They sat there in silence for a while. ‘I ’ave to tell ’im,’ said the old man. ‘I can’t put it off. It’ll be t’most difficult thing I’ve ever done in mi life but I ’ave to do it. We’ve allus been ’onest wi’ each other, you see. I’ve never kept nowt from t’lad and he’s allus telled me t’truth. I think it’s best if I tell ’im today. Better sooner than later.’
‘Would you like me to stay in the room?’ asked Elisabeth.
‘No, I reckon it’s between ’im and me, but I’d appreciate it if you were there for ’im after I’ve told ’im. ’E’ll need you.’
‘I’ll wait outside,’ she said.
When Danny returned, Elisabeth made an excuse and sat in the corridor outside thinking about what was being said by the dying man to his grandson.
Danny wept all the way back to Dr Stirling’s house and then ran up to the bedroom. James was about to follow him, but Elisabeth told him that she thought Danny would want to be alone for a while and to leave him for ten minutes before going up. He looked at her with huge, bewildered eyes and nodded.
‘His grandfather told him,’ Elisabeth said quietly as she followed Dr Stirling into the sitting room.
He nodded. ‘I guessed as much.’ He moved a pile of papers from a chair. ‘Do sit down,’ he said.
‘Poor Les,’ sighed Elisabeth. ‘He looked very weak today. His main worry is what will happen to Danny. I guess I need to inform Social Services so they can arrange things for when his grandfather …’ her voice tailed off.
‘Yes, they will need to know,’ agreed Dr Stirling. ‘Of course the boy can stay here until something is sorted out.’
‘That’s very good of you.’
‘I spoke to the specialist this morning and she thinks it’s a matter of days rather than weeks.’
‘Oh dear,’ sighed Elisabeth.
‘In one way it’s a blessing,’ said Dr Stirling. ‘He won’t have to endure a long and very painful illness. I think that would distress young Danny more, to see his grandfather gradually decline.’
‘He’ll be lost without him,’ said Elisabeth.
Dr Stirling looked across at her. ‘You’ve been very good,’ he said. ‘I can’t imagine what they would have done without you.’
‘It’s what anyone would have done.’
‘No, it’s not,’ he said. He was about to say something more, but stopped himself.
‘Well, I had best be going,’ Elisabeth told him. ‘I’ll take Danny along to the hospital tomorrow and drop him off later. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, Elisabeth,’ said Dr Stirling.
‘They say he’s not long for this world,’ remarked Mrs Sloughthwaite in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.
The shopkeeper was in discussion with Mrs O’Connor, who had called in to the general store for the week’s provisions.
‘No,’ agreed the customer. ‘I heard Dr Stirling on the phone to the hospital, talking to one of the specialists, and from what I can gather he won’t last out the week, poor man. He’s a real gentleman is Mr Stainthorpe. It’s a terrible shame, so it is.’
‘It is,’ agreed Mrs Sloughthwaite, ‘but it comes to all of us, Mrs O’Connor, there’s no escaping that, and if truth be told Les Stainthorpe was getting on a bit and it can’t have been very healthy him living in that damp caravan for all those years. As my sainted mother used to say, he’s had a good innings.’
‘I feel sorry for young Danny,’ said Mrs O’Connor. ‘He’s such a good-hearted lad. Always leaves his room tidy and he’s polite and well behaved. He’s a credit to the owld man, so he is. Not much of a Christmas to look forward to, has he, poor wee child?’
‘He’s still living with Dr Stirling then?’
‘He is, and not a spot of bother either. Whatever will become of him, poor wee lad that he is?’
‘They can say what they want about Les Stainthorpe,’ said the shopkeeper, ‘but he’s brought that boy up proper, not like some I could mention. Parents who are afraid to put their foot down, in my experience, get their toes trodden on.’
‘He’s been in a right old state since his granddad went into hospital,’ said the housekeeper. ‘Poor lad’s not stopped crying.’
‘It was very good of Dr Stirling to take him in like that,’ said Mrs Sloughthwaite. ‘Not many would do it. You don’t get many good Samaritans like that these days. The boy’s got no other family as I know of, so I suppose when his grandfather does pass on he’ll end up in that children’s home at Banktop.’ The shopkeeper was nothing if not blunt.
