The Little Village School

by Gervase Phinn

  The boy sniffed and nodded.

  ‘I hope you behaved yourself,’ the old man said, looking at his grandson with a mock serious expression.

  ‘He did,’ Elisabeth told him. ‘Did all the washing up this morning and left the room tidy.’

  ‘That’s what I likes to ’ear,’ the old man said, ruffling the boy’s hair.

  ‘We are hoping – that is Dr Stirling and myself – that Danny could stay at the doctor’s for the time being, if that’s agreeable to you, of course.’

  ‘It’s just until you’re out of hospital,’ the boy said.

  ‘Dr Stirling has been in touch with Social Services this morning,’ Elisabeth told the boy’s grandfather, ‘and I think a social worker will be coming to see you to get your permission for Danny to stay a bit longer with Dr Stirling. I believe it’s something called private fostering.’

  ‘That’s a weight off my mind,’ the old man said. ‘Would you like to stay wi’ Dr Stirling for the time being, Danny?’

  ‘Just until you’re out of hospital,’ the boy repeated.

  ‘Well, if you do, I ’opes you’ll be a good boy, Danny Stainthorpe, and not put t’doctor out.’

  ‘He’s a very good boy,’ Elisabeth told the old man, her face soft with concern. ‘He’s never any trouble and he’s a real credit to you. Don’t you worry, we’ll take very good care of him.’

  ‘Thank you Mrs Devine,’ Mr Stainthorpe said, his eyes filling with tears, ‘I really appreciate that.’

  16

  It was the following week that Les Stainthorpe had an unexpected visitor. Fred Massey was wheeled in by a cheerful nurse and parked by the side of the bed.

  ‘I’ll be back for you in ten minutes, Fred,’ she told him.

  ‘Did you hear that? They ought to be more respectful, these nurses, calling their elders by their first names,’ grumbled the old farmer. ‘It should be Mr Massey. I’ll give her Fred!’

  Les smiled. ‘’Ow are you then?’ he asked.

  ‘How am I? Well, I’ve just had my foot nearly cut off so I’m not dancing for joy.’

  ‘It could have been worse.’

  ‘Aye, it could. Any road, I wanted to see you to thank you for what you did.’

  ‘Anybody would have done t’same.’

  ‘Happen they would, but I wouldn’t be here now if you hadn’t have helped, calling the emergency services and Doc Stirling and stopping with me until they came. I appreciate that. I thought I was a goner and no mistake. Any road, I wanted to thank you.’

  ‘Any time.’

  ‘It’ll not bloody happen again, I can tell you that!’ exclaimed Fred Massey. ‘There’s not likely to be another time.’

  ‘You should ’ave been more careful.’

  ‘Aye, I know. How are you feeling anyway? I hear you had a bit of a do of your own after I’d been sorted out. Ambulance only just got me to the hospital and it was back for you.’

  ‘I’m not too bad considering.’

  ‘I’m sorry to see you in here, Les Stainthorpe, and I mean it. I didn’t want to give you a heart attack.’

  ‘It weren’t an ’eart attack.’

  ‘Well, whatever it were, I’m sorry you’re here. I know we’ve had our differences over the years, but I want bygones to be bygones and when you come out I’ll take you for a pint in the Blacksmith’s Arms.’

  ‘That’ll be a first, Fred Massey, you buyin’ somebody a pint.’ The old man lay back on his pillow. He caught his breath. ‘Any road, I don’t reckon I will be comin’ out,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t talk daft! ’Course you will. They can do all sorts of things these days. You’ll be up and about in no time.’

  ‘No, Fred, I won’t. My time’s nearly up.’

  ‘Is that what they say?’

  ‘As much as. I’ve ’ad these tests and they’ve found summat.’

  ‘Bloody hell! I didn’t know that.’

  ‘It’s got into mi bones and there’s nowt much they can do.’

  Fred Massey sighed noisily. ‘I don’t know what to say, I really don’t. I never have been good with words. Hey, it’s a rotten shame, that it is. Your lad will take it badly.’

  ‘Aye, he will,’ sighed the old man. ‘Don’t you go mentioning owt to ’im or anyone else for that matter, Fred Massey! I’m not sayin’ owt for t’time being. I’m gunna pick reight moment to tell Danny and it won’t be easy.’

