Trouble at the Little Village School (15 page)

‘I see,’ said Elisabeth.

‘Of course if neither of you are deemed to be suitable by the governors then the post will be advertised nationally. To be frank, I can’t see that happening, but one never knows. Some interviews can be something of a lottery.’ He smiled and steepled his fingers again. ‘I just wanted to see you and clarify matters and to assure you that I have your interests and those of your staff very much at heart.’

‘Thank you, Mr Preston,’ she said, ‘I appreciate you explaining things.’

‘I think we will leave it there for the time being, Mrs Devine,’ he said standing and extending a hand. ‘Thank you for coming in to see me. I shall be in touch.’

Elisabeth walked slowly down the long, echoey corridor, her high heels clacking on the polished tiled floor. The interior of County Hall was like a museum, hushed and cool, with high ornate ceilings, marble figures and walls full of gilt-framed portraits of former councillors, mayors, aldermen, leaders of the Council, high sheriffs, lord lieutenants, members of parliament and other dignitaries. It was a dark and daunting place, devoid of colour. The meeting had depressed her and she needed to think what she would do now. There was no way she could work with that patronising man at Urebank. She would be glad to get back to school. This very building depressed her. As she made her way down the wide curving staircase the man who was uppermost in her mind was making his way up. Mr Richardson saw her, looked away and continued up the steps without a word.

Mr Preston’s meeting with the headmaster of Urebank School did not go quite as smoothly.

‘The intention, Mr Richardson, as you are aware,’ the Director of Education told him, ‘is to merge some of the small village schools within the county.’

‘It seems a very sensible idea, if I may say so, Mr Preston,’ said Mr Richardson, giving an unctuous smile. ‘It means that the village schools which are so much a part of the communities will not close.’

‘Some sadly may have to close,’ the Director of Education told him, ‘but Urebank is, at the moment, quite safe. Of course one cannot predict what might happen in the long term. Ms Tricklebank and I have been looking at the various options—’

‘Yes, I had the pleasure of meeting Ms Tricklebank recently when she visited my school.’

‘Indeed.’

‘I hope she enjoyed her visit and found everything satisfactory?’

‘Yes, she was most interested in what she saw,’ said Mr Preston. ‘Now, it is our intention that Urebank will merge with Barton-in-the-Dale. Our proposal is that we will have two sites, the infants housed at one school and the juniors at the other. Of course we will hold consultation meetings with the interested parties but it is very likely that from next September the schools will be amalgamated.’

‘And there would be the one head teacher?’ asked Mr Richardson.

‘Yes, based at one of the sites, and the deputy head teacher at the other. Generous packages will be offered to those members of staff at both schools if they wish to take early retirement, and others will be offered posts in the new set-up or redeployed. I hope we will avoid the necessity of having to make some teachers redundant.’

‘So, as I understand it,’ said Mr Richardson, ‘should I be appointed the head teacher of the amalgamated schools, Mrs Devine would be offered the position of my deputy?’

‘If you were appointed, yes,’ said the Director of Education.

‘And we would not be working together in the same building?’

‘No.’

‘Well, that doesn’t sound quite as bad as I thought,’ he conceded. ‘As you know, Mrs Devine and I do not get on. I did write to you, if you remember, about what I considered to be her unprofessional conduct. I have to say—’

‘I do recall,’ said the Director of Education, cutting him short.

‘I have to say that I would find it quite impossible,’ continued Mr Richardson, ‘to work with her in the same building on a day-to-day basis, but if she were based on another site I guess it would not be too bad. The juniors could be based at Urebank and the infants at Barton.’

‘Possibly,’ said Mr Preston, ‘but we were thinking the other way round.’

‘I should prefer to stay with the juniors at Urebank,’ said Mr Richardson.

‘Looking at the demographic of the two villages,’ Mr Preston told him, ignoring his remark, ‘there are more new houses and apartments in Urebank, and more families with young children than there are in Barton, which tends to have more of an ageing population. Should we base the infants at Urebank then the very youngest children would not have to travel quite such a distance to school.’

