Trouble at the Little Village School (22 page)

‘And you have such traps?’ asked Miss Sowerbutts.

‘Oh aye,’ said the boy. ‘They used to be mi granddad’s.’

‘And you know how to use them, do you?’

‘Aye, I do. Mi granddad showed me.’

Miss Sowerbutts thought for a moment. She had arranged for several couples to visit with the estate agent the following week to view the cottage. An unsightly lawn full of molehills would not give a very good impression. And, of course, she could never be certain when Mr Massey might stir himself to visit and rid her of the creatures.

‘You won’t make a mess of the lawn?’ she asked Danny.

‘Well, it’s in a bit of a mess now, miss, in’t it? I can’t mek it look much worse.’

‘And how much will this cost me?’ she asked.

‘Nowt.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Nowt,’ repeated the boy. ‘It won’t cost you owt. Mi granddad used to say, “It’d be a sorry world if you din’t do somebody a good turn now an’ again”.’

‘Well, Daniel, I suppose I could let you try. When could you set these traps of yours?’

‘Later this mornin’ if ya want. I’ve just got to tek these flowers to mi granddad’s grave, then I can sooart out yer moles.’

‘Very well,’ said Miss Sowerbutts, ‘but mind you don’t make too much of a mess.’

‘I’d keep yer cat inside when I’m setting t’traps if I were you, miss. I don’t want it gerrin ’urt.’

‘I don’t let her out,’ he was told. ‘I keep her in the house all the time.’

A pity, thought the boy, but he said nothing.

On his way to the church Danny met Malcolm Stubbins and Ernest Pocock. Malcolm was wearing the red-and-white football strip of Clayton United, with the name of the team captain, DWYER, displayed prominently in large black letters on the back.

‘Hey up,’ said Malcolm. ‘Off to see your girlfriend, are you?’

‘No,’ replied Danny.

‘Who are the flowers for then?’

‘I’m purren ’em on mi granddad’s grave if you must know.’

‘Why?’

‘What do ya mean “why”?’

‘Well, he’s dead, isn’t he? He won’t know they’re there.’

‘’E might do, an’ anyroad it’s a sort o’ way o’ rememberin’ ’im when I visit ’is grave.’

‘I don’t visit my granddad’s grave,’ Malcolm told him. ‘He was a miserable old bugger.’

‘Well, mine weren’t,’ said Danny.

‘Do you want to come for a game of footie later?’ asked Ernest.

‘Naw,’ said Danny. ‘I said I’d get rid o’ some moles in Miss Sowerbutts’s lawn after I’ve been to t’churchyard.’

‘Huh!’ snorted Malcolm, ‘I wouldn’t do anything for her. Miserable old bat. She’s horrible. She used to make me stand outside her room for ages and shout at me when she was head teacher. I pass her cottage every morning on the way to school and she stands at the window making faces at me. I pull faces back at her. She once came out to tell me off and I told her she couldn’t order me about because she wasn’t the head teacher up at the school any more. You should have seen her face.’

‘I didn’t like her either,’ agreed Ernest. ‘Mrs Devine’s a lot better head teacher.’

‘She is,’ agreed Malcolm.

‘Tha din’t say that when she first come t’school,’ said Danny. ‘Yer mam took yer away.’

‘That was because my mam and her had a ding-dong and I was moved to Urebank, but it were worse up there and that’s why I moved back. Anyway I get on with Mrs Devine now.’

‘I hope she’s the new head teacher when the two schools join up,’ said Ernest. ‘My mum reckons that the head teacher at Urebank will be in charge.’

‘Richardson!’ exclaimed Malcolm. ‘He’s as bad as old Sowerbutts. He used to make me stand outside his room all day and shout at me as well.’

‘My mum went to this meeting about the schools,’ Ernest told them, ‘and she said everybody there said the head teacher at Urebank would get the job and Mrs Devine would be made his deputy.’

‘That’s not reight,’ said Danny. ‘She’s a really good ’ead teacher.’

‘Well, it won’t matter to any of us, will it,’ said Malcolm, ‘’cos we’ll be up at the secondary school by then. Anyway, do you want to come and have a game of footie or not?’

‘Naw,’ said Danny. ‘I promised Miss Sowerbutts.’

