‘I’m very pleased to have him back,’ Elisabeth said.
Dr Stirling stopped outside the school office. ‘As I said last night, I’ve been a bit pig-headed and not been a very good listener,’ he told Elisabeth. ‘I don’t wish to make excuses, but it has not been easy for me or for James since my wife died. It’s affected him deeply. Perhaps, as you suggested, I could come in and talk about James’s condition and see if we can work together to get him to open up a little more. Maybe see that psychologist you mentioned.’
‘Of course,’ Elisabeth replied, ‘I’ll arrange it. Before you go, there are a couple of favours I would ask of you though, Dr Stirling.’ There was a twinkle in her eye.
‘Oh dear, this sounds ominous.’ His face broke into a smile. ‘Come along then, what are they?’
Elisabeth rested a hand on his arm. ‘Nothing too onerous, I can assure you. Firstly, I want you to remain as a governor at the school.’
‘Done,’ he replied.
‘Now that wasn’t too bad, was it?’ Elisabeth told him, smiling with the sort of tolerant patient smile a teacher might employ when comforting a small child.
‘No, not too bad,’ he agreed. ‘What next?’
‘Sex.’
‘Sex!’ he spluttered.
‘The older pupils need a few sex education lessons,’ Elisabeth told him.
The doctor laughed. ‘And you want me to do them? I think there are people much better qualified to talk to children about sex than I.’
‘Oh, I think I can manage talking to the girls on this topic, but I think the boys might be less embarrassed and better informed and be prepared to ask questions if their lessons were from a man. And who better than a doctor, and you have such a wonderful way with words.’
‘You are teasing me, Mrs Devine,’ he said good-naturedly.
‘So?’ she asked.
‘I’ll have to think about it,’ Dr Stirling told her.
‘No, Dr Stirling,’ said Elisabeth, resting a hand in his arm. ‘I want an answer here and now and if you refuse—’
‘OK, OK,’ he interrupted. ‘I’ll do it. But if I do, you must start calling me Michael. I think we can dispense with the Dr Stirling bit, don’t you? After all, we are friends now, aren’t we?’
‘Very well, Michael,’ she said and felt a small rush of blood to her face.
When James’s father had gone Elisabeth returned to the classroom. The boy looked a sad little figure, sitting at his desk staring out of the window.
‘Come along, James,’ she said cheerfully, ‘you can have a walk around the school with me. I often do this before everyone arrives, to make sure it’s clean and there’s no litter.’ As they toured the school, Elisabeth outlined the plans she had for all the extracurricular activities and how she was going to tell everyone in assembly that morning. James listened but said nothing. They stopped and looked across the school field to the vast, white expanse of sky, the undulating green pastures dotted with sheep, the tall pine woods and distant sombre peaks. They stood there in silence. ‘And you know, James,’ Elisabeth said after a while and resting a hand gently on the boy’s shoulder, ‘if there’s anything that troubles you again, you must tell your father. He loves you very much and wants the best for you.’ The boy reached out and touched her hand, and then he rested his head gently on her arm for a moment.
Dr Stirling arrived at his surgery that morning in a buoyant mood. He could not recall when he had been quite as happy as he felt that day. His secretary, used to his familiar serious expression, looked up startled when she heard him whistling as he breezed through the door.
‘Good morning, Dr Stirling,’ she said.
‘And a very good morning to you too, Margaret,’ he said smiling.
He sat at his desk, leaned back in the chair and thought for a moment. It was as if a great pressing burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He had felt desperate and fearful when his son had gone missing, imagining the most terrible things. It had been almost more than he could bear. And the more he thought about it the more Elisabeth Devine came into his mind. It was she who had helped him through it all. She was, without doubt, a forceful, opinionated, strong-minded woman, but there was more to her than that, another side to her which he had witnessed when he saw her at Forest View sitting next to her son, with tears in her eyes. She hadn’t appeared so forceful then. And all the time James was missing she had been there with him, supportive and tender. He had misjudged the woman. He liked her company, he liked it very much.
The first patient of the morning was Mr Gribbon. He walked into the consulting room with the gait of a zombie and a face etched in pain.
