‘Are you all right, miss?’ asked Chardonnay.
‘I’m fine thank you,’ Elisabeth replied. ‘I’m fine.’
At lunchtime Dr Stirling returned and joined Elisabeth and Danny in her classroom. The boy looked utterly wretched, for he knew why they had asked to see him and it was confirmed when he saw the expressions on their faces.
The boy had known that his grandfather had only a short time to live, for the old man had explained how things stood the previous week as Danny sat by his bedside.
‘We’ve allus been straight with each other, Danny,’ the old man had told him. His face had been pale and his eyes filmy. ‘We’ve allus been able to speak us minds and tell each other things, ’aven’t we?’
‘Yes, granddad,’ the boy had replied, sniffing.
‘Well, lad, there’s summat I have to tell thee. I thowt abaat t’different ways of tellin’ thee, but I reckon it’s best to just come straight out wi’ it.’
‘Please, granddad,’ the boy had pleaded, wiping his eyes. ‘Don’t tell me tha not goin’ to get better. Please don’t tell me that.’ His face had crumpled.
‘Nay, Danny lad, I’m not gunna get better and that’s the way of it,’ he had told him quietly between shallow breaths. ‘I’m dying and there’s no two ways about it.’
The boy had buried his head in his grandfather’s arms and sobbed. ‘No, no, granddad, don’t tell me that.’
The old man had stroked the boy’s hair gently and then had lifted up his face, wet with tears.
‘It’s best you know t’truth,’ he had said, wiping the tears away. ‘I’ve never in my life kept things from you – good and bad – and I don’t intend startin’ now. I’m not frightened. I knew my time was comin’ up an’ I’ve ’ad a good life.’ He had cupped the boy’s head in his hands and looked at the tearstained face. ‘I need to tell you, Danny, that you’ve been everythin’ to me. Best thing what’s ever ’appened in my life when you came to live wi’ me. Like a breath of fresh country air you were. ’Appy little lad with a sunshine smile. There’s never been a granddad who’s loved ’is grandson as much as I ’ave loved you. You’re a grand lad and tha’ll grow up into a fine young man.’ The boy’s body had heaved with his sobbing. ‘Now I don’t want you to tek on so. I want you to be brave, and when I’m gone remember all them ’appy times we’ve ’ad together. Be a good lad and do as Mrs Devine and Dr Stirling say. They’ll mek sure tha’ll be all reight. They’ve told me that. They’ll tek care of you. Now, I wants you to dry your eyes and get off home and you can come and see me tomorrow. Mrs Devine’s waitin’ outside. You don’t want to keep ’er waitin’.’
‘I don’t want to leave you, granddad,’ the boy had wept, clinging to the old man.
‘I know. I know. But I’m a bit on t’tired side. You go now and come and see me tomorrow. There’s a good lad.’
‘Danny,’ said Elisabeth now, a hollow feeling in her heart, ‘I’m afraid I have some very sad news.’ The boy began to cry. She put her hand around his shoulder and held him to her.
Elisabeth arrived at Forest View on the following Saturday afternoon. She found John sitting at his favourite table by the window, rocking gently backwards and forwards and staring intently at a large coloured poster on the wall. When she sat next to him he held out his hand, which she grasped and squeezed.
‘Oh, I see that you’re in the mood to hold hands today, are you?’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t make it this morning. I had somewhere really important to go to. Mr Williams tells me you were a model pupil this week on the trip to see the Christmas lights at Clayton and is really pleased with the way you’ve been this week. It’s very cold now. Lots of frost about and icy winds. The garden looks very bare and bleak at the moment. Danny’s put some little wire cages in the trees, full of nuts and seeds for the birds. He’s a good boy.’
