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Synopsis
Change is afoot in the usually sleepy village of Risingdale. Gerald Gaunt, headmaster of the primary school for over 30 years, is retiring. He hopes that his replacement will work with him to secure a bright, happy future for the school. But Mr Smart has his own ideas about how things should be run. The teachers have plenty of other dramas to contend with. Tom Dwyer is pining over Janette, his one-that-got-away. His colleague Joyce Tranter's new marital bliss is shattered by the arrival of her husband's scheming nephew. And elsewhere in the village, Sir Hedley's long-cherished plans for his future are jeopardised by his ex-wife’s arrival. Can the residents of Risingdale pull together and achieve happiness against the odds?
Release date: March 4, 2021
Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton
Print pages: 400
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A Class Act
Gervase Phinn
He had been the headmaster of Risingdale Primary School, the school at the top of the Dale, for over thirty years. It had been such a happy period in his professional life. As he often reminded himself, not everyone had such an untroubled existence and such a rewarding career. The children, on the whole, were biddable, friendly and tried their best at their studies; the teachers were amenable, got on well together and clearly had the interests of their pupils at heart, and the parents and the governors had let him get on with the job without undue interference. He loved his career in teaching and knew he would miss it greatly, but times in education were changing and, in his opinion, not always for the better. It had seemed so very simple in those post-war days when, as a new teacher, he had come straight out of college, keen and excited and full of bright ideas. There were none of the pressures then, none of the endless government initiatives and new Department of Education and Science requirements, which came over the Dale like the Plagues of Egypt. In those bygone days, teachers had a great sense of freedom and could be creative and innovative. They were trusted to get on with the job at hand, but times had changed. He had tried over the years to resist such outside meddling and had had some degree of success, but now as the 1980s were coming to a close, he thought it was about time to call it a day.
The letter from the Education Office at County Hall asking him to consider early retirement had arrived out of the blue. It explained that there was to be ‘a further programme of rationalisation’ in the education service; several small village schools in the county were closing and, as a result, there would be a surfeit of teachers and several headteachers needing to be redeployed. All those over the age of sixty-two were being offered a generous package – a lump sum and a full, enhanced pension. It was rather too good a deal to pass up.
‘Well, are you going to sign it?’
The speaker, a thin, slightly stooped woman with a pale, indrawn face, narrow dark eyes, and thick iron-grey hair cut in a bob, was the school secretary. Standing before the headmaster’s desk, hands clasped below her bosom and staring over the top of her unfashionable horn-rimmed spectacles, she resembled an impatient teacher addressing a pupil.
‘Yes, Mrs Leadbeater,’ replied Mr Gaunt softly. His voice sounded wistful. ‘I am going to sign it.’ He tapped the pen on the desktop and looked thoughtful.
‘You don’t look all that sure,’ she said.
‘I’m sure,’ he told her and quickly scribbled his name on the letter. ‘There,’ he said, ‘that’s done.’ He placed down his pen and spread his hands on the desk. His fingers were smeared with ink.
‘Well, if you were to ask me,’ she told him, ‘I think you should give it some more thought. I mean, you’ve got a few more years left in you yet.’
He chuckled. ‘You make me sound like some old cart horse ready for the knacker’s yard.’
She coloured. ‘I didn’t mean . . .’ she began, unfolding her arms. ‘I meant . . .’
‘Yes, I know what you meant,’ he told her, smiling.
‘I meant that you’re too young to be thinking about retirement.’
‘I’m sixty-three, Mrs Leadbeater, hardly a spring chicken. I have thought long and hard about whether I should retire, and I think it is about time.’ He drew in a breath. ‘Everything in education these days moves at such a frantic pace and I’m rather too set in my ways to move with it.’
‘Nonsense!’ she snapped. ‘You’re in your prime.’
‘Hardly,’ he replied, leaning back on his chair. ‘It’s a far more demanding profession nowadays with all this constant change, the increasing pressures and paperwork, guidelines and strategies. It’s about time I handed over to someone younger and better suited to it than I.’
‘Well, you’ll be greatly missed,’ said the secretary. ‘The school won’t be the same without you.’ She tried to control her emotions, but her voice betrayed the extent of her sadness.
‘That’s kind of you to say so, Mrs Leadbeater,’ said Mr Gaunt.
