At the public bar Fred Massey, dressed in his ill-fitting Sunday best suit, a bargain from a charity shop, finished his pint of bitter in one great gulp.
‘I’ll tell you what, Albert,’ he told his companion, a ruddy-faced individual of immense girth and with several impressive chins, ‘if that there woman thinks she can start laying down the law to me, she’s in for a bloody shock.’
Albert nodded but said nothing. Like most in the village, he didn’t like the constantly complaining, tight-fisted, bad-tempered Fred Massey but he felt it prudent not to cross swords with the man, since, as he supplied him with animal feeds, it was in his best interest not to fall out with one of his customers. Massey was a greedy man who saved money not for what it could buy, which was precious little in his case, but as a pure possession. He liked nothing better than to see the figures on his bank statements increase monthly, and if there was a bargain to be had, he was at the front of the queue.
‘She’s not been in the village more than a few weeks,’ he grumbled, ‘and already she’s causing havoc.’ He stabbed his finger on the bar. ‘I’ve took my beasts down that there track since I was a young-un and she’s not stopping me doing it now.’ He shook his head and glowered. ‘Can I have another pint here?’ he shouted down the bar.
Albert drained his glass in the hope that he might be offered a similar drink, but none was forthcoming. ‘And another thing,’ continued the disgruntled farmer, ‘now she’s told me to take my sheep off her paddock. Can you believe that?’ Albert could indeed believe that and could have pointed out that it was, in fact, the woman’s paddock and she had every right to ask him to remove his animals, but he said nothing and fingered the empty glass. When the pint arrived, his companion produced a small leather pouch from his pocket and counted out the exact money. Albert realised that there would be no pint for him in the offing. Tight-fisted old bugger, he thought to himself.
‘And another for you, Mr Spearman?’ asked the landlord.
‘Nay,’ replied Albert, glancing at his watch. ‘Dinner will be on the table in a minute.’
‘I was telling Albert here,’ grumbled Fred, ‘that that there woman who’s bought the Pickles’ cottage has told me I can’t use the track what runs past her cottage. She had a go at my nephew Clarence only yesterday when he took two of my beasts past her cottage. Put the fear of God into the lad, she did. Well, I’ll tell you this, Albert—’
‘Don’t start all that again, Fred,’ interrupted the landlord, leaning over the bar and pointing. ‘I’ve heard quite enough from you about that. I told you that if you and Les Stainthorpe have another set-to in this pub, you’ll both be barred and you’ll have to drink down the road at the Mucky Duck. You drive customers away with that sort of carry-on and I’m not having it.’
‘I was only saying—’ started Fred.
‘Well, don’t,’ said the landlord, walking away to serve another customer at the other end of the bar.
Fred was quiet for a while. ‘I reckon it were Les Stainthorpe what put the idea in her head, telling her it were her track. I had a right argument with him in here about it.’
‘Aye, so I heard,’ said Albert, shuffling off the bar stool ready to depart. He had come into the pub for a quiet Sunday lunchtime drink and interesting conversation and had heard quite enough from this unremittingly miserable man.
‘She comes into this village all la-di-dah as if she owned the place,’ continued Fred, ‘and I’ll tell you this, it’s not only me she’s upsetting. She’s getting up everyone else’s noses as well. I was told that Mrs Stubbins and Dr Stirling have taken their kids away from the school and Miss Sowerbutts is outraged at all the changes this new woman’s making.’
‘Well, I’m off,’ said Albert, weary with listening and thinking of the Sunday roast that awaited him, and he left Fred Massey scowling into his pint.
‘You know Fred, you have a real talent,’ said the landlord.
‘Oh, aye, what’s that then?’
‘Of driving customers out of my pub, that’s what. Has it ever occurred to you that anyone listening to you at the bar for more than five minutes seems to make himself scarce?’
‘Gerron with you,’ replied Fred. ‘And get us another pint.’
Fred’s diatribe had been overheard by two customers at the other end of the bar. Major C. J. Neville-Gravitas smoothed his moustache with an index finger before finishing his single malt.