This would be his first Christmas without his grandfather, she thought. It would be a sad time for him. That morning she had been at his grandfather’s funeral. The crematorium had been packed and the Reverend Atticus’s homily had moved his congregation to tears. ‘I reckon there will be snow before too long,’ said Elisabeth now. ‘Do you remember how you used to like the snow? I remember your face when you first saw those big flakes falling from the sky and how you loved to scoop them up when they had settled and watch them melt in your hands. We built a snowman, remember? I’ve decided what I am getting you for Christmas but it’s going to be a surprise.’ John, not looking at her, continued to rock. ‘School is still as hectic as ever and I’m still waiting to see if the school has a future. I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.’ The boy stopped rocking and examined a tiny insect that scurried across the table. He touched it gently with his finger. ‘I never imagined that this job was going to turn out like this,’ continued Elisabeth. ‘Apply for a post at a quiet country school in a picturesque little village, I thought, lovely scenery, lots of peace and quiet, no worries and no problems.’ She sighed. ‘Still,’ she said, trying to sound cheerful, ‘I’m able to come and see you as often as I want now and that’s the main thing.’
‘Well, that is good to hear.’
Elisabeth turned to find the head teacher standing in the doorway.
‘How long have you been there?’ she asked.
‘Not long,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but eavesdrop. For what it’s worth, I think you made the right decision. It’s been really good seeing you in school. You know, I look forward to your visits as much as I hope John does.’
‘I don’t know what benefit there is for him,’ said Elisabeth, ‘me rattling on out loud like this, but I should like to think he understands something of what I say and I find it therapeutic. He’s the only one I can be really honest with and share all my hopes and fears and feelings. It’s quite a change to talk to someone and not be interrupted or disagreed with.’
Mr Williams looked at her for a moment. He had liked this attractive, intelligent, good-humoured woman from their first meeting a few months ago, he realised, when she had brought her son to the school. ‘I’m a good listener,’ he said, ‘and I promise not to interrupt or disagree with you.’
‘I wouldn’t want to burden you with all my problems,’ she replied.
‘Well, if ever you feel you do, give me a call.’
‘I will.’
‘So how did the public meeting go?’ he asked.
‘It’s hard to tell,’ she replied. ‘Mr Preston is a very clever and persuasive man and very adept at charming an audience. He gave those who attended the impression that nothing had been decided and that he would consider any objections carefully, but I am afraid I don’t trust him as far as I could throw him.’
‘No, he’s a skilful operator is our Director of Education,’ agreed Mr Williams, ‘but I think you may be misjudging him. He’s under a deal of pressure to make savings in the education budget. It can’t be easy for him. Actually, I wanted to have a word with you about something which has arisen.’
‘Is it about John?’ she asked.
‘No, no, he’s doing fine. It’s on another matter. Could you call into my office on your way out?’
Later Mr Williams explained his own worry. ‘The head teachers of the special schools were called to a meeting with Mr Preston last week,’ he told Elisabeth, ‘and it looks likely that your school is not the only one to be threatened with closure. They have to make quite stringent cuts and it appears they want to shut one of the special schools. I have an idea that it might be this one. Being a very specialist place and expensive to maintain, I think we may be first in the firing line.’
‘Oh, please don’t tell me that,’ said Elisabeth.
‘Well, I thought you should know.’
‘But no other school could cater so well for my son’s or the other children’s needs. John’s barely started here and settled in. I’ve never seen him so contented. It would be enormously disruptive for him to move schools again and get used to a new environment. And I moved s
chools so I could be near to him and able to visit him regularly.’
Mr Williams sighed. ‘I know that. It will be a great upheaval for many should the school close.’
‘It can’t close!’ cried Elisabeth angrily. ‘It just can’t!’
‘I assure you that I shall fight until my last breath to resist any moves to close the school, but they are keen on integrating children with special needs into mainstream schools.’
‘But John couldn’t cope in a mainstream school!’ she exclaimed.
‘I know that,’ he replied, ‘but in their view it’s a more cost-effective option. The children would receive some classroom support. It’s all to do with money, I’m afraid. With children who have severe disabilities, like John, I assume they will be found places in other specialist residential schools outside the county. I am sorry to have to add to your worries, Elisabeth, but I felt you ought to be aware of the way things stand.’
‘But you received such an outstanding inspectors’ report. Doesn’t that count for anything?’
‘It appears not. Fine words butter no parsnips, as my mother would say. We will just have to hope and pray that they change their minds.’
‘I imagined that nothing else could possibly add to my worries,’ she said.
‘This news makes my other problems seem trivial.’
‘Nothing may come of it, of course,’ Mr Williams reassured her, ‘but if it does and I end up in the same boat as you, with a proposed closure on my hands, I would appreciate your support.’