‘When are you thinking of going?’ she asked.
‘At the end of term,’ she was told.
‘So soon,’ she said glumly.
‘I thought of staying for another term but . . .’ His voice tailed off.
‘Do you think we will get one of these redeployed head teachers?’ she asked.
‘I should imagine so. Those head teachers who are losing their jobs must feel pretty miserable having their schools close. I know I would feel wretched if Risingdale ceased to exist.’ He sat up in his chair and tried to sound more cheerful. ‘Anyway, I’m sure the school will continue to thrive under new management and leadership. I know that whoever takes over will be fortunate to have a happy and committed staff and to have you as his or her secretary. We have worked well together, haven’t we? I was thinking only yesterday that in all the years we have been together we have never had so much as a cross word.’
Mrs Leadbeater’s eyes began to fill with tears. ‘We haven’t,’ she agreed. ‘Not a cross word.’ There was a tremble in her voice. ‘You’ve been the real gentleman, Mr Gaunt, and always appreciated what I have done. I just hope your successor is as considerate and appreciative as you have been.’ She reached in her sleeve for a small lace-edged handkerchief and dabbed her eyes.
The headmaster regarded the tall, gaunt woman in her heavy grey skirt and prim blouse buttoned high at the neck who stood before him, her eyes full of tears. It was uncharacteristic of her to show her feelings in this way. To the teachers she had a brusque and direct manner and went about her business with a briskness and seriousness, rarely uttering a word she did not need to.
She reached for the letter with an expression of utter dismay on her face and, pushing the handkerchief back up her sleeve, said, ‘I’ll put this in the post this afternoon.’
‘Oh, and Mrs Leadbeater,’ said the headmaster, ‘the Chairman of Governors is coming into school to see me this morning. I need to acquaint him with my decision before I tell the teachers and parents.’
‘Sir Hedley? He’s calling in this morning?’
‘Yes, he will be here around eleven o’clock.’
‘I had better get the best china out,’ she said, ‘and tell the teachers he’s coming in.’
‘I’m sure he wouldn’t want you or the staff to go to any trouble.’
‘I don’t think he’ll be best pleased to hear that you are leaving. It will certainly not go down well with the teachers either,’ she predicted. ‘You know how they hate any sort of change.’
‘Maybe so,’ agreed Mr Gaunt. ‘Anyway, I should be grateful if you would not mention my leaving to the staff. I intend to tell them at the meeting at lunchtime.’
There was a sharp knock. Mrs Leadbeater opened the door to find outside a small boy of about seven or eight with grubby knees. A dewdrop trembled on the tip of his nose. He was dark and skinny with a soft crewcut, thin arms and gangly legs.
‘Is ’e in?’ asked the boy, sniffing.
The secretary gave a heaving sigh and stared down pointedly at the child with a severe expression.
‘Nathan Barraclough,’ she snapped. ‘Where are your manners?’
‘Where’s mi what, miss?’
‘I think you mean, “Is the headmaster available to see me, Mrs Leadbeater?’’’
‘Oh aye, miss,’ replied the boy, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.
She grimaced. ‘Well?’
‘Is t’eadmaster havailable to see mi, Missis Leadbeater?’ the child repeated.
‘That’s better,’ she told him. ‘Wait there and blow your nose.’
‘I ’aven’t gorran ’anky, miss.’
The secretary sighed again and shook her head. She reached into her sleeve for her handkerchief and then thought better of it. She turned to Mr Gaunt. ‘Nathan Barraclough is here to see you,’ she said. ‘Shall I ask him to wait?’
‘No, no, show the lad in.’
‘He needs to blow his nose,’ she said and departed with the letter, closing the door after her.
‘Come along in, Nathan,’ said Mr Gaunt, reaching into the top drawer of his desk and producing a box of paper tissues.
‘Mi mam’s sent thee a letter, Mester Gaunt,’ said the boy. The dewdrop continued to tremble on the tip of his nose.
The headmaster reached over and passed the boy a tissue. ‘Blow your nose,’ he said.
The boy did as he was told. ‘Mi mam’s sent this letter,’ reiterated the child.
‘Now, Nathan,’ said the headmaster, adopting a mock stern expression. ‘I have tried over the years to encourage children in the school to show good manners.’
The boy wrinkled his nose and looked perplexed.