‘Ah, Mr Gribbon,’ said the doctor cheerfully. ‘How good to see you.’
‘You’re in a good mood,’ observed his patient glumly, as he eased himself into a chair.
‘Indeed I am, Mr Gribbon, and who wouldn’t be on such a lovely bright sunny day?’
‘Me for a start,’ said the caretaker morosely.
‘What seems to be the matter this time?’ asked Dr Stirling, knowing full well that it would be the troublesome back. He knew that there was nothing much wrong with his patient’s back and that the caretaker was here for a doctor’s note to give him a few days off work. Over the years Mr Gribbon had been referred to numerous specialists, physiotherapists, osteopaths, hydrotherapists, acupuncturists and chiropractors, all of whom could detect nothing.
‘Same old problem,’ said the caretaker, wincing.
‘The back?’
‘Aye, the back. It’s giving me more gyp.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘That new head teacher’s got me lifting boxes, lugging desks about, laying paving slabs, climbing up ladders, fitting shelves, and it’s taking its toll. She’s a real Tartar and no mistake is Mrs Devine. I’ve never worked so hard since she started.’
‘Perhaps you are in the wrong line of work,’ suggested Dr Stirling.
‘Eh?’
‘Perhaps you should consider a more sedentary occupation.’
‘Eh?’
‘Perhaps you are not up to the job any more.’
‘Not up to the job? I never said that, doctor.’
‘Perhaps a younger and fitter person might be better suited to the work at the school. I could have a word with Mrs Devine if you wish.’
‘No, no, I like the job, but a few days’ rest and I’ll soon be right as rain.’
‘I think we need something more drastic this time, Mr Gribbon,’ said the doctor, in a mock-serious tone of voice.
‘More drastic?’ the caretaker repeated, looking shocked. ‘How do you mean, more drastic?’
‘I think we will have to operate,’ the doctor told him.
‘Operate?’
‘It will be a long and painful experience and, of course, not guaranteed to work, but I feel it is for the best. I am going to refer to you a specialist in Urebank and he will arrange for your hospitalisation and the operation.’
‘I don’t want no operation,’ said the caretaker, getting up from the chair in a surprisingly agile movement.
‘Well, in that case, it’s a matter of taking painkillers and grinning and bearing it,’ Dr Stirling told him.
‘Well, I’ll bear it, doctor, as I always have, but as to the grinning I’ll give that a miss.’
With that the caretaker headed for the door rather faster than he had entered.
At school lunchtime, Mrs Scrimshaw came scurrying into the playground to find Elisabeth.
‘Oh, Mrs Devine,’ she said, resting a hand on her chest as if she had a pain, ‘she’s in the entrance. She wants to see you. I’m all of a fluster. I said that you were not available at the moment but she said she’d wait and then I said you teach in the mornings and afternoons and could she make an appointment to come back at another time when you would be free but she insisted. She wants to see you now. Talk about forceful. I couldn’t say no to her, being who she is and all, so I put her in the staff-room. I hop
e I did right.’
‘ Who is it who wishes to see me?’ asked Elisabeth, intrigued and not a little anxious. Is it Miss Sowerbutts, she wondered, making a dramatic reappearance like some pantomime villain to complain about the changes, or a return visit from Mrs Stubbins? Or maybe it’s another angry parent come to complain.
‘It’s Lady Wadsworth,’ said Mrs Scrimshaw. ‘She lives at Limebeck House. She’s titled and owns all the land around the village. She makes the Queen sound common.’
‘Oh,’ said Elisabeth.
‘And she’s brought it with her.’
‘It?’
‘The plaque. Miss Sowerbutts and her had a terrible falling out over the plaque. It was removed from the entrance when they did the redecoration and Miss Sowerbutts refused to put it back up. She thought it looked ugly and out of place. Lady Helen’s here with it. I suppose she wants you to stick it back up on the wall.’
‘Which I intend doing, Mrs Scrimshaw,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Lady Wadsworth has already had a word with me.’
‘She has?’
‘And I think it is an excellent idea.’
‘You do?’
