The Little Village School

by Gervase Phinn

‘What’s up wi’ you, our Danny?’ asked his grandfather.

  ‘Nowt,’ replied the boy, resting his head in his hands.

  ‘Now come on, lad, there’s summat up. Tha’s not spoken a word all mornin’, which isn’t like you. You should be out and about on a champion Sat’day like this and not mopin’ about t’caravan wi’ a gob like last month’s rhubarb.’

  ‘There’s nowt up wi’ me, granddad,’ replied the boy.

  ‘I thowt we allus agreed to talk about things,’ said the old man, ‘get things off of us chests. I can allus tell when summat’s up. Now, come on, what’s mitherin’ thee?’

  ‘Well, it’s Jamie,’ the boy told him. ‘’Is dad’s takin’ him away from our school and sendin’ ’im to some posh place in Ruston. Jamie’s mi best friend and I don’t want ’im to go and ’e dunt want to go eether.’

  The old man scratched his chin. ‘Did ’e tell you this?’

  ‘Aye, ’e did.’

  ‘And ’as ’e telled ’is dad ’e dunt want to go?’

  ‘No, ’e says ’is dad’s enough to worry abaat and ’e dunt want to upset ’im.’

  The old man sighed.

  ‘You see ’e can’t talk to ’is dad like I talk to you, granddad. If I’m worried about summat I allus tell yer.’

  ‘It’s allus best to get it out in t’open and not bottle it up. What about you tellin’ t’head teacher?’ suggested the old man. ‘Let Mrs Devine ’ave a word wi’ ’is dad.’

  ‘I telled ’er,’ said the boy, ‘an’ she said she’d see Jamie’s dad but I reckon she ’asn’t. You see thing is, granddad, I’m t’only one Jamie talks to apart from ’is dad and I don’t reckon ’e says much to ’im. I don’t know ’ow ’e’ll get on at t’other school not knowing anybody and wi’ nobody to stick up for ’im.’

  ‘Why dunt the lad speak to other people then?’ asked the old man.

  ‘I don’t rightly know,’ Danny told him. ’E just dunt say owt.’

  ‘There are quiet folks in t’world, tha knows, Danny. ’Appen ’e’s one of these. Not everyone’s got a gob on ’em like thee and me. We can talk for Britain.’

  The boy gave a small smile. ‘It’s funny ’im not talkin’ to other kids an’ t’teachers though. ’E used to speak but then ’e just stopped. ’E just says he dunt feel like it.’

  ‘Lad’s lost ’is mother,’ said the boy’s grandfather. ’Appen that’s mebbe summat to do wi’ it. Perhaps ’e’s still grievin’.’ The old man thought of the daughter he had lost and how quiet and reclusive he had become for a while after her death. ‘Give it time and ’e’ll be talkin’ like t’best of ’em.’

  ‘Mebbe,’ muttered the boy, sounding unconvinced.

  ‘You should ask Mrs Devine if she’s ’ad a word wi’ t’lad’s dad,’ said the old man.

  ‘I’m keepin’ out of ’er way,’ replied Danny, scratching his scalp. ‘I’m not in ’er good books at t’moment.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘I got in a bit o’ trouble at school. I took mi ferret in and it bit Malcolm Stubbins. ’E ran off wi’ mi bag and pur his hand in it and Ferdie bit ’im an’ ’ung on.’

  ‘Tha shouldn’t be takin’ tha ferret to school, Danny,’ said the boy’s grandfather.

  ‘’E were off colour, granddad.’

  ‘Still, school’s not a place for ferrets.’

  ‘So Mrs Devine’s not best pleased wi’ me at t’moment. Malcolm Stubbins grabbed ’old of Ferdie and were ’urtin’ ’im so I clocked ’im one and ’e ’it me back and we gor in a scrap. Mrs Devine were right mad wi’ us for feightin.’

  ‘Well, it’s not the end o’ the world, is it?’ said his grandfather. ‘And if that lad ’ad kept ’is ’ands out of your bag ’e wouldn’t ’ave got bitten. Now, come on, our Danny, you can help me go and pick some blackberries from down by t’old railway line.’

  Elisabeth had barely returned from Forest View that Saturday when there was a sharp rap on the door. Outside in the porch was a ruddy-complexioned man in a greasy cap and dressed in soiled blue overalls.

  ‘May I help you?’ she asked.

  ‘Aye, could you move your car, missis? I need to get my beasts back to yonder field.’

  ‘It’s Mr Massey, isn’t it?’