‘When you see someone first thing in the morning,’ he continued, ‘tell me what you are supposed to say to them?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘Let me give you a clue. What does your father say to your mother when he sees her first thing in the morning?’
The boy thought for a moment and rubbed his chin. ‘’E sez, “Will tha gerrup, Maureen, an’ mek us a cup o’ tea?’’’
Mr Gaunt shook his head and suppressed a smile.
‘I was thinking of “Good morning”,’ he said. ‘So, shall we try again?’
‘Oh, aye. Good morning, Mester Gaunt,’ replied the boy, nodding and smiling.
‘That’s better.’
The boy handed him the used tissue and the letter. The headmaster deposited the former in the bin and began reading the latter.
‘It says mi mam asks if it will be all reight fer ’er to tek me to t’dentist at lunchtime to ’ave a tooth out,’ the boy informed Mr Gaunt.
‘Yes, I can read, Nathan,’ replied the headmaster, good-humouredly.
‘I’ve got this wobbly tooth tha sees, an’ it waint come out,’ continued the child, wiggling a loose tooth with his index finger. ‘Mi granddad tried to gerrit out an’ tied a piece o’ string around it an’ tied t’other end around t’doorknob an’ then slammed t’door.’ His words spilled out in a rush.
‘And I assume the tooth didn’t come out,’ said the headmaster.
‘Tooth din’t,’ replied Nathan, ‘but t’doorknob cum off.’
Mr Gaunt leaned back in his chair and laughed. ‘Well, you run along and tell Miss Tranter I said it would be all right for you to leave the school at lunchtime.’
The boy scurried to the door and then turned, sniffed noisily, and wiped his nose on the back of his hand again.
‘Good morning, Mester Gaunt,’ he said, smirking from ear to ear. He gave a small bow. ‘An’ ’ave a nice day.’
When the pupil had gone Mr Gaunt thought on the school secretary’s words. She was right, his resignation and the changes that would inevitably ensue with the arrival of a new head teacher would not be fully welcomed by the staff, certainly not by three of the four teachers. In truth, they were a motley trio. When Tom Dwyer, a newly qualified teacher, had joined the school the previous September, Mr Gaunt had taken the young man into his office to tell him about his three unusual colleagues.
‘I guess they appear a pretty odd bunch to you?’ he had told him. ‘When I say odd, I don’t mean that unkindly. Perhaps a better word might be “idiosyncratic”. They do what is asked of them without complaint, work hard and the children like them. I have a genuine affection for them.’
He had told Tom that he did not interfere with what the teachers were doing, that they worked hard, provided the children with a good, sound education, treated their pupils with respect and related well to them; he did not see any need for him to get involved.
Mr Gaunt stood at his study window on that bright spring morning, surveying the panorama which stretched out before him. He wondered, as he awaited the arrival of the Chairman of Governors, whether the new head teacher would follow this practice and let the staff get on without unnecessary interference. The three teachers who came to mind were set in their ways and would, he guessed, not welcome any adjustment to their routine. They had taught in the school for many years and liked things as they were. Tom, enthusiastic and energetic, would, no doubt, take any changes in his stride – indeed, he had introduced a variety of initiatives and schemes since he had started at Risingdale – but the others were a cautious and conservative threesome. They did not possess Tom’s flair and ability and might not take kindly to a head teacher who insisted on dictating what they should do in the classroom. Perhaps he was worrying unduly, he reflected. His successor would be an experienced head teacher who would, he guessed, know how important it was to take things slowly, gain the confidence and respect of the teachers and appreciate their efforts.
His thoughts were interrupted when he caught sight of the Chairman of Governors coming across the playground. Sir Hedley Maladroit – baronet, squire, landowner, Lord of the Manor, owner of half the properties in village and most of the land surrounding, controller of many of the residents’ destinies, Justice of the Peace, Deputy Lord Lieutenant and Chairman of Governors – was like a character who had walked straight out of the pages of some historical novel. He was a portly, red-cheeked individual with a bombastic walrus moustache above a wide mouth, dark hooded eyes, prominent ears, and tightly curled hair on a square head. That morning he was dressed in a finely cut tweed suit and matching waistcoat with silver chain and fob dangling from a pocket. He wore a tightly knotted green bow tie and sported an expensive pair of brown brogues as shiny as conkers.