‘I do. It’s part of the school’s history. Now, would you get Lady Wadsworth a cup of tea and tell her I shall be along presently.’
‘I’ll get out the best china cups,’ said the secretary, scurrying off.
Elisabeth found her visitor sitting in the staff-room with a cup on her lap. She wore a ridiculously colourful checked tweed suit as shapeless as a sack of potatoes, and a wide-brimmed green felt hat sporting two long pheasant feathers and held in place by a silver brooch in the shape of a fox’s head. The outfit was complemented by thick brown stockings and shoes of the heavy, sensible brogue variety with little leather acorns attached to the front. She looked magnificently outlandish.
‘Mrs Devine,’ she said heartily, rising to her feet as Elisabeth entered the room. ‘I do hope I have not come at an inconvenient time.’ Before Elisabeth could answer she gestured to the uneaten chocolate biscuits on the plate beside her. ‘The tea was most acceptable but I shall forgo the confection,’ she said. ‘Mrs Sloughthwaite’s Venetian selection box, as she insists on calling it, gets everywhere. I see she has managed to foist some on to you. They are the sickliest, stalest and altogether most unappetising concoctions I have ever tasted. I swear she has had them in her shop since before the war.’
‘Yes, I can’t say that I am over-keen on them,’ said Elisabeth. ‘It’s good to see you, Lady Wadsworth.’
‘Helen, please,’ she said. ‘I feel I know you already, and now we are neighbours, so to speak, we will no doubt see a deal of each other.’ She gulped the remainder of her tea. ‘I’ve brought it.’ She placed the cup down and pointed to a large brass plaque leaning against a wall. ‘After our very pleasant conversation on Sunday, I thought I would drop it off before you change your mind. It is admittedly a little on the large side, rather like my grandfather really, who was larger than life, but it is quite tasteful, don’t you think, and of good workmanship? Watson, my general factotum at the house, has given it a good buffing up. I can show you where it used to go.’
The plaque was indeed rather large – at least three feet square. ‘I’ll get Mr Gribbon to fix it to the wall,’ said Elisabeth, wondering if she had done the right thing in agreeing to have it reinstated.
‘Splendid,’ said Lady Wadsworth.
‘Perhaps, while you’re here, you might like to look around,’ suggested Elisabeth.
‘I told you I was a rather inquisitive person,’ Lady Wadsworth replied, ‘and I should like that very much. I have to say I didn’t recognise the place when I walked through the door. You have certainly made some changes, as you have at the cottage.’ Again, Elisabeth wondered if her visitor altogether approved. It was her rather sharp tone of voice and the way she scrutinised everything.
It was clear after her tour of the school that Lady Wadsworth did indeed approve and was suitably impressed with the changes that had been made.
‘I have an idea,’ Elisabeth told her as they viewed a dark corner near the toilets, ‘that if I can squeeze some funding out of the Education Office we could have a small library here, with a carpet and cushions, a small table and chairs and a good selection of books.’
‘It’s a splendid idea,’ agreed Lady Wadsworth. ‘I am all in favour of children reading. “Books are the architecture of a civilised society,” as my grandfather used to say, “and reading is the very protein of growth in learning.” He was a very erudite man, the second Viscount, and wrote books himself, you know.’ She smiled before adding, ‘Although Miss Beatrix Potter’s books about fluffy, cotton-tailed bunny rabbits would not be on my reading list.’
That afternoon Elisabeth’s class, having heard a story she read to them about a man who lost the winning lottery ticket, was asked to write an account of something valuable or precious which had been lost.
‘I’m writing about the time my mum lost her ring,’ said Chardonnay, when Elisabeth went to look at her work. ‘It was her engagement ring and she took it off last Christmas to try on a ring my gran had given her and it got thrown out with all the wrapping paper.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Elisabeth.
