m having my hair done and then I have things to do,’ replied her daughter.

  ‘Having your hair done?’ exclaimed her mother.

  ‘That’s right. Then I have things to do.’

  ‘What things?’ her mother asked scornfully.

  ‘Just things, Mother.’ Miss Brakespeare’s voice betrayed a trace of irritation.

  ‘So what about my lunch?’

  ‘There’s a salad in the fridge.’

  ‘You know I’m not that partial to salads.’ Her mother’s face was set in a hard thin line. ‘I can’t eat tomatoes and cucumber gives me wind. I thought you might have done me som
e steamed fish with parsley sauce.’ Miss Brakespeare didn’t reply. ‘What time will you be back?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  The old lady shuffled irritably in her chair. ‘I really don’t know what has got into you these days, Miriam,’ she said. ‘You’ve been acting very strangely of late, ever since that new head teacher took over. You go earlier to school and come home later and have been quite sharp with me, and now you’re spending money like there’s no tomorrow on new clothes and all this gallivanting.’

  Miss Brakespeare turned to face her mother. ‘I hardly think buying a few new clothes is extravagant and that going into town is gallivanting. And if I have been behaving differently, it is because I feel different. Since Mrs Devine took over I don’t feel quite the same as I used to do. Actually, Mother, for once in my life, I feel valued and listened to. I like going to school, which I can’t say I ever did in the past. I was always at the beck and call of Miss Sowerbutts and nothing anyone did suited her. She was like a black cloud hovering over everything. Mrs Devine has been like a breath of fresh air. She teaches half of the class I used to have, has introduced some very welcome changes and has given me responsibility I have never had before. It suits me very well.’

  ‘I can’t say that I like the change, Miriam,’ complained her mother.

  ‘Well, I am afraid you are going to have to put up with it, and I have to say now that you have raised the matter that you, like Miss Sowerbutts, have rather taken me for granted and put upon my good nature.’ Her mother opened her mouth to speak but paused, as if searching for the right words. Her daughter continued blithely, ‘I know you have various ailments and it can’t be all that pleasant spending all day by yourself, and that there are things you can’t manage and I am sorry for that, but you must understand that I do have a life outside this house. Now, the salad is in the fridge, and an egg custard. I shall be back some time this afternoon. Is there anything you want from town?’

  ‘No,’ said her mother, at last finding her voice. ‘Nothing.’