‘Well, loath as I am to leave my present school,’ said Mr Richardson, ‘I suppose I could move to Barton and Mrs Devine could take charge of the infants in Urebank. I do feel the head teacher should be with the older pupils. They tend to be more difficult to handle and some need a firm hand.’

‘One moment, Mr Richardson,’ said the Director of Education, the perfected smile appearing on his face. ‘The position of head teacher has yet to be decided.’

‘No, no, of course not,’ Mr Richardson said quickly. ‘I mean yes, I see that.’

‘It will be decided by the newly convened governing body,’ he was told.

‘Yes, of course, but I assumed, having spoken to Councillor Smout, that I am the front-runner. Having been in the county longer than Mrs Devine and at a larger school I thought that naturally I would be—’

‘The procedure will be to interview you both for the position of head teacher in the first instance,’ Mr Preston told him, ‘and if neither is successful then it will go to national advert.’

The headmaster of Urebank was too disappointed to speak.

‘So you see, my lord, I consider that under the circumstances it is with great regret that I feel I have to decline your most generous offer for me to become the Archdeacon of Clayton.’

The Reverend Atticus, his eyebrows knitted together in concern, was sitting opposite the bishop in the office at the Bishop’s Palace.

‘No, no, no, Charles,’ said his lordship, waving a finger back and forth. ‘I won’t hear of it.’ The bishop, a round, jolly-looking individual with abundant grey crinkly hair and kindly eyes, shook his head. ‘You will be excellent in the position, and what is more, I need you. There is no one more suitable. You will be the oil to help things run smoothly, the very glue to hold together the churches in the diocese. Your advice and wisdom on a host of matters spiritual, legal and practical will be invaluable. The Dean and the canons, indeed all the clergy to whom I have spoken, are unanimous in endorsing my decision.’

‘But my lord, were I to accept the position it would mean moving. I appreciate that I could not stay in my present parish. An archdeacon, on his appointment, is obliged to leave the church where he is the vicar. Is that not the case?’

The Reverend Atticus peered at the bishop with the searching, worried eyes of a rabbit caught in the headlights’ glare. ‘As I explained, my lord, Marcia has secured a place to train at the village school. She will, I am certain, make a very good teacher and there has been such a positive change in her since she started there. She’s more content, more settled. Were we to move to the cathedral precinct here in Clayton it would mean she would have to travel back and forth to Barton. She doesn’t drive and would have to rely on public transport, which is notoriously unpredictable, and she would have to carry all manner of equipment and books. I am, of course deeply honoured, my lord, to have been offered—’

The bishop held up his palm to silence him. ‘Charles,’ he interrupted. ‘Listen to me for a moment.’

The vicar took a little breath as if he was about to speak, but he didn’t say anything and then looked down at his hands.

‘God moves in a mysterious way, his wonders to perform,’ said the bishop.

‘I beg your pardon, my lord?’ said the vicar, looking up.

‘God has found a solution to our predicament.’

‘He has?’

‘Indeed He has.’

‘In what way, my lord?’

‘You are quite correct when you say that it is generally the case that a priest appointed as archdeacon will have to move from his or her present parish, but it is not chiselled in tablets of stone. As the bishop, I do have some leeway. Now the present archdeacon, the Venerable Dr Bentley, as you are no doubt aware, is not a well man and is getting on in years and ready to retire. He has become increasingly anxious of late about moving from the archdeaconry premises here at Cathedral House. He has lived here for many years and has amassed a most extensive library. I did feel it would be unchristian of me at the moment to request that he vacate his present residence for you and your wife to move in. We have looked around for another suitable location near the cathedral for you both but without success.’

‘May I ask how this solves the predicament, my lord?’

