The Little Village School

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘Thank you for that,’ said Dr Stirling to Elisabeth after the police officers had gone. ‘It sounded to them as though James had run away because I was maltreating him. They made me feel like a criminal.’ He wrung his hands. ‘I just cannot understand why he didn’t tell me he hated the idea of going to another school and why he should have run off like that.’

  Elisabeth could have told him but she remained quiet. The poor man had enough on his mind.

  ‘You had better go,’ he told her. ‘There’s nothing more you can do. I’ll stay here and hope James comes home.’ He was close to tears. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do if anything has happened to him.’

  Elisabeth rested a hand on his arm. ‘Are you going to be all right?’ she asked.

  ‘Not really,’ he replied.

  ‘Mr Stainthorpe and some of the men in the village are out looking. If you like, you could join them and I’ll stay here in case James returns.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Dr Stirling, ‘I’d like to do that. Thank you.’

  The search party returned after a couple of hours. Elisabeth saw from the dejected expressions on the men’s faces that they had not found the boy.

  ‘Well, we’ve looked everywhere for t’lad,’ Les told Elisabeth in a lowered voice, ‘but there’s no sign. ’Appen he’s fallen asleep somewhere. I pray to God ’e ’as and that nowt’s ’appened to ’im.’

  Elisabeth left Dr Stirling sitting staring out of the window. The clock in the hall struck ten. She had tried again to reassure him but she was now as worried as he was about his son. She walked slowly though the village in the fading light. Despite the mildness of the night, she felt cold. There was a light on in the Methodist chapel and she could hear the organist practising. Noisy voices could be heard in the Blacksmith’s Arms. When she arrived at the cottage she didn’t feel like going inside. She negotiated the fresh cowpats that spattered the track, came to the gate and looked down the shadowy garden that she had brought to life again; it was now a place of order and fruitfulness and beauty. She breathed in deeply, aware of the stillness of the night. Above her bats, like scraps of black cloth, fluttered in the air, which smelled of damp earth and holly berries. A fresh molehill had appeared on the lawn and she saw the white bob of a rabbit’s tail among her shrubs. The wind had dropped and the clouds moved away, leaving bright stars and a crescent moon curved silver and as bright as a sabre in the sky. Soft rain sifted through the tree-tops and the wet grass glittered in the moonlight.

  ‘Dear God,’ she prayed aloud, ‘let the boy be all right.’

  As her eyes became more accustomed to the darkness she saw a small hunched figure on the bench at the corner of the lawn. Her heart jumped. She ran through the gate and bent before the child and rested her hand on his.

  ‘James?’ she said quietly.

  The boy looked up. His hair was wet with rain and his cheeks were smeared where he had been crying and his small lip trembled.

  ‘James,’ she said again. ‘We’ve all be looking for you. Danny and me and your father.’

  Suddenly the tears came welling up, spilling over. The boy began to sob, great heaving sobs, and he fell into Elisabeth’s arms and hugged her.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘You’re safe. It’s all right.’ She stroked his hair and held his shuddering shoulders and thought of her own son, unreachable, shut away in his own private world. How she longed to hold him in her arms, stroke his hair and comfort him as she was now doing with this frightened little boy. She snuffled. ‘My goodness, you’ve got me crying now,’ she said.

  They sat there in the darkness holding each other. The wet slates on the cottage roof glistened, the cold crescent moon shone in a coal-black sky and the stars winked. In the distance she heard the howl of a fox.

  ‘Shall I take you home?’ asked Elisabeth.

  There was a small imperceptible whisper. ‘Yes.’

  Dr Stirling stood by the fireplace in the sitting room. Elisabeth sat opposite him on the large padded sofa, a glass of brandy cupped in her hands. It was a cold, unwelcoming room, dim and neglected with its heavy fawn-coloured curtains, earth-brown rug, dark cushions and dusty furniture. James had been tucked up in bed and the evening’s drama, so they both thought, was over.

  ‘I’ve been a bloody fool,’ he said, taking a gulp from his glass.