‘’Tis a terrible shame, Mrs Sloughthwaite,’ said Mrs O’Connor, shaking her head sadly.
‘And I hear that Mrs Devine has been very good, taking the lad to the hospital.’
‘To be sure, she has,’ agreed the customer. ‘She’s been back and forth like a fiddler’s elbow this last week. Every day she’s been driving him there and back and she’s been such a comfort for the boy. Sure she’s a grand woman. It was a fine day when they appointed her to the school. I only hope they don’t go and close it. They say that the woman who was there before, that Mrs Sowerface as I call her, has had an accident.’
‘So I hear,’ said Mrs Sloughthwaite indifferently.
‘Went full length, so she did, at the supermarket on a wet floor by the frozen pizzas. Broke her arm she did and went over on her ankle.’
‘Serves her right for shopping in town when there’s a perfectly good selection of products here in the village store,’ said the shopkeeper uncharitably. ‘Anyway, as I was saying—’
‘My goodness, that woman could clip tin with her tongue,’ continued Mrs O’Connor, as if Mrs Sloughthwaite had not spoken. ‘And she could stop a clock with that face of hers. As my sainted Grandmother Mullarkey said, a smile costs you nothing and every time you laugh another nail is removed from your coffin. Hard and proud as a pie crust she is. I remember once—’
Mrs Sloughthwaite was not one to be deflected from the topic of conversation in which she was most interested, and swiftly brought the discussion back to Dr Stirling and Mrs Devine. ‘And I hear she’s getting on well with Dr Stirling these days,’ she said cutting the speaker off mid-sentence.
‘Who is?’
‘Mrs Devine.’
‘She is,’ replied Mrs O’Connor, ‘but then everyone gets on well with the doctor and I can’t imagine anyone taking against Mrs Devine.’
‘I mean, from what Mrs Pocock told me,’ continued Mrs Sloughthwaite, ‘Dr Stirling was very much against her getting the job at the school. He took against her from the start for some reason.’
‘I can’t believe that,’ said Mrs O’Connor. ‘The good man wouldn’t take against anyone.’
‘As God’s my judge, that’s what Mrs Pocock told me. She said he was the only one at the governors’ meeting who voted not to appoint her.’
‘She had no business telling you that.’
‘Then they had a difference of opinion about a number of things and he was going to take his son away. The next thing I hear he’s changed his mind, the lad’s back at the school and they’re getting on like a house on fire.’ Mrs Sloughthwaite allowed her customer the time to reply, but when none was forthcoming she continued to probe. ‘From what I’ve heard, Mrs Devine spends as much time at Dr Stirling’s as she does at her own cottage. They seem to be on very good terms these days.’
Mrs O’Connor was well aware of Mrs Sloughthwaite’s skill at extracting information from her customers which would then be relayed in quick time around the village. She also knew what was implied in the comment. Dr Stirling’s housekeeper had learnt to be very circumspect when talking to the shopkeeper on certain matters. She had already been quizzed about James running away, a piece of gossip that had been disclosed by Mrs Widowson, who, when the boy had gone missing, had seen the doctor asking around the village, but the housekeeper had dismissed this as ‘a storm in a teacup’.
‘You know Dr Stirling,’ Mrs O’Connor replied nonchalantly. ‘Sure doesn’t the man ge
t on with everybody, a real gentleman he is and so well educated he always pulls the legs of his trousers up when he sits down. I think I’ll take a box of those Viennese chocolate biscuits. Dr Stirling has a sweet tooth.’
Incomprehension crept across Lady Helen Wadsworth’s face.
‘Close the school!’ she exclaimed.
‘That’s their intention,’ replied Elisabeth.
Her neighbour, who had been on holiday at the time of the public meeting and had only just learnt from the font of all knowledge at the village store of the plans to close the school, had hurried around to Elisabeth’s cottage to hear first hand of the proposals.
