Trouble at the Little Village School (29 page)

The children did as they were told and sat up smartly at their tables.

‘Danny has left,’ she said.

‘He’s left, miss?’ exclaimed Chardonnay.

‘That’s right. Danny has gone to live with his grandmother in Clayton.’ Elisabeth glanced in the direction of James as she spoke and saw the look of despondency on the boy’s face.

‘I didn’t know he had a grandmother,’ muttered Chardonnay.

‘Well, he has,’ Elisabeth told her, ‘and he is going to live with her.’

‘But miss, I thought—’ began the girl.

‘That’s quite enough about Danny, Chardonnay,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I am sure we will all miss him but he will soon be at another school. Now let’s get on with our work.’

‘Well, he could have said goodbye, miss,’ grumbled Chardonnay, pouting.

At morning break James stayed behind.

‘Mrs Devine,’ he said. ‘Is there nothing you can do to get Danny to come back and stay with us?’

‘I’m afraid not, James,’ she replied. ‘Your father has tried his very best but, as you know, he’s not had any success. Perhaps your friend will be happy with his grandmother.’

The boy shook his head. ‘He won’t. I know he won’t. He loves the country, going down by the beck, fishing in the millpond, running across the fields, building dens, spotting birds, setting traps. He won’t like it in the town, I know he won’t.’

‘There’s nothing I can do,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I only wish I could.’

She had tried. When she had learned that it had been decided that Danny was to live in Clayton, she had telephoned the Social Services department and spoken to Miss Parsons. Elisabeth had explained she was Danny’s head teacher and how happy and settled the boy was. ‘I have the utmost respect for social workers,’ she had continued. ‘You do an almost impossible job out of the very best possible motives, receive little recognition and are paid a pittance for doing so. I know how difficult this must be for you but I do urge you to do everything possible so that Danny can stay where he is. Dr Stirling is a hero. He took Danny in after the boy’s grandfather had died so he would not have to go into care, and he gave him permanence, security and love. I know you listen to what the child says and always have to put him first so he can have a happy and successful life, so I do hope on this occasion—’

‘I hear what you say, Mrs Devine,’ Miss Parsons had interrupted, ‘and I do sympathise, but in this situation I am trying to do the best for Danny, to make sure he goes to the very best home. I admire Dr Stirling and all he has done for the boy and I have listened to what Danny says, but I feel we need at least to give this a chance.’

‘Miss Parsons,’ Elisabeth had replied, ‘surely Danny’s wishes should carry the greatest weight. Shouldn’t he decide where he wants to live?’

‘Were it as simple as that,’ the senior social worker had replied. It would be unprofessional, she had thought, to raise the matter of Dr Stirling’s son running away and the fact that his work as a doctor meant he was frequently away from home. These were factors which she had to take into consideration. ‘If it doesn’t work out,’ she had told Elisabeth, ‘we can review the case. Let’s see how Danny gets on at his grandmother’s, and let me assure you that I shall monitor the situation.’

The day he was to leave Clumber Lodge to go and live with his grandmother, Danny sat on the end of his bed, staring at the carpet.

There was a knock at the bedroom door. ‘May I come in?’ asked Dr Stirling.

‘Yes,’ replied Danny.

The boy looked up and gave a weak smile when Dr Stirling walked in.

‘Have you packed?’

‘Yes,’ he said quietly.

The doctor sat next to him and put an arm around his shoulder.

‘You know, it might not be too bad living with your grandmother.’

‘Naw,’ Danny nodded.

‘You never know, you might really like life in the town. There’s lots more to do there than in sleepy old Barton. You’ll make new friends at the school and soon forget about us.’

‘I won’t. I never will.’

‘You know you can always come and visit any time. We’d all love to see you. You’re not a hundred miles away and there’s the bus from Clayton. Maybe you could stay over some time. I know James would really like to keep in touch.’

Danny nodded.

‘You know, Danny,’ said Dr Stirling gently, ‘sometimes in life decisions are made for us, things we find hard to accept at the time, things which might seem pretty bad now but they somehow, sometimes have a way of turning out for the best.’