  Elisabeth didn’t answer.

  ‘A bloody fool,’ he repeated. ‘I never realised how much James disliked the idea of moving school. Young Danny was right, I should have listened, talked to him about it more.’ He thought for moment. ‘And I should have listened to you.’

  ‘Well, I’m as guilty as anyone for listening but not hearing – if that makes any sense.’ She took a sip of her drink and spluttered. ‘I’m not used to spirits.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yes. I always get the hiccoughs.’

  ‘No, I meant about you not hearing.’

  ‘I am afraid I am one of those people at education conferences whose mind wanders when I am listening to some speaker chuntering on about things that hold little interest for me, and I am not great at receiving other people’s advice.’

  He finished the brandy and placed the glass on the mantelpiece. ‘Since my wife died I’ve thrown myself into my work,’ Dr Stirling told her. ‘I should have paid more attention to James. I’ve neglected the boy.’

  ‘Hardly neglected,’ said Elisabeth.

  ‘Yes, I have. I’ve been too wrapped up in my own world.’

  ‘Well, perhaps this has been a salutary lesson,’ Elisabeth said, ‘that we should listen more to what children try and tell us.’

  Dr Stirling looked at her for a moment before speaking. He had been wrong about her, judged her unfairly. That evening she had been there for the boy and for him too.

  ‘You know I was against you being appointed at the school,’ he told her.

  ‘I guessed as much,’ said Elisabeth. ‘You scowled all the way through the interview.’

  ‘Scowled?’ he cried. ‘I never scowl.’

  ‘You looked like a bulldog with toothache.’

  He laughed. ‘Really?’

  ‘I could tell you were not impressed.’

  ‘Actually I was very impressed with your answers,’ he told her. ‘It’s just that I couldn’t understand why someone who was a head teacher of a large and successful school and on a good salary and with this wonderful inspectors’ report and excellent references should want to come to a small school in a pretty remote village. I had the idea you were coming here for a quiet life. If you had explained about your son and the reason—’

  ‘Why should I?’ Elisabeth interrupted. ‘It’s not anyone else’s business and I can’t be doing with those overly sympathetic comments, the “Oh, you poor dear, it must be so hard for you.” Anyway, there were other reasons for wanting to move. I needed a fresh start, a challenge, a break from the past.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘My husband left me,’ Elisabeth said suddenly. She had not told anyone about her past since moving to the village but for some inexplicable reason she wanted to tell him. When she thought about it later she couldn’t explain to herself why she had felt the impulse at that moment to speak about it. ‘Simon, he was my husband, wanted a “normal” son, whatever that means. He couldn’t cope with his son’s disability and left when John was five.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Well, that’s all water under the bridge.’

  They were silent for a while.

  ‘Does he see John at all?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘He married again and started a new life. I don’t feel any bitterness or anger; in fact I hope he’s happy.’ She looked into the quiet watchful eyes, blue as china marbles, which stared into her own. ‘As happy as I am.’

  Dr Stirling smiled. ‘I’m glad,’ he said. ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am for what you have done tonight.’ He continued to look into her eyes. ‘I hope we can be friends, good friends, and that you�
�ll have James back at Barton.’

  ‘Do you need to ask?’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose I do,’ he said. ‘And your suggestion that James should see the psychologist.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Perhaps you could arrange that.’

  ‘Of course,’ she replied.

  They looked at each other for a moment and both realised they had changed from being combative strangers to becoming friends.

  12

  On the Monday morning Elisabeth looked at her pupils as they filed quietly into the school hall. She felt a certain satisfaction at what she had achieved. Things had certainly changed since she had taken over as head teacher two weeks ago, and not just in the appearance of the building and with the morale of the staff. Her insistence during the first week on silence as the children entered and left the hall at assembly time (with a few practice runs until they got it right), that they should make less noise at dinnertime and move around the school in a more orderly fashion, had been accepted by the children, who had responded surprisingly well. The only pupil who had taken exception to the firmer approach had been Malcolm Stubbins, but he was no longer with them and would be starting at his new school at Urebank that morning.