‘Interesting,’ he remarked to his companion.
‘Aye, so I ’eard,’ replied Councillor Smout. ‘Bit of a rum do this, i’n’t it?’
‘She seems to have made a few enemies since starting at the school, our Mrs Devine,’ observed the major.
‘Well, I felt she were a bit on t’forceful side when we interviewed ’er, and as you well know, major, I did have my reservations.’
The major could not recall anything of the sort, for all the governors, with the exception of Dr Stirling, had been strongly in favour of the appointment of Mrs Devine, but he remained silent on the matter. ‘By the sound of it, it appears more children are leaving the school,’ he said, ‘including the son of one of our governors. I was not aware that Dr Stirling was taking his son away. It does not bode well.’
The councillor gave a small smile. ‘Well, in a way it does,’ he said. ‘I mean, if we are to close t’school, as was proposed at t’last Education Sub-committee meeting, it sort of plays into our hands.’
‘In what way?’ enquired his companion.
‘Well, if t’school is continuing to lose children and t’community as a whole don’t ’ave no confidence in t’head teacher and, as we’ve just ’eard, she’s ruffling a few feathers, well, it does make it rather easier to go ahead wi’ closure, dunt it?’
‘Ah, yes, I see,’ said the major. ‘I follow your drift.’
The councillor tapped his fleshy nose with his forefinger. ‘Any road, we shall have to play it a bit on t’careful side at t’next governors’ meeting.’
‘Softly, softly, catchee monkey, eh?’ said the major.
‘What?’
‘Exactly, councillor, play it carefully,’ agreed the major.
‘Another whisky?’ asked Councillor Smout.
‘That would be very acceptable,’ his companion replied, before draining his glass.
There was a sharp and urgent rapping on the cottage door. It was early Sunday evening and Elisabeth was in the kitchen preparing her supper.
If that’s who I think it is, she thought, walking through from the kitchen into the hall, I shall not be quite as polite as I was when he last called and threatened me. There is no way that objectionable man is driving his cows down my track.
She opened the door to find Dr Stirling on the threshold, looking dishevelled and clearly distressed.
‘Mrs Devine,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you at this hour, but I wonder if you’ve seen James?’
‘Come in,’ said Elisabeth.
He walked into the hall wringing his hands. ‘Is he here?’ he asked, looking around.
‘No,’ Elisabeth replied, ‘he’s not.’
‘Oh dear,’ he sighed. ‘I thought perhaps he might have come over here. You did mention that he had been to your cottage before and I thought he might have come here and forgotten about the time.’
‘I’m afraid I haven’t seen him.’
‘I had an afternoon call, an emergency out at Littlebeck, and left James at home around five,’ the doctor told her. ‘Mrs O’Connor, my housekeeper who lives close by, usually calls round to keep an eye on James when I go out but she was at church. She goes to six thirty mass at Urebank every Sunday and then over to see her sister. James said he would be all right by himself, this once. When I arrived home he wasn’t there. I can’t imagine where he’s got to. Do you think he’s with the boy he’s friendly with? Danny, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Elisabeth. ‘James was to meet Danny by the mill pond earlier today, but he never showed up.’
‘The mill pond!’ exclaimed the doctor. ‘Oh God, I hope—’
‘Dr Stirling,’ said Elisabeth calmly, ‘I am certain there is nothing to worry about. James has probably just forgotten about the time.’ She glanced at the long-case clock in the hall. ‘It’s only a little after seven and still light. He’s probably at home this very minute. Maybe he went for a walk. It is a lovely evening and—’
‘No, no,’ he said impatiently. ‘He wouldn’t do that, not without telling me.’
‘I really wouldn’t worry—’ began Elisabeth.
‘Anything could have happened to him,’ interrupted the doctor, hardly listening. ‘I mean if he’s lost he won’t be able to tell strangers where he lives and you hear such stories of missing children and abductions.’
‘If he’s lost,’ said Elisabeth, trying to allay the man’s fears, ‘he can write down where he lives. James is a sensible boy and abductions are extremely rare. I am sure you are worrying unnecessarily.’