  ‘Nay, it won’t,’ agreed his visitor, nodding.

  ‘That’s mi biggest worry – what’s gunna ’appen to Danny. ’E’s only got me. Got no other family. We’ve never been apart. Like two peas in a pod we are. ’E’s staying with Dr Stirling at t’minute and Mrs Devine brings ’im to see me most days. ’E’s a champion doctor is Dr Stirling, and she’s a good woman is Mrs Devine, a good woman.’

  ‘Aye, well, maybe I misjudged her. She were a bit stiff and starchy with me.’

  ‘That’s ’cos you were trespassing.’

  ‘Let’s not start all that again,’ said Fred Massey. They were quiet for while. ‘Is there anything you want?’ he asked at last.

  ‘Aye, there is,’ said Les. ‘I want you to shift them sheep of yours from Mrs Devine’s paddock and stop usin’ ’er track.’

  An unaccustomed smile spread across Fred Massey’s face. He chuckled and shook his head. ‘Aye, I reckon I could do that. Any road, I’ll not be doing much herding for a bit. My nephew Clarence is in charge while I’m in here. He’s about as much use as a candle in a gale. Only left hens out last week and a fox got them. All these headless bloody chickens all over the place. I’ll swing for that lad, I really will. Anyway, I’ll tell him not to go down her track and I’ll move my sheep when I get out of here. Least I can do after what you’ve done.’

  The young nurse arrived. ‘Come along now, Fred, let’s be getting you back. Doctor’s on his rounds and wants to look at you.’

  ‘I’m Mr Massey to you, nurse,’ he growled. ‘I’m not your favourite uncle or your brother or your boyfriend. I am Mr Massey and not Fred.’

  ‘I’ll call you Mr Grumpy in a minute,’ said the nurse, undaunted and starting to manoeuvre the wheelchair at some speed around the bed.

  ‘Hang on, hang on. I’m not bloody Ben Hur!’ cried Fred. ‘Push me back.’

  The nurse tut-tutted but did as she was bid.

  ‘Will you shake my hand, Les Stainthorpe?’ asked Fred Massey.

  ‘I will.’

  And the two old men, who had been enemies for years, shook hands warmly.

  ‘Miss, will you spell giraffe?’ asked Chardonnay.

  When she had started teaching the class, Elisabeth had asked the children to keep a weekly journal and write an entry in it each Monday morning. It had proved very successful. The children enjoyed describing what they had been doing over the week, and Elisabeth had learnt a great deal about her pupils, their interests and their activities out of school.

  ‘Chardonnay,’ Elisabeth said, ‘you have a dictionary on your desk, why don’t you try and find the word for yourself?’

  ‘I’ve looked, miss, but I can’t find it,’ replied the girl.

  Elisabeth wrote the word on the blackboard. ‘And did you see one at a zoo?’ she asked.

  ‘See what, miss?’

  ‘A giraffe.’

  ‘I haven’t seen any giraffes, miss.’

  ‘Well, why do you want the word?’ asked Elisabeth intrigued.

  ‘For my journal, miss.’

  ‘Read out what you have written,’ said the teacher.

  The girl read out her entry: ‘My mum said I could join the choir at St Christopher’s. I asked her if giraffe to go to all the services.’

  ‘I think you need three words,’ said the teacher, smiling. ‘“Do you have to.”’

  ‘Thanks, miss,’ said Chardonnay. ‘I always get my knickers in a twist when it comes to spellings.’

  Elisabeth reminded herself to have a quiet word with the girl later about some of the expressions she was fond of using. She
looked at her class. Their work, attitude and behaviour had improved immeasurably since she had taken over, and she felt justifiably proud with what she had achieved. There were some real success stories. The educational psychologist had been called into school and confirmed that Darren Holgate, as his mother had claimed, did indeed have dyslexia, and a structured programme of support had been devised for him. He was now making excellent progress. Chantelle had proved herself to be a very skilful football player and had scored the winning goal against a rival team the week before, and Chardonnay’s solo performance with the choir at the Methodist chapel had gained her much praise.

  Ernest Pocock seemed a very different boy from the truculent and disinterested pupil she had first met. His coming second in the County Art Competition, and the display of his paintings down the corridor, had made him something of a celebrity in the school. When the school inspector had visited, Ernest had taken him aside to point out his work.