‘It’s quite out of the question!’ she cried, her face decorated with fury. ‘I’ve just got my grandfather’s plaque back on the wall and they want to go and close the school! He built and endowed the village school for the welfare and education of the children and there is not the slightest possibility of it closing.’
‘I wish I had your confidence,’ said Elisabeth, ‘but they appear determined to go ahead. Whenever I phone the Education Office for an update they are particularly evasive.’
Lady Helen gave a dismissive grunt. ‘We’ll see about that. You would have thought that I would have been informed of this plan, since there would be no village school had it not been for the benevolence of my grandfather. He’ll be turning in his grave.’
‘I have an idea they hoped things could be done quickly and quietly,’ Elisabeth told her, ‘and that there would be little opposition.’
‘Well, if that is their hope they will be greatly disappointed,’ Lady Helen said, her body tense with indignation. ‘I go away for a couple of weeks and when I return all manner of things have happened: Mr Massey falling into a machine and nearly losing a foot, Mr Stainthorpe ill in hospital, and now I hear they want to close the school.’
‘It has been pretty eventful,’ agreed Elisabeth.
‘Well, don’t you worry, my dear. We will fight them all the way. My grandmother was a suffragette, you know. Always chaining herself to some railing or other and throwing bricks through butchers’ windows.’
‘That might be a little excessive,’ said Elisabeth.
Later in the week Lady Wadsworth made her grand entrance at County Hall. She had booked an appointment to see the Director of Education and had dressed for the encounter in her brightest tweeds and heaviest brogues and decorated herself with a variety of expensive-looking jewellery. From her wide-brimmed hat escaped a wave of bright copper-coloured hair. Her lipstick was as thick and red as congealed blood.
As she was shown into his office, Mr Preston rose from his chair behind the large mahogany desk, came to the door to greet her and proffered her a hand.
‘My dear Lady Wadsworth,’ he began, with the polished smile he had perfected.
‘Don’t Lady Wadsworth me, Mr Preston,’ she retorted, waving away his hand and plonking herself down straight-backed in the nearest chair. Her gaze was so level and her expression so mocking that the Director of Education was uncharacteristically thrown off balance. ‘I am extremely angry!’ she exclaimed.
‘I am assuming you are here to see me about Barton-in-the-Dale school,’ said the Director of Education, retreating behind his desk and sitting down.
‘You assume correctly,’ she replied frostily, continuing to look at him pointedly with the severe expression. ‘It is quite outrageous that you are contemplating closing the school which my grandfather founded and endowed.’
‘I assure you, Lady Wadsworth,’ replied the Director of Education, ‘I very deeply regret having to go down this road.’
‘Well, why go down it then?’ she asked bluntly.
‘The Education Department has to cut costs and—’ he began, but was interrupted.
‘Mr Preston,’ Lady Helen said, holding up a gloved hand, ‘the school is at the very centre of village life. It’s used by the WI, the local choir, the Brownies and the Cubs, the flower-arrangers and I don’t know what else. Furthermore, the new head teacher, Mrs Devine, is a most accomplished and hardworking woman and—’
‘I am well aware of that and I do fully appreciate—’ the Director of Education attempted to intervene.
‘Please allow me to finish, Mr Preston. I am not used to being interrupted. The new head teacher, Mrs Devine, is a most accomplished and hard-working woman,’ she repeated, ‘and has transformed the school since her arrival and I do not use that word lightly. I find it amazing that you should appoint her and then decide to close the school.’
‘Nothing has been finally decided yet, I assure you, Lady Wadsworth, and I should say—’ the Director of Education began.
Ignoring him, she continued: ‘The village school has become highly successful and greatly regarded and it is inconceivable that you should think of closing it.’
The Director of Education would have given any other person who berated him so in his own office short shrift, but he was aware that he was speaking to one of the most influential and well-connected personages in the county. He gave a faint smile, cleared his throat several times, locked his fingers and placed his hands on the desk. He would need all his diplomatic skills to pacify this virago who sat before him with a face like Medusa’s.
‘I am merely an officer of the local authority, Lady Wadsworth,’ he told her. ‘It is the councillors on the Education Sub-committee who decide on the schools earmarked for closure. I just carry out their directives.’