‘But he’s never done anything like this before,’ the doctor told her. ‘He always tells me or Mrs O’Connor where he’s going and he’s always back home at the time I tell him. Could we have a word with this friend of his?’
‘Of course we can,’ said Elisabeth. ‘The caravan is next door, in the paddock.’
Dr Stirling followed Elisabeth down the path and across the paddock to the caravan. Elisabeth knocked lightly on the door.
Les Stainthorpe poked his head out of a window. ‘Oh, hello, Mrs Devine. Come on in.’
Elisabeth entered the caravan. She had not been inside before and was surprised to see how clean and tidy everything was. The beds had been made up neatly, and pots and pans had been tidied. There wasn’t a thing out of place. Danny, sitting writing at the table, looked up anxiously.
‘You’ll be pleased t’lad’s doin’ ’is ’omework, Mrs Devine,’ said the old man. He caught sight of Dr Stirling waiting outside, a worried expression in his face. ‘Hello, doctor,’ he said. ‘There’s nowt up, is there?’
‘I wonder if Danny has seen anything of James?’ asked Elisabeth.
‘No, miss,’ said the boy getting up from the table. ‘I telled you I was supposed to meet ’im this mornin’ down by t’mill pond but ’e never turned up.’
‘The thing is, Danny,’ explained Dr Stirling, coming into the caravan, ‘James is missing.’
‘Missing!’ the boy exclaimed.
‘He’s not at home,’ said the doctor, ‘and I don’t know where he is. You haven’t seen him at all today?’
‘No.’
‘Have you any idea where he might be?’ asked Elisabeth.
‘No, I don’t,’ said Danny, ‘but I know why he’s run off.’
‘Run off!’ repeated the doctor. ‘What do you mean, he’s run off?’
‘It’s because of that bloody school you were sending him to!’
‘Hey, hey, Danny Stainthorpe,’ said his grandfather sharply. ‘Less of that sort of language and don’t be so rude to t’doctor.’
‘Well, it is, granddad,’ said the boy angrily. ‘Jamie didn’t want to go to that school, ’e wanted to stay where ’e was and ’e was real upset that ’is dad was makin’ ’im go. I telled you that, granddad. Jamie tried to tell Dr Stirling but ’e wouldn’t listen and then Mrs Devine tried to tell ’im and ’e wouldn’t listen to ’er either.’ He breathed out heavily. ‘I don’t know why adults don’t listen.’
Dr Stirling looked at Elisabeth. ‘I never knew that James was so set against going to St Paul’s. I really didn’t. If I’d known …’ His voice tailed off.
‘He din’t go on about it because ’e said it made you unhappy,’ Danny told him. ‘You should ’ave listened to ’im, Dr Stirling, and seen ’ow unhappy ’e was.’ The boy began to rub his eyes.
‘Now don’t get upset, Danny,’ said Elisabeth calmly. ‘I’m sure James is all right. Perhaps he just wanted to get away somewhere to think things through, to have a bit of time by himself. Maybe he’s gone down to that den you mentioned. Do you think he might be there?’
‘He could be,’ said the boy, sniffing.
‘Well, shall we go and have a look and call in at some of the other places you and James like to go to and see if we can find him, that’s if it’s all right with you, Mr Stainthorpe?’
‘’Course it is,’ said the old man. ‘I’ll put mi coat on and give you an ’and.’
Elisabeth turned to Dr Stirling. ‘It might be a good idea if you were to go back to your house in case James returns. I think you’ll probably find him there waiting for you and wondering where you’ve got to. Leave your number and if he turns up, I’ll give you a ring.’
‘Aye, you gerron back to Clumber Lodge,’ said Les, resting a hand on the doctor’s shoulder. ‘Like as not t’lad’s theer waitin’ for thee.’
‘Yes, I’ll do that,’ said Dr Stirling, rubbing his forehead. ‘And thank you.’
‘If we can’t find him,’ said Elisabeth, ‘then I think you should call the police.’