‘That’s what t’woman in t’churchyard said,’ Danny told him.

‘Woman in the churchyard?’

‘Yea, she were really nice. She looked a bit like that hangel on that big tomb, an’ she said she thought mi granddad would ’ave told me that things might not be as bad as they seem at t’moment an’ that they ’ave a way of turning out for t’best.’

‘Sounds pretty good advice to me.’

‘I just wish I could believe it.’

They sat there in silence for a moment.

‘Dr Stirling,’ said Danny at last.

‘Yes?’

‘Thanks for all you’ve done for me.’

‘It’s been a pleasure.’

‘I din’t know what to do when mi granddad died. If it ’adn’t been for you an’ Mrs Devine—’

‘There’s no need to say anything, Danny,’ said the doctor. ‘We were happy to do it. You know—’ The doorbell rang. The boy got up from the bed and picked up his small case.

‘That must be mi grandmother now,’ he said.

‘Yes, it probably is,’ said the doctor.

‘Best not keep ’er waitin’.’

At the sight of Mrs Stainthorpe on the doorstep, Mrs O’Connor’s face took on a stony expression. If looks could maim, the woman standing before her would be on crutches.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said.

‘Yes, it’s me and you don’t need to look at me like that, Bridget O’Connor. Anybody would think I was kidnapping the boy.’

‘Some would say you are,’ replied the housekeeper sharply. ‘He was happy here before you showed up after all these years.’

‘You’ve never liked me, have you?’ asked Mrs Stainthorpe.

‘No, I haven’t,’ replied the housekeeper tartly. ‘I never liked you when you lived in the village and I’ve not changed my mind. Only out for what you can get, that’s you.’

‘And tell me what am I getting out of this?’ she asked.

‘Family allowance and any money Danny’s grandfather might have left,’ replied Mrs O’Connor bluntly.

Mrs Stainthorpe gave a dismissive grunt. ‘I was left very well provided for if you must know. Frank left me a tidy sum and he was insured, so you’re wrong on that count. Well, am I coming in or am I stopping out here taking root on the doorstep?’ she asked. Mrs O’Connor moved out of the way to let the woman enter. ‘Is he ready?’

‘As he’ll ever be.’

Dr Stirling came down the stairs accompanied by Danny.

‘Good morning, Mrs Stainthorpe,’ said the doctor.

‘Morning,’ she replied sharply. ‘Hello, Daniel.’

‘’Ello,’ said the boy almost inaudibly.

‘Don’t look so miserable,’ she said. ‘Take your case out to the taxi. I’ll be with you in a minute.’

‘There’s mi ferret,’ said Danny.

‘Your what?’

‘Mi ferret. Can I tek ’im wi’ me?’

‘A ferret!’ exclaimed the woman. ‘Certainly not. There’s no room for a ferret at the apartment, dirty smelly creature.’

‘But I’ve—’ began the boy.

‘Anyway, they don’t allow pets,’ he was told sternly.

‘Don’t worry, Danny,’ said the doctor, ‘we’ll take good care of Ferdy.’

‘Well, go on,’ said his grandmother, ‘don’t just stand there. Put the case in the taxi.’

‘’Bye, Mrs O’Connor,’ said the boy, his eyes filling with tears.

‘’Bye darlin’.’ She gave him a hug. ‘You come and see us, won’t you?’

‘’Bye, Dr Stirling,’ said Danny.

‘Goodbye Danny,’ said Dr Stirling. He put both hands on the boy’s shoulders and looked into his eyes. ‘You be a good boy, won’t you?’

‘Oh, he will,’ said Mrs Stainthorpe.

When Danny had set off down the path his grandmother turned to Dr Stirling. ‘I know you don’t think much of me,’ she said, ‘and I know them social workers didn’t either and that all of you didn’t want him to come with me. You made me out to be the wicked fairy at the christening, but I know what’s right for my grandson and what I’m doing is best for the boy.’

‘I hope so, Mrs Stainthorpe,’ replied Dr Stirling calmly. ‘I do hope so.’