‘On your advice,’ said his visitor sharply.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The councillors act on your advice, do they not? They are guided by you. It is you who recommend which schools should be closed and which should remain open. I assume that that is one of your functions.’
‘I do give my advice but, of course, it is not always acted upon and—’
‘So I take it you did not recommend that Barton-in-the-Dale should close?’ she asked brusquely, ‘and that I need to take this matter up with the chief executive and the leader of the council?’
‘I am not in favour of any school closing,’ he replied evasively.
‘I am pleased to hear it.’
‘But sometimes needs must.’
Lady Wadsworth curled a lip. ‘Mr Preston, let me be perfectly clear. If you decide to go ahead with this outrageous proposal you will face massive opposition. I do need to point out a consideration of which you and the members of the council may not be aware. Should the school close, God forbid, then the buildings and adjacent land revert to the Limebeck Estate. There is a codicil in the endowment document to that effect. So, if the councillors think they can sell the building and the land in the misguided belief that they can raise money, then they are very much mistaken.’ She stood. ‘I bid you good day, Mr Preston, and trust you will think on.’
At her departure an angry Director of Education reached for the telephone.
‘Tell Mr Nettles I wish to see him immediately!’ he shouted down the receiver.
17
Elisabeth knew why Dr Stirling had called at the school that morning. He stood outside her classroom door looking tired and ill at ease.
‘Excuse me for a moment, children,’ she told her class. ‘I have to pop out. Please get on with your reading quietly. Best behaviour, please.’
She joined her visitor in the corridor. Dr Stirling rested a hand on her arm. She didn’t need to be told. ‘It’s Danny’s grandfather, isn’t it?’ she asked. She knew what the answer would be.
‘Yes,’ replied Dr Stirling, ‘he died this morning.’ Elisabeth gave a great heaving sigh. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘Not really,’ she replied. She looked through the small window in the classroom door at Danny, who was sitting by the window reading quietly. ‘I guess it falls to me to tell him,’ she said quietly.
‘I think it would be best coming from you,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay if you wish.’
‘Thank you, I would appreciate that, but this is not the best time to tell him
. Perhaps you could call back at lunchtime and we’ll see him then. It will also give me time to think of the words I have to say.’
‘You’ll be much better at it than I,’ he said. ‘Having to tell someone that the person they love is seriously ill or has died I find the most difficult part of being a doctor. I’ve never been particularly good with words and what I say always seems so inadequate.’
‘I’ll tell him,’ said Elisabeth. ‘He knew that his grandfather had little time left, not that that makes it any easier. I promised his grandfather I would take care that Danny was well looked after, but I really don’t know what will happen to the boy now. Since he has no family I suppose he’ll end up in care, although it’s so difficult to place a child of his age with foster parents. I can’t imagine him settling in a children’s home. I do so worry about him. Anyhow, I’ll let Social Services know. I guess they will need to make arrangements.’
‘Children are surprisingly resilient,’ said Dr Stirling. ‘They learn to cope.’
Some don’t, though, thought Elisabeth. Take his own son, for example. James had still not been able to come to terms with his mother’s death, though it had been two years now since her tragic accident.
‘Danny has had to face some tough things in the past,’ Dr Stirling continued. ‘He’ll be all right, I’m sure.’
‘I hope so,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I hope so.’
Returning to the class, Elisabeth found Chardonnay waiting at her desk. ‘Miss, Ernest Pocock has done this for Mr Stainthorpe,’ she said. She held out before her a large colourful card with a country scene on the front and the words ‘Get Well Soon.’ ‘It’s good, isn’t it, miss?’
‘It is,’ agreed Elisabeth.
‘Miss, we’ve all signed it,’ said the girl. ‘Will you put your name on it, miss, and Danny can take it with him to the hospital when he sees his granddad tonight.’
‘Thank you, Chardonnay,’ replied Elisabeth, taking the card from the girl. ‘That was a really nice thought. I’ll sign it later. Now you get on with your work.’ As she looked at the card tears came to her eyes.
The Little Village School Page 29