It was getting dark now. There was a drizzle of rain and a cold white moon in a gunmetal grey sky and there was still no sign of the missing boy. They sat on heavy hard-backed chairs around the large oak table in the gloomy dining room at Clumber Lodge: Dr Stirling, Elisabeth and the two young police officers. It was a cold, empty room, devoid of pictures and dominated by a white marble fireplace. Before them on the table were photographs of James.
The young policeman with the red nose, colourful acne and greasy black hair flicked his notebook shut and leaned back in the chair.
‘I wouldn’t worry too much, Dr Stirling,’ he said casually, ‘Children run off all the time.’
Elisabeth found his patronising tone irritating. She might have mentioned to him that some children go missing and are never found and that he should get off his backside and start looking, and she might have added that of course the boy’s father was very worried.
‘I’ve known a number of cases when kids have had a bit of a tiff with their mums and dads and run off,’ continued the young policeman. ‘We soon find them.’
Elisabeth knew that this was not the case, but she remained silent.
‘I have not had a tiff with my son, officer,’ said Dr Stirling. His face was drawn and troubled. ‘There was no argument.’
The young policeman looked at his colleague, a pale-faced woman with her hair scraped back on her scalp into a small bun, and rolled his eyes. ‘What I mean,’ he said, ‘is that children leave home for a number of reasons. There was a girl who couldn’t face sitting her school exams and took herself off to her grandma’s in Halifax, and a lad who went looking for his dog and got lost. There was the girl who popped to the corner shop, met a friend and went to her house and forgot about the time. We had a teenager missing for two days last month but he turned up no worse for wear. Been at a pop concert. It’s not unusual for kids to run away or go missing. We soon find them. Now you say you have looked in all the places he might have gone?’
‘Yes,’ said Elisabeth, resisting the temptation to ask him if he was taking the situation seriously.
She and Danny and the boy’s grandfather had searched for a good hour, looking in the den, down by the mill pond, in the small copses and hedgerows, the deserted barns and around the village, getting increasingly worried as the evening grew darker and there was no sign of the missing boy.
‘Well, I’ve got a picture of your son,’ said the young policeman, rising from the chair. ‘I’ll alert all my colleagues to keep an eye out for him and if he’s not turned up by tomorrow we’ll organise a proper search.’
Dr Stirling stared into the distance as if looking for something.
‘The boy is only just eleven,’ said Elisabeth, ‘and he should not be out all night at that age. I suggest you start a search immediately.’
‘We will keep our eyes open,’ said the young policeman. ‘As I’ve said, youngsters do sometimes run away but they usually return when they are hungry and it st
arts getting dark.’
‘It is out of character for this particular young man to leave home without saying where he was going,’ Elisabeth told the policeman, ‘and, as you can see, it is now dark. You will appreciate how very worrying this is. The other thing you should know is that James is a very shy and reticent boy.’
‘He does speak,’ explained the doctor, ‘but only to certain people.’
‘Why is that?’ asked the young policewoman, suddenly taking an interest. She had recently been on a course relating to child abuse, and the lecturer had mentioned that one of the tell-tale signs of cruelty and maltreatment was a child not speaking.
‘It’s … it’s difficult to explain,’ he replied.
‘Was he unhappy?’ the young policewoman asked. ‘Has something upset him? Has something happened to trigger his running away?’
‘Well, my son was to start at his new school tomorrow. I suppose he was nervous about that,’ Dr Stirling told her. ‘He’s quite a sensitive boy, you see. He takes things perhaps a little seriously. I thought—’
‘James is a pupil at my school,’ said Elisabeth, coming to his aid. ‘He is a very well-adjusted, happy and well-cared-for boy. He has probably just wandered off and forgotten about the time, but I do think you should be out looking for him.’
The young policewoman looked unconvinced.
‘Perhaps you and your colleague might start looking now,’ said Elisabeth.
‘As I said, we will certainly keep an eye out for the boy,’ the officer replied. ‘Let’s not get too over-anxious at this stage.’
‘And we will need to speak to him,’ added his colleague, ‘when he returns.’
The Little Village School Page 19