‘No, I can’t,’ replied Mr Steel. ‘Perhaps you would like to tell me what you are doing.’
‘I’m about to start my account about the Vikings,’ Oscar told him. ‘Do you know anything about Vikings?’
‘A little,’ replied the inspector. He was unused to children asking him questions. It was his job to ask them questions.
‘Some people think they wore helmets with horns on,’ said the boy. ‘Well, they didn’t.’
‘No, so I understand,’ said the inspector. ‘What do you—’
‘And they were not as bad as they were painted.’
‘So I believe. What do you—’
‘They were extremely good sailors and navigators and travelled long distances. Some people think they discovered America. Do you know what they came in when they went to other countries?’ asked the boy.
‘Longboats?’ suggested the inspector wearily. He gave up trying to ask a question.
‘What else?’
‘Helmets, minus the horns?’
‘What else?’
‘I don’t know,’ the inspector admitted.
‘They came in hordes,’ the boy told him. ‘ The word is spelt differently from hoards.’ He wrote two words on his jotter and pointed with a pencil. ‘Hordes are large groups of people like invaders, hoards are stores of money. Did you know that?’
‘Yes, I did,’ replied the inspector, intrigued by this strange, articulate, old-fashioned boy who observed him over the top of his coloured frames, as if he had come across some exotic flower in the middle of a dark jungle.
Oscar slid his exercise book across the desk. ‘I imagine you wish to see my book,’ he said. ‘One of the inspectors looked the last time. He told me that I had a lot to say for myself.’
Mr Steel sympathised with his colleague. ‘What is your name?’ he asked.
‘Oscar,’ the boy replied. ‘And you are called Mr Steel.’
‘And how would you know that?’
‘You are wearing a badge,’ said the boy.
Mr Steel turned the pages in the boy’s exercise book. ‘You are a very good speller,’ he remarked.
‘Yes, I know,’ replied Oscar. ‘Spelling is one of my strong points.’
The inspector raised an eyebrow. ‘Really.’ In his travels around schools he had rarely come across a child so amazingly self-possessed and confident.
‘You can test me if you like.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ replied Mr Steel.
‘I find the way words are spelt very interesting,’ Oscar told him. ‘Like hordes and hoards. They sound the same but have different spellings. They are called homophones, words with the same sound but different meaning. There are lots of words in English like that.’ He then launched into a long and serious description on the quirks of the English spelling system, leaving the school inspector rather lost for words.
Mr Steel, not wishing to be lectured at or interrogated any further, decided to move on and rose to his feet.
‘We have had an interesting conversation, haven’t we, Mr Steel?’ Oscar remarked.
‘Yes, we have,’ replied the inspector.
‘We can continue it at lunchtime if you like,’ said the boy.
‘I shall look forward to that,’ said Mr Steel, making a mental note to avoid this particular pupil.
‘I can still smell something,’ said Oscar, sniffing as the inspector made for the door.
Mr Steel reported back to Elisabeth at the end of the day.
‘There has been a remarkable improvement in all aspects of the school,’ he said, ‘and you are to be congratulated. The teaching is good or better and the quality of the children’s work has greatly improved. Particularly impressive is the range of extra-curricular activities on offer and which the children were at pains to describe to me. The leadership and management are more than satisfactory, the documentation is thorough and appropriate and the environment for learning is very good. I do not envisage that I will be calling again in the foreseeable future.’
Elisabeth glowed inside. ‘That is good to hear,’ she said. ‘I am very relieved you are happy with what you have seen.’
‘More than happy. I shall be writing a report for your governors, a copy of which will be sent to the Education Office in due course,’ said the inspector, getting to his feet.
‘And were you aware, Mr Steel, that the Local Education Authority has it in mind to close the school?’ asked Elisabeth.
‘No, I wasn’t,’ replied the inspector.
‘Well, it has. A public meeting is to be called in the next few weeks. I should be most grateful if you were able to send your report before then.’
Mr Steel smiled for the first time that day. It was a small, tight-lipped smile. ‘I don’t envisage any problem with that,’ he said.
The Reverend Atticus, rector of Barton, surveyed his dinner.
‘What is this, my dear?’ he asked his wife.
‘Cobblers,’ she replied.
The vicar raised an eyebrow. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Beef cobblers. I got the recipe from the secretary at the school.’
‘It’s a very substantial meal,’ the vicar said, staring at the mound before him.
‘Well, you could do with building up, Charles. You’ve looked decidedly pale and peaky of late.’
The vicar posted a mouthful of fatty meat and chewed slowly.
‘It occurred to me,’ said Mrs Atticus, ‘that in your efforts to prevent the school from closing you might enlist the support of the bishop. Knowing him, he will have cultivated some important and influential people and it’s just the sort of campaign he would like.’
‘That sounds an excellent idea,’ replied her husband, having managed to swallow a gobbet of fat. ‘I shall most certainly drop him a line. We need all the support we can get.’
‘It’s outrageous that they should consider closing the school,’ said Mrs Atticus. ‘Of course that Chairman of Governors, that be-whiskered buffoon, has dragged his heels, and before you spring to his defence, which you are wont to do, if he had exercised more leadership and displayed more gumption, instead of sitting on the fence, they might very well have abandoned the whole idea.’