‘My dad went barmy,’ the girl said, folding her arms before her and launching into a quick-fire description of the events. ‘My dad said she should have been more careful, and she said he shouldn’t have thrown out all the paper. We spent ages looking though the dustbin. Then they had a right ding-dong. I think my dad had had a bit too much to drink. Then my gran got this turkey bone stuck in her throat and nearly choked and my sister had an argument with Duane, her boyfriend, because he bought her this cheap perfume and she was expecting some jewellery and he went home and she ended up crying in the toilet all day and then the dog was sick on the carpet and my little cousin Oliver pushed a nut up his nose and had to go to the hospital to have it taken out and they used this big silver needle with a little hook on the end.’ The girl took a breath. ‘He’s always doing daft things like that. He pushed some popcorn up his nose once and when my Auntie Carol got it down he ate it and she went—’
‘It sounds a very eventful Christmas,’ interrupted Elisabeth, stemming the flow.
‘We had a rotten Christmas as well,’ said Chantelle, who had been listening. ‘My dad bought my mum this red silk underwear and she stuffed it back in the box and told him that only tarts wear red underwear and she’d not be seen dead in it and she wanted a deep fat fryer. My nan looked at this red underwear and said that my mum’s dad had gone through that stage.’
‘And did your mother find her ring, Chardonnay?’ Elisabeth asked, eager to change the subject from the red silk underwear.
‘No, she never did,’ replied the girl. ‘Anyway she’s got another now and it’s a bigger one.’
‘So it all worked out for the best,’ said Elisabeth.
‘Yes, miss,’ said Chardonnay. ‘My mum’s new partner bought it for her after my dad left.’
That evening Elisabeth sat down to mark the children’s exercise books. Her pupils had really made an effort to write interesting accounts on the topic she had set for them and they had taken care with their writing. There was an authenticity about much of the work. Chardonnay’s long, rambling description of the misplaced ring and Chantelle’s account of the time her mother had lost her contact lens in the cinema made her laugh out loud. Danny’s detailed and informative account, predictably about his ferret, described the time Ferdie had disappeared down a rabbit hole and had been missing for three days. Darren Holgate wrote of the occasion at his cousin’s wedding when his father had ended up in a fight in which he had lost two teeth. Then Elisabeth got to James’s piece of work.
‘The most precious thing I have lost is my mum,’ he wrote. Elisabeth’s heart missed a beat. ‘Sometimes when I’m in bed at night I try and think of her face but I can’t see it and it makes me upset. The next morning I have to look at the picture on the shelf in the kitchen
and the one in the sitting room to remind me. In the photographs she’s dressed in her riding outfit, sitting on Spangle, the horse she was riding when she died. I remember the smell of her though, really clearly. It’s a smell of hay and stables and freshly mown grass and summertime. Sometimes a piece of music she liked reminds me of her and I begin to cry. I remember too the way she laughed. It used to make my dad laugh. He doesn’t laugh much any more. He spends a lot of time staring out of the window. It makes me feel very sad. The most precious thing that I’ve lost is my mum and I shall never forget her.’
He had written underneath, ‘Please don’t read this out to the class.’
Elisabeth closed the exercise book. ‘Oh, James,’ she said aloud.
The following Monday, Elisabeth arranged for Dr Stirling to see Mrs Goldstein, the educational psychologist. He listened intently as the condition of selective mutism was explained to him.
‘James has a relatively rare condition,’ Mrs Goldstein told him, ‘but I have every reason to believe that he can be helped and that things will improve. From what you have told me he is perfectly capable of speech and understanding language and can read well, but in certain social situations he is silent. At school I gather he doesn’t say anything except to his best friend.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Dr Stirling, ‘although I believe he has said a few words to the head teacher on occasions.’
‘Is there anyone else he speaks to?’
‘He sometimes speaks to Mrs O’Connor, my housekeeper.’
‘But he speaks quite freely at home to you?’ she asked.
‘Yes, he’s still a little quiet, but then, as I’ve said, he’s always been rather reticent since my wife died. After his mother’s death, which he still has not really come to terms with, he’s seemed to go into a shell when he’s with other people.’
‘It’s not uncommon for a child to withdraw into himself like this after some trauma which gives a sense of incredible loss. It is a fact, and I am sure I don’t need to tell a doctor this, but time is a great healer.’
‘So what do we do?’ asked the doctor.
The Little Village School Page 21