The caretaker and husband of the school secretary, a gangly man with dark, deep-set eyes and thick, wild white hair, saw the important caller striding purposefully up the path to the school. He scurried to meet him and, touching his forelock obsequiously, wished Sir Hedley, ‘Good morning, my lord.’
The baronet was inclined to inform him that he was not, in fact, a peer of the realm, but he let it go.
‘And a very good morning to you, Mr Leadbeater,’ he replied jovially. ‘Beautiful day, isn’t it? Spring is with us at long last.’
‘It is, indeed, my lord,’ replied the caretaker reverently.
‘I meant to have a word with you,’ Sir Hedley told him.
The caretaker looked worried.
‘It was good of you – and Mr Gaunt of course – to allow me to poach your assistant.’
‘Beg pardon?’
‘Mrs Gosling?’
The caretaker pulled a face. ‘Oh, her.’
Sir Hedley had prevailed upon the cleaner at the school (although she preferred to be styled ‘assistant caretaker’) to become his housekeeper at Marston Towers, his stately residence near the village. She had taken little persuading to accept the position, happy to leave the job of cleaning at the school, which had proved an uphill battle. Mr Leadbeater and the teachers were glad to see the woman go, for she had made their lives a misery. Never a one to be backward in coming forward, Mrs Gosling had, since starting on the very first day at Risingdale, complained about all the work she was expected to undertake, the sloppiness of the teachers, the untidy classrooms, the messy staffroom, the lack of cleanliness and numerous other things that did not meet her very high standards of neatness and hygiene.
‘I am sure she is a lot happier at Marston Towers,’ said the caretaker tactfully and with a wry smile. I am certainly a lot happier without her, he thought.
He hurried ahead and opened the door to the school with a flourish before announcing in a thunderous voice, ‘Sir Hedley Maladroit of Marston Towers!’
At the appearance of the distinguished visitor standing before her desk, Mrs Leadbeater patted her hair and adopted her professional smile and affected voice reserved for visitors who appeared a cut above the usual callers. She looked up at the Chairman of Governors and removed her spectacles.
‘Good morning, Sir Hedley,’ she said pleasantly before rising to her feet. ‘Hif you would care to wait, I shall hinform Mr Gaunt that you have harrived. He is hexpecting you.’ She turned to her husband, who was standing at the door. ‘You may go,’ she told him dismissively in a queenly voice.
‘I hope I find you well, Mrs Leadbeater,’ said the baronet jovially.
‘Oh yes indeed, Sir Hedley, I’m very well, thank you,’ she replied, smoothing down the creases in her skirt as if she were dusting away some crumbs.
‘Such a beautiful day,’ he announced. ‘It makes one glad to be alive on such a day as this. This morning I heard the first chaffinch of spring.’
The secretary arranged her face with an appropriately sympathetic expression and lowered her voice. It was the first time she had seen him since the death of his son, and she hastened to offer her condolences.
‘I was deeply sorry to hear about your son, Sir Hedley,’ she said solicitously. She fingered the cameo brooch at her collared neck.
‘Ah yes, James,’ murmured the baronet, his manner suddenly changing. He breathed out long and slow. ‘It was most unfortunate,’ he nodded gravely. ‘Thank you.’
‘A terrible accident. It must have been—’
‘Yes, yes, it was,’ he cut her off. He did not wish to continue with this topic. ‘Well, if you could tell Mr Gaunt I have arrived.’
As she went to tell the headmaster that his visitor was waiting, she considered the term used by Sir Hedley. ‘Unfortunate’ seemed to her a strange word to use by a father who had lost his only son in an horrific traffic accident some weeks before. ‘Devastating’, ‘tragic’, ‘dreadful’ seemed to her to be more apposite a description. It also occurred to her that he had seemed to be in particularly good humour that morning, considering the calamity that had happened.
Sir Hedley, of course, had been saddened by the death of his son but his relationship with James had been strained. The young man had the easy self-assurance that comes from growing up with money that you have not earned. He proved to be a huge disappointment to a father who had imagined great things of his son and heir. James lacked his father’s steadfast spirit; he had been indolent and arrogant, indulged by his mother and disliked by all in the village. The car crash in which he had been killed was the result of his reckless driving while he had been under the influence of alcohol.