‘Suit yourself,’ said Malcolm. ‘Come on, Ernie.’

Danny was busy raking up the leaves in the churchyard when a ruddy-complexioned man in a greasy cap and dressed in soiled blue overalls strode between the gravestones.

‘What do you think you’re doing, Danny Stainthorpe?’ asked the man angrily.

‘I were just doin’ a bit of tidyin’ up, Mester Massey,’ replied the boy.

‘Well, that’s my job, so leave off.’

‘It needed doin’,’ Danny told him. ‘It’s all overgrown.’

‘Don’t you go telling me what needs doing. I shall do it when I think it should be done and not before.’

‘But all these leaves—’ began Danny, kicking a pile at his feet.

‘Never mind them leaves. Just leave them leaves alone and take your tools and get off home. Our Clarence will fettle this when I tell him to do so.’

‘How can ’e do it wi’ a broken arm?’ asked Danny.

‘He’s got another arm, hasn’t he? Anyway, it’s not your concern, so leave off what you’re doing.’

‘But t’vicar’s wife said—’ started Danny.

‘I’m not bothered what the vicar’s wife said or anyone else for that matter. That’s my job and it shall be done when I do it.’

‘I don’t mind doin’ it, Mester Massey,’ said Danny.

‘Well, I do, so go and dig the doctor’s garden if you want something to do. When I get back I don’t want to see you here.’

Danny began picking up his tools. He felt it better not to mention that he would be dealing with Miss Sowerbutts’s moles when he had finished in the graveyard.

‘Go on, look sharpish,’ said Mr Massey, making his way to the gate between the grey stone slabs. When he had got to the road Danny shouted after him mischievously, ‘How are yer sheep gerrin on, Mester Massey?’

‘I’ll come back there and give you a thick ear in a minute, you cheeky little devil,’ the man shouted back, before walking off grumbling to himself.

Having packed away his tools, Danny was heading for home to get the mole traps when he noticed a figure standing in front of his grandfather’s grave. She was a large blonde-haired woman in an olive green coat and long tan-coloured leather boots. A cigarette smouldered in her hand. He went over.

‘’Ello,’ he said.

The woman turned and considered him for a moment. She put the cigarette to her lips and drew upon it, then blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘Hello,’ she replied without smiling.

‘That’s mi granddad’s grave,’ said Danny.

The woman looked at him with a sudden interest. ‘Is it?’

‘’E died last year. I come ’ere every week.’

‘So you must be Daniel then,’ said the woman.

‘Yea, but most people call me Danny.’

The woman looked at the inscription on the tombstone. ‘“Les Stainthorpe, dearly-loved grandfather”,’ she said and gave a dry smile. ‘He never liked the name Leslie. Always Les. “Call me Les,” he would tell people, “never Leslie. I hates the name Leslie,” he used to say. “Can’t understand for the life of me why my mother called me such a name. Leslie! Sounds like somebody out of a romantic novel”.’

Danny cocked his head and looked up at the woman. ‘Did ya know mi granddad?’ he asked.

‘Oh yes, I knew him all right,’ she replied. She drew on the cigarette. ‘I was married to him.’ She looked down at Danny, who had dropped the tools. ‘I’m your grandmother.’

‘Well, well, well,’ said Fred Massey. ‘Look what the wind’s blown in.’

Maisie Stainthorpe, former barmaid at the Blacksmith’s Arms, walked through the door of the village pub like a VIP arriving at some grand reception. She looked around as if she were waiting for someone to greet her.

‘Hello Fred,’ she replied, laughing. ‘I see you’re still propping up the public bar, you old reprobate.’

‘You’re a sight for sore eyes and no mistake,’ said Fred.

She looked at the landlord who stood watching her, his arms folded over his chest. ‘Hello Harry,’ she said with a half-smile.

‘Maisie,’ he replied, with a small nod of the head.

She perched herself on a stool, crossed her legs and patted her hair. ‘Vodka and orange for me,’ she said to the landlord, ‘and whatever Fred’s having.’

‘That’s very decent of you,’ said Fred. ‘I’ll have a pint.’

‘And get one for yourself,’ she told the landlord.

‘No thanks,’ he replied. He gave her a cold look of disapproval.