  ‘Aye, that’s me.’

  ‘I was hoping I might meet you,’ said Elisabeth, ‘to have a word about the use of my track.’

  ‘Oh aye.’ His narrow eyes narrowed further and his forehead furrowed. ‘What about it?’

  ‘I would prefer that in future, Mr Massey,’ said Elisabeth, ‘you do not bring your cows down there. As you can see, I park my car on the track and your cows do make a mess.’

  ‘Not bring my cows down there,’ he repeated, loudly. ‘I’ve allus brought my beasts down there.’

  ‘Well, I am asking you not to,’ said Elisabeth calmly.

  ‘Look here, missis,’ said the man, ‘I’ve brought my cows down that track as long as I can remember. It’s a right of way.’

  ‘No, Mr Massey, it is not a right of way,’ Elisabeth told him. ‘It belongs to me. It is private property, something I think you are well aware of.’

  ‘Well, I’m telling you, missis, that it’s a right of way,’ the man said belligerently, ‘and I’ve lived in this village a damn sight longer than you have. It always has been a right of way and I have the right to bring my beasts down it. I don’t know what you’ve been told by old Stainthorpe, but I’m telling you that track is for anyone’s use.’

  ‘Would you care to see the deeds of this cottage, Mr Massey, in which it states quite clearly that the track is part and parcel of this property?’

  ‘Mrs Pickles had no problem with me bringing my cows down there,’ he said peevishly.

  ‘Mrs Pickles didn’t have a car,’ Elisabeth told him.

  ‘You can park your car on the road.’

  ‘Where I park my car is up to me, Mr Massey, and I wish to park it on the track next to my cottage. So please in future take your cows by another route.’

  ‘I don’t believe what I’m hearing,’ growled the man.

  ‘And while you are here it gives me the opportunity of asking you to remove your sheep from my paddock.’

  ‘Move my sheep!’The man’s face became flushed with anger. ‘Move my sheep?’

  ‘Had you asked my permission to graze your sheep there and not been so mean-minded as to evict Mr Stainthorpe from your field, I might have been more inclined to let your sheep stay in the paddock, but as it is I would like them removed.’

  The man stared at her for a moment and then moved closer. ‘I’ve heard about you,’ he said.

  ‘And I you, Mr Massey,’ Elisabeth replied, not at all daunted and looking him straight in the eye.

  ‘If you think you can come here into our village and start laying down the law then you’ve another think coming. You may try and rule the roost in that school and tell kids what to do, but you’re not getting away with it with me. I shall carry on using that track and grazing my sheep as I’ve done before and nobody will stop me.’

  ‘I think they will, Mr Massey,’ Elisabeth informed him. ‘If you continue to trespass on my property I shall have to resort to taking legal action to prevent you. Good day.’

  He turned and stomped off, stopping at the gate to deliver a threat.

  ‘You’ve not heard the last of this!’ he shouted, stabbing the air with a bony finger. ‘Not by a long chalk.’

  Elisabeth, sitting in the sunshine the following morning, looked up. A small hairy head was poking through the bushes to the rear of the cottage garden. The dog observed her for a moment with small bright eyes, cocked its head, and then, sensing she was not a threat, eased its body through the shrubs and scampered towards her, wagging its tail frantically.

  ‘Hello,’ said Elisabeth, lowering the book she had been reading and reaching down to pat the bristly body. ‘And who are you?’

  ‘His name’s Gordon,’ came a strident voice from the gate.

  Th
e speaker was a large woman who, despite her appearance – old tweed skirt, shapeless waxed jacket and heavy green rubber boots – was of a statuesque bearing. She spoke with the sort of voice which had echoes of the elegance and comfort brought by wealth and breeding, of cut-glass chandeliers and silver salvers, nursemaids and governesses.

  ‘He’s called Gordon,’ she informed Elisabeth, ‘because when I got him he reminded me so much of my dear grandfather, who sported sandy whiskers and had the same bright eyes.’

  ‘He’s delightful,’ said Elisabeth, scratching the hairy little head.

  ‘He’s a little rascal,’ said the woman. ‘Always going where he shouldn’t. Come here, Gordon.’ The dog dutifully scurried to its owner.

  ‘He’s a fine dog,’ said Elisabeth.

  ‘He is, isn’t he?’ agreed the woman. ‘Border terrier. Good at ratting. I often take my Sunday constitutional by this cottage. Mrs Pickles, who used to live here, gave him scraps. I think he was hopeful you might have something for him. He has a remarkable memory when it comes to food.’