‘Actually, my dear,’ said the vicar, placing down his knife and fork and becoming animated, ‘I was not going to spring to his defence at all. You are perfectly right, he could have done a whole lot more, and appointing a head teacher knowing the school was in imminent threat of closure was entirely unprincipled, not to say deceitful.’
Mrs Atticus smiled. ‘Well, thank you, Charles,’ she said.
The vicar picked up the cutlery and tackled a particularly stubborn piece of thick crust, but abandoned the effort and thought to himself. Since his wife had started the art class at the village school she had been altogether more good-humoured, and he welcomed this change in her temperament. Now occupied with more things than her garden, she had become far less tetchy and complained about him a good deal less. The art class had given her a new interest and one she clearly found interesting and challenging.
‘You appear to be enjoying your time at the school, my dear,’ observed the vicar.
‘Yes, Charles, I am,’ she replied. ‘I have to say that when it was first mooted by Mrs Devine I was chary about trying to teach a group of children, but the class has proved very popular and I have uncovered some real talent. I have also found Mrs Devine very accommodating. Actually, she recommended that I might consider training as a teacher.’
Reverend Atticus did not wish to be shown as overly enthusiastic, but the thought of his wife occupied all day, and out of the vicarage, filled him with delight.
‘That sounds an excellent idea,’ he said. ‘I think you would make a splendid teacher, Marcia.’
‘Why, thank you, Charles,’ she replied, smiling.
The vicar spiked an undercooked potato and said a silent prayer of thanks.
‘Do hurry up with your dinner,’ said Mrs Atticus. ‘There’s Spot
ted Dick for pudding.’
Over the next two weeks leading up to the public meeting, everyone opposed to the closure of the village school worked hard to draw the community’s attention to the situation. Elisabeth mobilised support, writing to all parents, enclosing a copy of Mr Nettles’ letter and urging the recipients to write in protest to the Education Office and members of the Education Sub-committee and other influential people. Miss Brakespeare was industrious in making sure the shops, pubs and houses in the village displayed the large and colourful posters painted by the children, with ‘SOS: Save Our School’ emblazoned at the top. The vicar and the local Methodist minister raised the matter at their services and Mrs Pocock organised a petition. Local newspaper feature writers, always on the lookout for newsworthy items, were only too pleased to report the story. Elisabeth was both surprised and delighted with the response.
Mr Preston, the Director of Education, sat behind the large mahogany desk in his office, drumming his fingers and contemplating what to do about the large pile of strongly worded letters he had received and the several critical newspaper articles concerned with the closure of Barton-in-the-Dale school which lay before him. A particular and precise man in all that he did, he was a stickler for things being done quickly and efficiently. He stared out of the window, which gave an uninterrupted view over the busy and bustling high street, and considered how best to deal with this tricky and troublesome business.
There was a tap at the door.
‘Enter!’ shouted the Director of Education.
Mr Nettles appeared, smiling inanely. Mr Preston disliked the man, with his obsequious manner, round smiling face and irritatingly nasal voice.
‘I think you could have handled this matter rather better, Mr Nettles,’ he said.
The smile disappeared from the education officer’s face. ‘Well—’ he began.
‘I have been inundated with letters and petitions from vicars and ministers, doctors and shopkeepers, governors and parents and every Tom, Dick and Harry in that wretched village. Members of the Education Sub-committee and even the chief executive have been on to me this morning. They have been bombarded with the same. I’ve even had the local MP on the phone. Now,’ he stabbed his desk, ‘we have the local newspapers up in arms too. Whatever happened at the governors’ meeting? A situation like this requires very sensitive handling. Do you know the meaning of the word tact?’
‘The thing is, Mr Preston,’ the education officer whined, ‘the governors were not at all receptive to the idea.’
‘Well, I don’t imagine that they would be delighted when they were told we are thinking about closing the school, but I understood, from the memoranda you sent to me and the latest briefing, that there was likely to be very little opposition.’
‘You see, Mr Preston,’ the education officer explained, ‘following the critical school inspection of Barton-in-the-Dale and the fact that more and more parents were taking their children away and sending them to the neighbouring school, and that the head teacher, Miss Sowerbutts, was nearing retirement age—’
‘Yes, yes, I know all this,’ said the Director of Education irritably.
‘It was thought,’ continued Mr Nettles, a nervous rash appearing on his neck, ‘it was thought that the governors and parents would appreciate that it was no longer practicable for the school to remain open and hence there would be little opposition. That is why the Education Sub-committee earmarked Barton-in-the-Dale as the first school for closure.’
‘On your advice.’
‘Yes, I did recommend it.’
‘So?’
‘Things have rather changed at the school since it was first mooted that it should close.’
‘In what way?’ asked the Director of Education.
‘The school has improved quite dramatically with the arrival of Mrs Devine.’
‘Who?’
‘The new head teacher,’ the education officer told him. ‘She’s turned the school around, and some of the governors and a great many parents are now very keen to keep the school open. When Mrs Devine was appointed it was always assumed it would be temporary. She would hold the post, so to speak, until the school closed. We never expected her to be so … so …’ he struggled for the right word, ‘well, successful.’