‘That goes without saying,’ she replied.
‘Thank you, I appreciate that,’ said Mr Williams. ‘And if you do want to talk anything through with me I should be delighted to listen. Perhaps I might take you out for a drink one evening?’
‘That would be nice,’ she replied smiling but not really listening.
Later that afternoon Elisabeth found Danny leaning against the horse-chestnut tree. He held his ferret in his hands and was stroking the long sleek body. The needle-eyed, furry creature wore a small coloured collar on which was fastened a tiny silver bell.
‘Hello,’ she said gently.
‘’Ello, miss,’ he replied, trying to force a smile.
‘You shouldn’t be out here in this weather. You’ll get your death of cold. Come into the house and I’ll make you a warm drink.’
‘No, you’re all reight, miss. I like it out ’ere. I don’t mind t’cold.’
‘Dr Stirling will be worried about you. I had better give him a ring and let him know where you are.’
‘’E knows where I am, miss,’ he told her. ‘I telled ’im I wanted to be by missen for a bit, to think things ovver.’
‘Do you want me to go?’ asked Elisabeth.
‘Naw, you’re all reight, miss.’
‘I see you’ve brought your ferret.’
‘Aye.’
Elisabeth stood next to him and put a hand on his shoulder. They remained there for a while in silence.
‘I used to go ferretin’ with mi granddad,’ said the boy suddenly. ‘We’d stretch a bit o’ string netting across t’openings to t’rabbits’ burrows. Then we’d put t’ferret down and ’e’d chase rabbits out and then they ended up in t’net. ’Course sometimes if there were a big buck down there t’ferret could get a nasty kick. They can grow reight big can bucks. Granddad used to say that it’s a gret sport is ferreting, all that fresh air and free meat and it keeps t’population of rabbits down. This is reight time o’ year for doing it. Best time is when it’s cowld. If it’s too mild rabbits stay down and sleep. Difficult for a ferret to shift ’em then. You only have to half-feed a ferret.’ There was a tremble in the boy’s voice. ‘Keep ’im too ’ungry and ’e’ll stop down t’burrow an’ eat what ’e kills. Feed im’ too much and ’e dunt bother. I miss my granddad. I miss him so much.’
‘I know, Danny,’ she said.
The boy sniffed. ‘I like it ’ere under this tree.’ He looked up. ‘That big branch wants lopping off. It might come through your roof if there’s a bad storm. It were lightning what did it, splitting t’branch like that. I remember when it ’appened.’
‘I’ll get it seen to,’ said Elisabeth.
It was now getting dark and they watched together in silence as the garden underwent a magical transformation. The lawn glittered with frost, frozen plants creaked in a gentle wind, the prickly holly hedge sparkled and in the sky stars winked and a cold white moon shone between clouds of frozen breath.
‘You know, Danny,’ said Elisabeth, ‘on nights like this one could almost believe in Father Christmas.’
‘It were a good funeral for mi granddad, weren’t it miss? All them people turnin’ out and t’vicar sayin’ all them nice things about ’im being an ’ero.’
‘It was a wonderful funeral. You were very brave this morning, Danny.’
The boy nodded.
‘Your grandfather was a very special man. He was loved and respected and he will be missed greatly by all of us who were fortunate to know him. And I know he’d have been really proud of you the way you coped at the service.’
‘I loved him, miss,’ said Danny sniffing. ‘I really loved him. I don’t know what I shall do now he’s gone.’
The boy’s arms were suddenly around her and he held her close, burying his head in her coat. He began to cry, great shuddering sobs, and she cried too and they remained holding tight to each other and crying until eventually Elisabeth wiped away her tears and bent down to face him.
‘Your grandfather would want you to keep being brave and remember all the things he told you and did for you and all the happy memories you’ve had. He brought you up to be a fine young man, Danny.’
‘Mrs Devine, do you think they’ll let me take mi ferret with me when I go to live somewhere else?’
‘I should think so.’
‘If they won’t, do you think Dr Stirling will let James look after ’im for me?’
‘Of course, and you can come and visit to see how’s he’s getting on and call in to see me.’
‘They say that t’school’s gunna close,’ he said.