  Elisabeth went over to the gate. ‘I’m afraid he’s out of luck this morning.’

  The woman put the dog on a lead. ‘You are Mrs Devine, I take it?’ she said. ‘The new head teacher at the village school?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’m Helen Wadsworth,’ said the woman, holding out a hand which Elisabeth shook. ‘I live up at Limebeck House. On a fine day like this you can see it from here. This was originally a tied cottage, you know. Mr Pickles was my father’s gamekeeper for many years and when he retired it was given to him.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ said Elisabeth.

  ‘We don’t have a gamekeeper now, more’s the pity, and as a consequence we are bedevilled with rabbits and moles and foxes and I don’t know what, not to mention the poachers.’

  ‘Well, I think I can help you there,’ Elisabeth told her. ‘Not with the poachers, that is, but with the pests. I have a young man who is an expert at catching moles and rabbits, although I really don’t approve of his methods. He puts down traps and has a ferret.’

  The woman laughed. ‘Mrs Devine,’ she said, ‘you really cannot be sentimental about moles and rabbits. Moles are particularly annoying little creatures and spoil a lawn overnight. Rabbits can clear a vegetable patch in a day. As a child I always felt rather sorry for poor Mr McGregor and had little sympathy for Peter Rabbit and his family of greedy, burrowing pests. I guess Miss Beatrix Potter never had a vegetable patch of her own, for if she had she would not have been quite so approving of the creatures. You must direct this young man my way. I could make good use of his talents.’ The woman made no effort to move, but closed her eyes and breathed in noisily. ‘It’s such a pleasant day, is it not? On my walk I often used to call in and see how Mr Pickles’ widow was getting along. She was a delightful woman. Made splendid raspberry jelly and very acceptable sloe gin. I was greatly saddened to hear of her death, but I was very pleased that someone had bought the cottage at long last. As you probably know, it had been empty for some time and needed a deal doing to it. It is looking so much better now.’

  ‘Would you care to come in and have a look at what I’ve done on the inside?’ asked Elisabeth. ‘You are very welcome.’

  ‘Well, you know I might just do that,’ said the woman. ‘By nature, I am a terribly nosey person.’ She tied the dog up to the gate. ‘I won’t be long, Gordon,’ she said.

  ‘I hope you approve of the changes,’ Elisabeth told her, as she led the way to the cottage.

  The interior, with its polished oak floors, thick red curtains, pale cream sofa and chairs and exposed beams, came as a surprise to Elisabeth’s visitor.

  ‘My goodness!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’ve transformed the place. Not a humble gamekeeper’s cottage any more, is it?’

  Elisabeth, listening to the observation, couldn’t tell whether the woman approved of the changes or not.

  The visitor looked around the room, taking everything in. ‘And I see that you have smartened up the exterior to the school as well,’ she said. ‘You may not be aware, but it was my grandfather who endowed the building. It was originally intended for the children of the estate workers. The school was given over to the Local Education Authority in the 1920s. Sadly, I have had nothing to do with the school for a number of years. I am afraid that I did not get along with the former head teacher and we had words over the plaque.’

  ‘The plaque?’ repeated Elisabeth.

  ‘Yes, there was an ornamental tablet fixed to the wall in the entrance commemorating the school’s opening, which my grandfather unveiled. I was most upset when Miss Sowerbutts removed it. She had the entrance repainted like a hospital, a ghastly white, and declined to restore the plaque to its former position. I went in to see her and she refused my request to reinstate it. I took the plaque home with me. I have it up at the house. I am afraid that after that I have had nothing to do with the school and have never spoken to the woman since. There is really no phrase capable of describing just the right mixture of complacency, smugness and ill-humour that makes up Miss Sowerbutts’ personality.’

  ‘Perhaps you might like to visit the school now,’ Elisabeth said.

  ‘I should like that very much,’ replied the woman.

  ‘And show me where the plaque should go?’

  The woman’s face broke into a great smile. ‘I should be delighted,’ she said.

  Later that morning Danny appeared. Elisabeth saw him from the window, mooching around by the bushes with his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his jeans. She went out to see him.

  ‘Hello, Danny,’ she called.

  ‘Hello, miss,’ he called back. He looked ill at ease and made no effort to approach her.

  ‘The moles haven’t returned, thank goodness,’ she said, walking towards him.

  ‘No, I reckon you’ll not ’ave any more trouble wi’ them.’ He looked at the ground, nervous of meeting her eyes.

  ‘I am not going to ask you how you got rid of them,’ Elisabeth said.