‘I assume that she was aware it was an interim contract when she accepted the position?’ asked the Director of Education.
‘Well, no, she wasn’t. We felt – that is, Councillor Smout and the Chairman of Governors – felt that if we advertised it as a temporary post there would be few applicants. As you know, Mr Preston, it takes over a year for a school to close. We have to go through a thorough consultation process and liaise with the Ministry of Education before anything can be done.’
‘Mr Nettles,’ said the Director of Education, crossly, ‘you do not need to remind me of the processes for closing a school. I am fully aware of the procedures. Why did you not ask the present deputy head to take over in the interim?’
‘We did consider that, but she was thought unsuitable. The inspectors’ report was quite critical of her. Indeed, it singled her out for criticism. So we made no mention to the candidates for the headship of the possibility that the school might close when we advertised the position.’
‘Something of an oversight, that, wasn’t it, not to say rather unethical?’
‘I guess with hindsight, it might be construed—’
‘So this Mrs – what was her name?’ The Director of Education cut him short.
‘Devine.’
‘So this Mrs Devine,’ observed the Director of Education, ‘came to the school with no idea that it might close?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the governors agreed not to mention it to her?’
‘Well, it was in its embryonic stage, so to speak, and had only just been broached at the Education Sub-committee, and actually only Councillor Smout and the Chairman of Governors were privy to this.’
‘And you.’
‘Yes, and myself. Councillor Smout was very insistent that we should not mention anything about a possible closure to any of the applicants and indeed to the other governors, apart that is, from the chairman.’
The Director of Education thought for a moment and stared out of the window. Here was a pretty kettle of fish, he thought. It sounded to him that it was too far down the road to turn back now. The school had been identified by the Education Sub-committee as the first to close, and as far as he was concerned it should go ahead. There would be other schools in line for closure in due course, and the local authority couldn’t be seen to fall at the very first hurdle. If it changed its mind on this and was seen to surrender to the pressure placed upon it by the residents of this village, it would set a precedent. No, Barton-in-the-Dale school should close. Mr Preston was an astute man, clever with words and with that plausible, good-humoured persona able to win people over to his way of thinking. He subscribed to the view that it is not so much what you say, it is the way that you say it, and often thought to himself that he should have taken up politics, such was his skill at persuading people to believe something. He also was not a man to bow to pressure groups. He would have to take charge.
‘I’ve arranged a public meeting at the school for me to explain the situation and answer any questions,’ explained Mr Nettles.
‘When?’ asked the Director of Education.
‘Next Thursday,’ he replied.
‘I shall go myself,’ said the Director of Education. ‘I do not want this to escalate. We will have the national media getting in on the act if we are not careful.’
‘Very well,’ said the education officer.
‘And in future, Mr Nettles, perhaps you might consult me on such matters as this and also exercise a little more tact in your dealings with governors and head teachers.’
The school hall was packed for the public meeting. It seemed that everyone in the village and many from without were there.
‘Playing havoc with my parquet
floor is this,’ Mr Gribbon told Mrs Scrimshaw as he surveyed the assembly. ‘Look at all those shoes with heels. I’ll have the devil’s own job removing all the scuff marks and scratches and getting it back to what it was.’
‘Well, Mr Gribbon,’ the secretary replied tartly, ‘as I’ve told you, you won’t have to worry about your floor if the school closes and you are out of a job, will you?’
Earlier Elisabeth had stood at the entrance of the school, smiling and welcoming everyone as they arrived and thanking them for coming. The major, hovering behind her, had looked decidedly uncomfortable and received many a cold look. The substance of the contentious governors’ meeting had been relayed in great detail by Mrs Pocock to Mrs Sloughthwaite in the village store, and the major’s refusal to vote against the proposal to close the school came in for particular comment. Mrs Sloughthwaite had nodded sagely and agreed that the man was a ‘spineless individual’ and ‘in the pocket of the education people’.
‘He’s nailed his colours firmly to the fence,’ she had said to her friend. ‘He’s as much use that man as a grave robber in a crematorium.’
Councillor Smout had sent his apologies for his absence from the meeting. A pressing engagement had arisen which necessitated his attendance. He had, of course, heard on the grapevine that the meeting was likely to be highly contentious and he, being the only one to vote for the closure of the school, knew he would be the most unpopular person there.
Elisabeth glanced at her watch and noticed that the time had very nearly arrived for the start of the meeting. She was disappointed to see that Dr Stirling had decided not to attend. She had thought, at the very least, that he would have come and lent his support, particularly since he had been so impassioned at the governors’ meeting against the proposed closure. It seemed to her that his contribution at the meeting would have held a great deal of sway. She also wondered why Les Stainthorpe had decided to stay away. He had spoken so warmly about all the things she was doing at the school. He could have added his weight to the protest too.
Mr Nettles and his superior were the last to arrive, one minute before the five o’clock start. Elisabeth had never met the Director of Education, but knew who he was immediately when she saw this suave-looking man in a dark suit and wearing a crisp white shirt and expensive silk tie walk through the door.
The Little Village School Page 25