‘Don’t you see, Charles?’ said the Bishop, ‘You can remain at the rectory in Barton for the time being, continue as the rector there and drive to Clayton each day. Your wife could then continue at the village school and I shall arrange for you to have an assistant priest to help out with the duties at Barton. I should not expect you to take on the many responsibilities and duties of the archdeacon and still remain as active in the village church. A curate can take the load off your shoulders. Now how does that sound?’

‘It sounds very generous of you, my lord,’ said the Reverend Atticus.

‘Then it is settled. And as to the curate, I have the person in mind, an Oxford scholar and very personable. I shall arrange for the Reverend Dr Ashley Underwood to call out and see you after you have talked it over with your wife, and I shall expect you at your desk here Monday next.’ The bishop stood, leaned over his desk and shook the vicar’s hand warmly. ‘Good day to you, Archdeacon,’ he said.

Marcia Atticus was staring out of the window in the drawing-room when the new archdeacon arrived back at the rectory.

‘Good afternoon, my dear,’ he said cheerily, rubbing his hands.

‘You sound in a good mood, Charles,’ she remarked coolly.

‘I am, my dear Marcia, I am.’ He went over to a tray on a side table and poured two large glasses of sherry.

‘Charles!’ his wife said sharply. ‘It’s a little early for drinks, isn’t it?’

A glass was thrust into her hand.

‘I think a small celebratory libation is in order,’ he said, his countenance wreathed in a great smile.

‘So I take it the meeting with the bishop went well?’ she asked.

‘Very well,’ he replied. ‘Very well indeed.’

‘And how did he react when you told him you no longer wished to be archdeacon?’

‘He refused to accept it.’

His wife placed the sherry glass down on a small table so heavily that half of it spilt. ‘He refused to accept it?’ she repeated. ‘And what did you say?’

‘I said I would bow to his decision and become the new archdeacon if that was his desire.’

‘You said what?’

‘I said I would become the new Archdeacon of Clayton.’

‘After what you had said to me?’

‘Indeed.’ He smirked.

‘Oh, Charles,’ she sighed. ‘You promised.’

The vicar placed his arm around his wife’s shoulder. ‘My dear, I said I would become the new archdeacon when the bishop agreed that I could stay here at the rectory in Barton, travel into Clayton each day and that he would secure for me an assistant priest to help out with the work here in the parish. It appears he already has a man in mind, a Reverend Dr Ashley Underwood, who, I believe, is very highly qualified and most capable. This means, of course, that we will not be moving and that you will be able to continue your training at the village school. As one of the younger members of our congregation might ask, how does that grab you?’

Mrs Atticus thought for a moment to take in what she had been told. Then a flash of pure pleasure lit up her face and her green eyes sparkled. She reached for the glass and held it up. ‘Your very good health, Archdeacon Atticus,’ she said.

The great black door to Limebeck House, flanked by elegant but eroded pale stone pillars, was opened by the butler. The visitor, a lean, pallid man with a Roman-nosed face and short, carefully combed silver hair, walked into a spacious entrance hall painted in pale yellow and blue. He gazed up at the jungle of decorative plasterwork on the ceiling, the intricate twisting designs standing out from the darker background, and noted that it was in need of urgent renovation. The retainer pushed shut the heavy door and rearranged the draught-excluder in front of it.

‘May I have your name, sir?’ asked the butler, straightening up. He spoke in a hushed voice and his face was entirely expressionless.

‘Crispin De’Ath,’ replied the visitor. He continued to stare up at the lofty-ceilinged hall with the flaking plasterwork, gloomily lit by tarnished gilt chandeliers.

‘Her ladyship is expecting you, sir,’ said the butler. ‘If you would care to come this way.’

The visitor followed the slow, measured steps of the butler down a long corridor, passing a succession of vast, high-ceilinged rooms with dark portraits on the walls and porcelain arranged on the dusty antique furniture. Their unhurried progress ended at two mock-marble columns. The retainer opened the door and the visitor was ushered through it.