  Miss Brakespeare attributed the improvement of the children’s behaviour to the fact that the head teacher, when she was not teaching, spent most of her time around the school, unlike her predecessor, who had tended to keep herself closeted in her room. At morning and afternoon breaks and at lunchtime Elisabeth could usually be found in the hall supervising the lunches or in the playground getting to know the children. Her commitment and enthusiasm began rubbing off on her staff, who, like her, started arriving at school early, leaving later and spending little time in the staff-room.

  ‘If you had a magic wand,’ Elisabeth would ask a child, as she walked around the playground or sat with him or her at dinnertime, ‘what changes would you make in the school?’

  The answers were predictable. Many of the children bemoaned the fact that there was little happening out of lessons, no sports teams or after-school clubs, lunchtime activities and trips out of school, needs that Elisabeth had identified herself and which she was determined to meet.

  The better behaviour of the children had been greatly welcomed by the teachers, not least Miss Brakespeare, who now, with a much reduced class, younger children and minus the troublemakers, found herself happier than she ever remembered being since she had started at the school.

  When the children had assembled that morning, sung the hymn and said a prayer, Elisabeth addressed them.

  ‘Now I have some quite exciting news,’ she said. ‘I have been having a word with different people in and around the village and I have asked some of them to come into school and offer a number of activities during the lunch-hour and after school, for those who are interested. Mrs Atticus, who is a very fine artist and who lives at the vicarage, will be coming in on Tuesday lunchtimes to take an art class. Mr Tomlinson, who plays the organ in the chapel, has agreed to help Mrs Robertshaw start a choir, and they will see those who are interested on Wednesdays. I have also persuaded Mr Parkinson, who is a scout leader, to take those boys and girls who are keen for football practice for an hour on Thursdays after school, and, if he feels we have the talent, which I am sure we have, he will start a couple of teams so that we can compete in the county competitions. Miss Wilson is eager to start a rounders team and the practices will take place, for boys and girls, at Friday lunchtimes. On some days you will see around school the vicar, the Reverend Atticus, who has agreed to take assembly now and again. There will also be a reading group, which I shall take every Monday and Friday lunchtime, and later I am hoping we can start a drama club too. I also have in mind organising some school trips and for the older children perhaps a visit to France next year.’ There was a hubbub of excited chatter. ‘Quietly, please.’ The noise subsided. ‘Now, all these things will be put in a letter which each of you will take home to your parents or guardians. I know you will make all our visitors very welcome when they come into our school and be on your best behaviour.’ She paused. ‘Won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Devine,’ the children chorused loudly.

  On the way out of the hall, Elisabeth was approached by the large girl with the ginger hair and shiny braces on her teeth. ‘Miss,’ she said loudly, ‘my mam’s got rid of the nits.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it, Chardonnay,’ replied Elisabeth, smiling.

  ‘She said they weren’t mine.’

  ‘Not yours?’

  ‘No, miss,’ said the girl. ‘I’ve got ginger hair and my mam said they weren’t ginger nits. I got them from somebody else.’

  ‘I don’t think nits come in different colours,’ said Elisabeth, trying to stop herself laughing. ‘Anyway, I’m glad you’ve got rid of them.’

  ‘Miss, I thought James Stirling was leaving,’ said the girl, changing the subject.

  ‘Whatever gave you that idea, Chardonnay?’ asked Elisabeth.

  ‘Everybody said he was going to another school.’

  ‘Well, you shouldn’t believe what everyone says,’ said Elisabeth. ‘James has just been off school for a couple of weeks, but now he is back and we are very pleased to see him.’

  ‘Miss,’ said Chardonnay, pulling a face, ‘is Malcolm Stubbins coming back as well?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ replied Elisabeth.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ said the girl, striding off.

  On her way to the classroom Elisabeth was waylaid by Oscar. She noticed that he was wearing a pair of large glasses with very colourful frames.

  ‘May I have a word, Mrs Devine?’ he said.