‘So what brings you to Barton then Maisie?’ asked Fred.

‘I’ve been to see my husband’s grave,’ she told him, ‘to pay my last respects.’

The landlord began pulling a pint. He shook his head but said nothing. The last time he had seen the woman she had flounced out of the Blacksmith’s Arms having been sacked for stealing. He was surprised she had the effrontery to sweep into the pub as if nothing had happened. He was not inclined to enter into pleasantries with her.

‘I was a bit put out,’ she said, ‘that nobody bothered to tell me that Les had died.’

‘Why should anyone?’ asked the landlord. He stopped what he was doing and leaned over the bar. ‘No one thought you’d be interested or bothered enough to come to the funeral.’

‘He was my husband, Harry,’ she told him.

‘Before you ran off with the carpet fitter from Halifax,’ said the landlord. He resumed pulling the pint.

‘Frank was a senior sales executive for household appliances and he was from Rotherham, if you must know. Anyway, now that he’s passed on—’

‘He’s dead?’ interrupted Fred.

‘Frank had a serious heart condition. Coronary thrombosis it was that finished him off. Bent down to tie up his shoelaces and collapsed,’ she explained. ‘It was a blessing that he went so quickly. He didn’t feel anything, just keeled over. Left me comfortably off. I have his pension, he was insured, and he’d put a bit aside.’ She sniffed. ‘I’ve bought a new apartment in Clayton. It’s got everything – all the mod cons, double balcony, three bedrooms and a lovely view of the river and the cathedral.’

‘Bully for you,’ muttered the landlord, placing the pint of beer on the bar.

She ignored the comment. ‘And I want my grandson to come and live with me.’

‘Danny!’ he exclaimed.

‘I’ve only got the one as far as I know,’ she replied.

‘I’ve heard you’ve not seen the lad since he was a baby,’ said the landlord.

‘You’re wrong there. For your information, I’ve just seen him. It’s true I’ve not kept in touch, but that was because Frank didn’t want me to have anything to do with Les,’ she explained. ‘He was very particular about it. Course, I wanted to see Danny but what with us both working we couldn’t look after a small child. And besides, Frank wasn’t keen on kids.’ She looked suddenly indignant. ‘Anyway, I don’t see why I should explain myself to you. And how long am I supposed to wait for my vodka and orange?’

‘Well it’s good to see you, Maisie,’ said Fred as the landlord got her drink. He lowered his voice. ‘This place has not been the same since you left. It’s like a morgue, and him behind the bar has a face like the back end of a bus on a wet weekday.’

She chuckled. ‘I reckon you’re the only one in the village who is pleased to see me. You should have seen the reception I got in the village shop. Old Ma Sloughthwaite doesn’t change, does she?’

‘Your drink,’ said the landlord, placing a glass before her.

‘I’ve been down the social services,’ she told Fred, ‘and explained that I want to look after my grandson.’

‘Well, you’ve not got much chance of that,’ said the landlord. ‘The lad doesn’t know you for a start and he’s happy where he is. They’re not likely to uproot him, particularly if he doesn’t want to go.’        

‘Since when have you been an expert on adoptions?’ asked Maisie sharply. ‘I told the social worker that I’ll take it to court if I have to. I’m the boy’s nearest relation and it’s only right that he should come and live with me.’

‘I’m with you there Maisie,’ agreed Fred. ‘Blood’s thicker than water in my book. I mean, when my sister died, didn’t I take Clarence in?’

‘He was twenty-three,’ observed the landlord. ‘And I don’t think you did him any favours either.’

‘Anyway,’ continued Fred, ignoring the remark, ‘they’ll probably not think Dr Stirling is suitable to look after the lad.’

‘How do you mean?’ asked Maisie.

‘Well, he’s never at home is he? Always out seeing his patients. He leaves that son of his in the house by himself all the time. You can imagine if he adopts young Danny what two lads can get up to when they’re left unsupervised. And of course, Dr Stirling’s had his problems with his own son.’

‘Has he?’ asked Maisie, leaning forward.

‘Ran away from home, didn’t he?’ said Fred. ‘Police were called out  and there was a big search in the village before the lad turned up late at night all cold and wet and crying his eyes out in the head teacher’s garden.’