  ‘Of course,’ he had said, repeating Mrs Atticus’ words to his mother, ‘I have a latent talent in art.’ He had no idea, of course, what this meant.

  Sadly, Elisabeth had had very little success with James. She had imagined that after the evening when she had found him alone in her garden and he had said that one tentative word to her, he would open up and be more forthcoming, but he had not spoken to her since then. Mrs Goldstein, the educational psychologist, had spent several sessions with James, who had listened quietly but attentively to what she had to say but had said nothing. ‘Give it time,’ she had told the boy’s father. The morning after Danny’s grandfather had been taken to hospital, Elisabeth had asked James to remain behind one morning break.

  He had looked at her with large, round, bewildered eyes and a serious expression in his face.

  ‘I want to have a word with you about Danny,’ she had told him. James had seen the sudden change in his friend, how Danny had become quiet and uncommunicative and spent the morning staring sadly out of the classroom window in a world of his own, just like his father. ‘I think you know that he is going through a difficult time at the moment. He’s very upset about his grandfather and he really needs a friend like you. You’re his best friend, James, and I want you to look out for him. Will you do that for me?’

  The boy had nodded.

  ‘And have you settled back in here?’ she had asked.

  James had nodded again.

  ‘I’m really pleased to have you back, and you know where I am if you want to see me about anything. All right, James,’ she had said, ‘that’s all I wanted to say.’

  After break, before the children settled down to work, Chardonnay waved a hand in the air and asked, ‘Miss, is the school going to close?’

  ‘Not as far as I know,’ replied Elisabeth.

  ‘Miss, my mum and her new partner were at that meeting and they said they want to close the school.’

  ‘Miss, that’s what I’ve heard,’ said Chantelle. ‘Miss Sowerbutts told my mum in the post office.’

  ‘They are thinking about it,’ Elisabeth told her, ‘but I don’t intend to let that happen. You don’t want the school to close, do you?’

  The class loudly chorused, ‘No, miss.’

  ‘Miss, if they do, I don’t want to go to Urebank,’ said Eddie Lake. ‘Malcolm Stubbins hates it there. I saw him on Saturday at the swimming baths and he says he wishes he was back here. He says they pick on him all the time and the teachers are horrible and the other kids laugh at him and call him names.’

  ‘He should never have left,’ announced Chardonnay, ‘but I’m glad he did. He was a pain in the ar … backside.’

  ‘Now, now,’ said Elisabeth. ‘That will do. I am sorry to hear that Malcolm doesn’t like his new school but I think he’ll soon settle down.’

  ‘He’s been excluded, miss,’ Eddie told her.

  ‘Has he?’

  ‘Miss, they’ve sent him home for a week for calling the teacher a—’

  ‘Ah, ah,’ interrupted Elisabeth. ‘I really don’t think we need to hear this, Eddie. Let’s get on with our diaries, shall we, and then it’s time for spellings.’

  The most poignant entry in the children’s journals that week was from Danny. His account spoke of his grandfather’s illness and how worried and frightened he felt.

  ‘There is no one in the world like my granddad. He brought me up when my mum was killed and we do everything together. He’s my best friend. He’s different from other grown-ups. He doesn’t shout at me and he’s never hit me. If I do something wrong like when I took my ferret to school, he just sits me down and talks to me about it and then he tells me to go and apologise. He tells me to always tell the truth. “Tell the truth and shame the devil,” he says. I can tell him anything and he can tell me anything. If my granddad gets it wrong, he says so. He says an apology costs you nothing and it’s not being weak to admit you don’t always get things right or that you don’t know something. Now he’s in the hospital and I think he’s really ill and I don’t know what to do. I’m lost without him.’

  Elisabeth thought of the time when someone would have to tell Danny that his grandfather would never be coming out of hospital, and she had a feeling that someone might very well be her. Dr Stirling had called to see her after he had been informed by the specialist of Mr Stainthorpe’s condition. The tests had revealed that the old man was terminally ill and that nothing could be done for him.

  Later that morning Elisabeth found Danny sitting with James in the hall, his lunch uneaten before him.

  ‘Now, it’s not like you to leave anything on your plate, Danny,’ she said, cheerfully.