The headmaster’s study was poky and dominated by a huge oak desk with brass-handled drawers, behind which was an antiquated swivel chair. On the desktop was an old-fashioned black telephone, a cup of half-drunk tea, now cold and grey-scummed, a leather-bound blotter, a large brass inkwell in the shape of a ram’s head and an earthenware mug without a handle holding an assortment of pens and broken pencils. There were several books and a pile of untidily stacked papers and folders, on the top of which was a copy of Practical Poultry. There was not a space to be seen. A battered grey metal filing cabinet stood by the window next to a heavy dark wood bookcase crammed with more books and journals, magazines, and files. On one wall, a variety of children’s paintings of various animals – black-faced sheep and prancing horses, grazing cows, and stout pink pigs on stubby legs – all executed in vivid colour, was displayed. On another was a faded cross-stitch sampler executed by a child of eight called Eliza Bentley, dated 1890, and titled John Wesley’s Philosophy. It read:
Do all the good you can,
By all the means you can,
At all the time you can,
To all the people you can,
As long as ever you can.
Propped up in a corner was the strangest-looking contraption: a long, wooden, trumpet-like instrument with a cup-shaped mouthpiece.
‘Come in, come in,’ said Mr Gaunt, rising from his desk when Sir Hedley was shown into the room. He removed a pile of folders from a small spindle-backed chair. ‘I must apologise for the state of the place. I mean to tidy things up but have never got around to it. Mrs Leadbeater is always nagging me to do it. I am afraid it has got into a worse state since your last visit.’
The Chairman of Governors extended a hand, which the headmaster shook vigorously. ‘Good morning, Gerald,’ he said. ‘Please don’t apologise. If you want to see clutter, you only have to walk into my study at Marston Towers. Mrs Gosling is forever after me to tidy up the place but, like you, I like it as it is.’
‘And how are things working out with Mrs Gosling?’ asked Mr Gaunt.
‘Oh splendid. Marston Towers has never been so clean and tidy, and she keeps me in order. She is quite a redoubtable character is Mrs Gosling. As I was saying to the caretaker, I am most grateful that you let her leave at such short notice.’
‘Do take a seat,’ said Mr Gaunt. He returned to sit behind his desk.
Sir Hedley sat on the hard, wooden chair, which creaked ominously under his weight, and fingered the silver watch chain. He smiled to himself as he ran his eyes over the headmaster. Mr Gaunt’s indifference to convention was demonstrated by his rumpled jacket, which had seen better days, as well as his loosely knotted tie and shirt frayed around the cuffs. He looked more like a farmer than a head teacher with his lean, weathered face and thick crop of tousled greying hair that curled around his collar. Sir Hedley, like all those who came across Gerald Gaunt, found the man good-natured, unaffected, and easy to talk to. He had heard no one speak ill of him and over the many years he had been the Chairman of Governors, they had never disagreed. Of course, he had not had a great deal to do with the school in all that time. Governors’ meeting were a rarity, for things at Risingdale ticked along happily and he and his fellow governors and parents saw no reason to interfere. He believed in the maxim that ‘if the wheel is not broken, it does not require mending.’
‘So how are you coping, Hedley?’ asked Mr Gaunt.
‘Regarding?’
‘With the death of James. It was such a shock and—’
‘Yes, yes,’ replied the baronet quickly.
‘You know that I am always here if you wish to talk to me about it. We’ve known each other a long time and I have thought of you as a good friend as well as a colleague.’
Sir Hedley nodded. ‘I know,’ he muttered. ‘I appreciate that.’
‘As you know, I was never blessed with children,’ the headmaster told him, ‘but had I been fortunate enough to have had a son, I would have found it unendurable to have lost him. Parents expect that their children will outlive them. It is a tragedy when this does not happen. I am deeply sorry for your loss.’ His face was full of sincerity.
Sir Hedley’s expression was grave. He scratched his neck and looked down at the floor and thought for a moment.
‘I think it was common knowledge that James and I never got on,’ he said at last. ‘We never had anything to say to each other. I tried to teach him duty and honour, but it came to nothing. He was a wayward boy who wasted his time at school and went off the rails.’
Mr Gaunt was minded to say that children cannot pick their parents, and by the same token, parents cannot pick their children, but he said nothing and nodded staidly.