Chapter 14

It was a cold, crisp Saturday morning. Elisabeth braved the chilly weather to put food out for the birds. She was thinking of Danny. Every Saturday morning bright and early he would arrive at her cottage and she would watch him from the kitchen window, filling the trays and the feeders with nuts, seeds and currants, and on seeing her he would smile that broad smile of his and wave. He was such a sunny, good-natured boy, full of life and so at home in the country. She wondered what he would be doing now, cooped up in his grandmother’s flat in Clayton. She recalled his grandfather’s words when she’d gone to visit him in hospital a few days before his death.

‘I’m not feared o’ dying,’ he told her. ‘I’ve known that there’s been summat up wi’ me for a while. What does worry me is what’ll ’appen to Danny.’ The old man’s eyes began to fill with tears. ‘’E’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. Tek ’im away from t’country and ’e’ll be like a caged bird beating its wings agin t’bars to try an’ get out.’

Elisabeth looked up now to see the sparrows squabbling and chattering in the bare branches of the trees, the shy thrush waiting for his breakfast and the blackbird sweeping down on to the dark earth in search of worms. All free spirits.

She remembered when she had first met Danny the previous summer, the day when she had seen for the first time the cottage she was to buy. Beyond the five-barred gate at the end of the track she’d seen a small boy lifting a dry cowpat with a stick and disturbing a buzzing cloud of yellow horseflies. He stopped when he caught sight of her and, having watched her for a moment, came over.

‘’Ello,’ he said cheerfully, climbing up on to the gate, sitting on the top and letting his spindly legs dangle down. He was about ten or eleven, with large low-set ears, a mop of dusty blond hair and the bright brown eyes of a fox, and was dressed in a faded T-shirt, baggy khaki shorts and wellington boots that looked sizes too big for him. The child’s face and knees were innocent of soap and water.

As she made her way back to the cottage now, shivering a little in the cold, she jumped as she caught sight of a figure leaning over the gate. He was a tall broad-shouldered young man with a mass of unruly black curls and a wide-boned weathered face the colour of a russet apple.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Did I startle you?’

‘I was daydreaming,’ replied Elisabeth.

‘It’s good to dream,’ he replied.

She smiled. ‘Yes, it is,’ she said.

The young man breathed in deeply. ‘’Tis a lovely cottage,’ he said, ‘with a beautiful view.’

‘It is,’ she replied. ‘The garden’s a bit of a mess at the moment, I’m afraid. The trees need pruning and the dead plants want cutting back. I did have a young man who looked after it for me.’ She thought of Danny again. ‘Anyway, may I help you at all?’ As she approached the man Elisabeth noticed his striking eyes, the fine high nose and the shining hair as black as jet.

‘Hope so,’ he replied. ‘I’m after looking for a Fred Massey. The woman at the village store told me he lived somewhere over here.’

‘Come through,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I’ll point out his farmhouse. It’s a bit of a walk but you can cut across the fields from here.’

The man was wearing a heavy, thick close-fitting jacket, shapeless corduroy trousers worn at the knees and black boots which had seen better days. Around his neck was wound a colourful kerchief. A heavy earring was fastened to his ear like a small gold manacle.

Elisabeth pointed across the fields. ‘If you go through the paddock at the side of the cottage and take the path, it will bring you to Tanfield Farm, Mr Massey’s place. Go carefully; he has two rather lively dogs.’

‘I guess you’ll be knowing Mr Massey,’ said the young man.

‘He’s my nearest neighbour, but I see little of him.’

‘And what sort of man is he?’ she was asked bluntly.

Elisabeth was non-committal. ‘Interesting,’ she replied. She recalled the words of Danny’s grandfather, who had described the old farmer as ‘a tight-fisted old so-and-so and allus on t’make’. She had had one or two skirmishes with the curmudgeonly Fred Massey, and the less she saw of him the better.

‘Do you think he might be letting me park my caravan in his paddock?’ asked the young man.

‘Actually the paddock belongs to me,’ Elisabeth told him.

‘Belongs to you?’ repeated the young man. ‘Well, there’s a stroke of luck. You’re the very person I wish to speak to.’

Elisabeth shook her head. ‘If you are looking for somewhere to put your caravan,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you.’