  ‘I’m not that ’ungry, miss,’ he murmured.

  ‘I’m sure your grandfather wouldn’t be very happy with you if he knew you were not eating.’

  The boy picked up his fork and poked at the food on his plate.

  ‘You’re very quiet these days, Danny,’ said Elisabeth.

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  She rested a hand on his arm. ‘It’s hard for you, isn’t it?’ she said. He nodded. ‘I’m so sorry about your grandfather.’

  The boy looked up and into her eyes. Perhaps he expected her to say what most adults would say – that things would turn out all right and that his grandfather would soon be home and life would return to normal. He knew in his heart that this would not be the case. ‘I’m frightened, miss,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ she replied quietly. ‘It’s a worrying time for you.’

  ‘I really miss my granddad, Mrs Devine,’ the boy told her, beginning to cry.

  ‘I know you do,’ she said, patting his hand. She quickly changed the subject. ‘And how are you getting on with Dr Stirling?’

  Danny looked at James and rubbed his eyes. ‘OK. ’E’s a nice man, your dad. ’E’s been really kind to me and there’s a housekeeper called Mrs O’Connor and she’s nice too, but I don’t understand sometimes what she’s on about.’

  ‘After school we’ll go to the hospital and see your granddad shall we?’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ he replied. ‘Thank you, miss.’

  ‘Now, you eat your lunch.’

  They found Danny’s grandfather in a side ward on his own. He was ashen-faced but raised a smile when he saw them.

  ‘Now then,’ he said, trying to sound cheerful. ‘I thought you might be calling in to see me.’

  Danny ran to the bed and buried his head in his grandfather’s arms and began to cry.

  ‘Hey, hey, come on, Danny. What’s all this? I wants cheering up and to ’ear what you’ve been up to.’

  Elisabeth stood at the foot of the bed.

  ‘How are you, Les?’ she asked.

  He evaded the question. ‘All the better for seeing you two,’ he replied.

  ‘We’ve been very busy,’ she told him, ‘trying to muster more support to stop the Education Authority from closing the school.’

  ‘It’s a disgrace,’ said the old man.

  ‘It’s gone very quiet since the afternoon of the pub
lic meeting. I hope this means that they’ve reconsidered.’

  ‘Let’s ’ope so,’ said the old man. He ruffled his grandson’s hair. ‘Now come along, young Danny, stop all this crying. You’ll have me at it in a minute.’

  ‘Are you going to be all right, granddad?’ the boy asked plaintively.

  ‘We’ll see. You run down to the shop and get me a newspaper and yourself some sweets. There’s some small change in the drawer. Then I want all your news. I’ve been bored to tears sitting here relaxing all day.’

  When the boy had gone he asked Elisabeth to come and sit beside him. His face was gaunt and he breathed with difficulty.

  ‘How are you really, Les?’ asked Elisabeth.

  The old man shrugged. ‘I think you’ve probably guessed, Mrs Devine,’ he said, ‘that t’future’s not looking too bright for me.’

  ‘Yes,’ Elisabeth replied quietly. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘I’m afraid t’prospects of any improvement are not good and t’doctor reckons I’ve not got all that long.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Aye well, it comes to all of us in t’end. The thing is, I’m not afeared o’ dying. I’ve known that there’s been summat up wi’ me for a while. What does worry me is what’ll ’appen to Danny. ’E’s got no one in t’world, Mrs Devine. I reckon ’e’ll end up being fostered out or in a children’s ’ome and I know it’ll ’appen not suit t’lad. It’s a real worry for me. ’E’ll be like a caged bird beating its wings agin t’bars to try and get out.’ The old man’s eyes began to fill with tears. ‘’Ee’s a bit of a free spirit, is Danny, likes t’sun on ’is face, rain in ’is ’air. ’E lives for t’outdoors. ’E’s a country lad.’ He wiped his eyes. ‘I want to ask you summat, Mrs Devine. You’re t’only one I can ask.’

  ‘You don’t need to ask me, Les,’ Elisabeth told him, taking his leathery farmer’s hand in hers. ‘I’ll make sure that Danny is well cared for. I shall be looking out for him all the time. You can be certain of that.’

  The old man sighed and smiled. He rested his head on the pillow. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’