  ‘I like the glasses, Oscar,’ Elisabeth told him.

  He took a deep breath. ‘Yes, unfortunately I have to wear them now, which is a bit of a devil. I picked the frames. My mother wanted me to have some others but I told her that since I was going to have to wear them, I should have the choice. I think they look quite stylish. They’re designer. Anyway, I wanted to have a quick word with you about my mother. Now, I think it is a jolly good idea of yours to have all these activities going on in the school, Mrs Devine.’

  ‘I’m pleased you approve, Oscar,’ said Elisabeth.

  ‘And it occurred to me,’ continued the boy, ‘that my mother could teach everyone about ikebana. It’s Japanese flower-arranging, you know. She is very good at it. She wins prizes. She could also run a yoga class. She only works three days a week now, so she has time on her hands. Shall I ask her?’

  ‘That’s really good of you to suggest that, Oscar,’ Elisabeth said, trying to suppress a smile, ‘but I don’t really think there would be a lot of interest in the school for Japanese flower-arranging and yoga. However, I will certainly bear it in mind.’

  ‘Very well,’ the boy said cheerfully as he walked away. ‘Just a thought.’

  During the weeks that followed, the school became a hive of activity at lunchtime and after school. The clubs and extra classes, the sports activities and the music took off to such an extent that Elisabeth started to receive many positive comments from parents at the school gates about how pleased they were with these initiatives.

  Mrs Robertshaw had recruited a good number of pupils for the choir, and the children, who delighted the minister and the congregation at the Methodist chapel at their first performance, became regular features at the services. The finest singer had been Chardonnay, who had a clear and powerful voice and had sung a solo. Mr Parkinson had formed a football team in which Chantelle had turned out to be the star player, and Miss Wilson’s rounders team had very nearly won its first match against St Paul’s. The Reverend Atticus had started to visit the school each week and had agreed to teach some religious education lessons in addition to taking assemblies. Elisabeth was delighted with the response and had been surprised at how much talent and enthusiasm there was among the children. The greatest revelation had come in the form of Ernest Pocock.

  ‘He has a nat
ural aptitude,’ Marcia Atticus informed Elisabeth over a cup of coffee in the staff-room one Tuesday lunchtime. ‘The boy has an excellent eye for detail and colour and a great sense of perspective. He’s a miserable child at the best of times and tends to grunt rather than talk, but when he has a brush in his hand it is quite remarkable what he produces. It’s a sort of primitive latent talent. I think he has a real chance of getting an award in the County Art Competition.’

  Miss Brakespeare took a sip of her coffee, then smiled and shook her head. ‘Ernest Pocock an artist. We shall have to start calling him Picasso,’ she said.

  On the morning following the dramatic events of the Sunday night, when James had run away and been discovered in Elisabeth’s garden, Dr Stirling had brought his son into school early, before the other children had arrived. James sat with his father in Elisabeth’s classroom as quiet and subdued as ever, but she had noticed, as she spoke, that on a number of occasions the boy had lifted his dark eyes shyly and looked at her. She would smile at him and he would give a small smile back before averting his eyes. He was like some mollusc retreating into its shell when touched, a child locked, like her own son, into his own tight little world.

  ‘It was quite a drama,’ Dr Stirling said. He put an arm around his son’s shoulders. ‘We were really worried about you, young man,’ he said, speaking to his son. ‘Anyway, it’s sorted out now and there will be no more running away. All right?’

  The boy nodded.

  ‘And you’ll be a good boy for Mrs Devine.’

  ‘He will be,’ Elisabeth said. ‘From what Miss Brakespeare has told me, he’s never been anything other than a good boy and I am looking forward to teaching him.’

  She walked with James’s father to the entrance hall.

  ‘I am very grateful for all you did last night, Elisabeth,’ the doctor told her. ‘It was quite a shock to the system, my son running away like that. One imagines the most dreadful things that might have happened. I had a talk with James this morning and, although he didn’t say a great deal, I can tell he is happy to be staying here.’