  ‘Best not, miss,’ he replied.

  ‘I was speaking to the lady who lives at Limebeck House this morning,’ said Elisabeth cheerfully. ‘She has a bit of a mole problem. I said I knew a certain young man who might be able to help out.’

  ‘Yeah, I reckon I could, miss,’ he mumbled.

  ‘And what are you up to today?’ asked Elisabeth.

  ‘Oh, nowt much,’ replied the boy. ‘I were supposed to be meetin’ Jamie down by t’mill pond this mornin’, but ’e never turned up. We’ve med a den in t’woods and we sometimes go there.’

  ‘I think he’ll probably be a bit busy today,’ Elisabeth told him. ‘He’ll be getting ready to start at his new school tomorrow.’

  ‘Miss, did you ’ave a word with his dad about ’im not wanting to go to that new school?’ asked Danny. ‘You said you would.’

  ‘I did, yes.’

  ‘Did you tell ’im that Jamie dunt want to go?’

  ‘I did. I told him what you told me.’

  ‘What did ’e say?’

  ‘I’m afraid I wasn’t able to change his mind, Danny,’ she told him. ‘I did try my best.’

  The boy looked deflated. ‘’E won’t like it there, miss. I know ’e won’t. There’ll be all these strange teachers and new kids and Jamie won’t know anybody and they won’t understand about ’im not speaking and that.’

  ‘I should imagine his father has told them all about that, Danny,’ said Elisabeth trying to reassure the boy. ‘They will all be aware of how quiet James can be. I am sure he will be fine and soon make friends and settle there.’ I wish I could be certain of that, she thought to herself, but she shared his friend’s unease. She could foresee the difficulties the boy would face. The image of a rabbit came into her mind, a small huddled frightened creature shivering in the road, unable to move, caught in the headlight’s glare.

  ‘Thanks for tryin’ anyway, miss,’ he said. He looked up and shuffled his f
eet. ‘Miss, I’m sorry about bringin’ mi ferret to school. Mi granddad said it were daft of me and it caused a lot of bother. I won’t do it again, even if Ferdie’s off-colour.’

  ‘That’s water under the bridge,’ said Elisabeth, ‘and I don’t think you’ll be getting into any more fights now that Malcolm is at another school.’

  ‘He’s not going to t’one Jamie’s goin’ to, is ’e?’ asked Danny suddenly.

  ‘No, no, Jamie’s off to St Paul’s and Malcolm will be at Urebank.’

  ‘Malcolm used to pick on Jamie,’ Danny told Elisabeth.

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘He din’t do it when I was around though,’ said Danny. ‘’E knew I’d smack him one.’

  Elisabeth shook her head. ‘Well, now Malcolm’s left, I hope there will be no more fighting, young man.’

  ‘No, miss. I’m glad ’e’s not at t’same school.’ Danny scratched his head. ‘I’ope Jamie still wants to be mi friend,’ he said. ‘Do you think ’e will, miss?’

  ‘I’m sure he will,’ Elisabeth told him, thinking to herself that James needed friends like Danny.

  11

  Barton-in-the-Dale had two public houses: the Mucky Duck and the Blacksmith’s Arms. The former, once called the Dog and Duck, was a bright, brash and noisy place with loud music, games machines, karaoke nights, happy hours and pub quizzes. It was avoided by the locals and frequented by some of the ‘off-comed-uns’ and the young. In contrast, the Blacksmith’s Arms hadn’t changed in years. The outside looked dark and rundown, with its dull red brick walls, sagging roof of odd-shaped tiles and brown-painted window-frames. A faded wooden board, depicting a heavily muscled blacksmith hammering on an anvil, hung from a gallows-like structure to the front of the inn. It was at the latter hostelry that some of the farmers, shopkeepers and businessmen of the village gathered in the evening and at Sunday lunchtimes to argue about sport and politics and put the world to rights.

  The interior of the pub was dim and smoky, reeking of beer and wood smoke. Despite the mildness of the weather a blazing fire crackled in the inglenook fireplace. It was the landlord’s boast that the fire had been kept burning in the grate for over a century. The walls were bare save for a few coloured hunting prints, some cracked blue willow-pattern plates, a pair of old bellows and a couple of antique shotguns. A few dark wood, sticky-topped tables were arranged on the grey flagstone floor with an odd assortment of chairs and stools. When the landlord had once foolishly suggested that the place could do with some refurbishment, the regulars had protested strongly. They liked it the way it was. The place, they told him, had character and they were opposed to any changes.