‘That’s what they say,’ said Elisabeth, ‘but I don’t intend to let it happen.’
‘I like school now,’ he said. ‘Never used to. Miss, do you think I might ’ave to move to another school?’
‘That depends on where you go to live,’ she replied.
The boy thought for moment. ‘Mrs Devine, could I still live here?’ he asked. ‘I could stay in t’caravan. I’d be all right and I wouldn’t be any bother and you could keep an eye on things.’
‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea, Danny,’ she said.
‘Aye, well, it were worth askin’. Well, I’d best be off.’
‘Goodbye Danny,’ she said and watched the sad little figure climb the wall and walk slowly across the field towards the village.
The three women, attired in black and with suitably cheerless expressions, sat in the ‘parlour’ at the rear of the village store. Mrs Sloughthwaite had closed the shop for the day ‘as a sign of respect’, but the more cynical in the village viewed such an action as more to do with the shopkeeper not wishing to miss Les Stainthorpe’s funeral, to see who attended and to hear all the gossip. As everyone was well aware, Mrs Sloughthwaite was a person who liked to be fully in the know, and she would hardly miss such an event.
‘It was a lovely funeral, so it was,’ observed Mrs O’Connor, taking a sip of tea.
The shopkeeper responded with appropriate solemnity, nodding her head dolefully. ‘It was,’ she said. ‘He had a lovely send-off.’
‘Well, the poor man has gone to his reward now, God rest his soul,’ sighed Mrs O’Connor, crossing herself.
‘I prefer a church service myself,’ pronounced Mrs Pocock. ‘I told my husband that if I go before him, they’ll take my coffin into that crematorium over my dead body.’
‘No, I feel the same,’ agreed the shopkeeper. ‘You get a much better send-off in a church. I
t’s more historical and the atmosphere’s a lot better. Did you notice the flower display in the entrance at the crematorium, by the way? I thought to myself, they should have had roses or lilies, not red hot pokers. Very unfortunate choice. And did you see the sign on the door: “The Management wishes all visitors a warm welcome.” Very inappropriate, to my mind.’
‘Well, I thought the sign for the fire exit could have been a bit more discreet,’ added Mrs Pocock. She helped herself to a salmon paste sandwich.
‘The vicar was very good,’ observed Mrs O’Connor.
‘Except that nobody understood much of what he said,’ observed the shopkeeper. ‘Too highbrow and academical for my liking. I mean he’s a nice enough man, don’t get me wrong, but my goodness his sermons could put a glass eye to sleep.’
‘I was surprised at the tunes they had,’ Mrs Pocock said, reaching for another salmon paste sandwich. ‘I like a good hymn myself.’
‘Well, Les Stainthorpe wasn’t a religious man,’ said Mrs Sloughthwaite. ‘I’ve never see him inside the church and, to my knowledge, I don’t think that grandson of his was ever christened.’
‘I felt sorry for the poor wee lad,’ said Mrs O’Connor, ‘sitting there at the front crying his little eyes out.’
‘Yes,’ nodded Mrs Pocock, ‘it’s a bleak future got him, destined for the children’s home.’
‘It was good of Mrs Devine and Dr Stirling to look after him at the funeral,’ said Mrs Sloughthwaite meaningfully. ‘Quite a little family group, it was, sitting together on the front pew.’
Mrs O’Connor knew what the shopkeeper was up to, fishing for information about the relationship of the head teacher and the village doctor. She reached for a sandwich.
‘Yes,’ she said non-committally, then quickly changed the topic of conversation. ‘I thought it was a very nice touch having music that was popular during the war. My goodness, that brought back memories.’
‘I never knew Les Stainthorpe was an old soldier,’ said Mrs Pocock, ‘until the vicar started on about him being a Dunkirk veteran and all and having all those medals.’
‘Neither did I,’ said Mrs Sloughthwaite. ‘Never said a word to anyone. He was a dark horse and no mistake. You can bet he’s left a tidy sum. I’ve seen it before. They go through life as if they hadn’t a penny to rub together and when they’ve gone it’s discovered they’ve left a small fortune. Probably squirrelled it away in that caravan of his. I made that Bakewell tart myself, by the way.’
The Little Village School Page 30