‘Perhaps we were not the best of parents,’ said the baronet thoughtfully. ‘I often wonder if I had been too strict with James and expected too much and thereby inspired his excesses. I know that he felt that I was disappointed in him. I tended to place some of the blame for his behaviour on my wife, who I feel over-indulged the boy.’
‘I take it that Lady Maladroit will not be returning,’ commented Mr Gaunt. Following the funeral of their son and after venting her wrath on her husband, Sir Hedley’s wife had left to live with her sister in London.
‘No, no, Marcia has left for good. In fact, I received the divorce papers to sign only this morning. It grieves me to say it, but there was little warmth or attachment in our relationship. It is a sad fact that there was not much affection on either side.’
‘I’m sorry that things have turned out as they have,’ Mr Gaunt told him.
‘Anyway,’ said Sir Hedley, cheering up, ‘I’m not here to discuss my family’s concerns. You asked to see me.’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Not a problem, I hope.’
‘No, no, not a problem,’ replied the headmaster. He examined his hands. ‘I wanted you to be the first to know—’
He stopped mid-sentence when there was a knock. A moment later the door was opened by the small boy the headmaster had seen earlier. The school secretary entered carrying a heavy-looking wooden tray on which were a coffee pot, two thin porcelain cups and matching cream jug and sugar bowl.
‘Thank you, Nathan,’ she said. ‘You can go back to your classroom now.’
The boy gave a small bow. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said to Sir Hedley. ‘I ’ope that tha’re keepin’ well. ’Ave a nice day.’ Then he departed.
The baronet nodded. ‘It’s good to see children with manners,’ he said.
Mrs Leadbeater exchanged a glance with Mr Gaunt and placed the tray on the desk. ‘I thought you both might enjoy a cup of coffee,’ she said with a smile.
‘Thank you, Mrs Leadbeater,’ said Mr Gaunt.
When she had gone, Sir Hedley gave the headmaster a hooded gaze. ‘You were saying,’ he prompted.
Mr Gaunt poured the coffee, added milk, and passed a cup to Sir Hedley. He then poured himself one and sipped his drink, seeming to need a pause before he could broach what he wanted to say.
‘I asked you to come and see me,’ he said at last, ‘to let you know that I have decided to retire.’
‘Good Lord!’ cried Sir Hedley, nearly spilling his coffee.
‘I’ve given the matter a deal of thought and decided to leave at the end of term.’
‘Well, this is a shock and certainly not something I was expecting at all,’ Sir Hedley told him, placing down his cup on the desk. ‘Are you quite sure about this?’
‘Yes, perfectly sure,’ he was told. ‘I have received this letter, which says that in order for the Education Authority to balance the budget, there is a need for what they call some “rationalisation”. Some more of the small rural schools that are losing pupils and are no longer viable have been earmarked for closure.’
‘Not Risingdale, I hope?’ exclaimed Sir Hedley.
‘No, no, not Risingdale. Our intake has remained steady over the years and next September we have an increase of pupils coming into the infants. We are in a healthy state. Anyway, over the next year the Education Department will either be making some teachers redundant or redeploying them. The head teachers of a couple of schools that are closing will need to be redeployed as well. I guess one of these will be given the post here at Risingdale. I have been offered an extremely attractive package to leave, which I have decided to accept. The fact is, I think I am a bit past it. I am finding it difficult to put up with the many changes in education and all these regulations, the mountain of paperwork, the unsolicited advice and petty directives. It’s time I go.’
‘Some regulations, in my book,’ remarked Sir Hedley, brushing a hand over his bristly moustache, ‘are written for the compliance of fools. As a farmer and landowner, who receives all the endless bumf from the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries, I know that only too well.’
‘Maybe so, but I feel the time had come for me to finish. As you know, I have my smallholding which needs my attention and—’
Sir Hedley took a deep breath. ‘I don’t suppose that anything I can say will dissuade you. You seem to have made up your mind.’
‘Yes, I have,’ said Mr Gaunt. ‘I shall of course write to the governors and parents to tell them of my decision, and I intend telling the staff at a meeting at lunchtime.’
‘I will only say, then, that you will be sorely missed.’
When Sir Hedley told the headmaster that he would be sorely missed, he was right. Gerald Gaunt was highly respected and well liked in the community but few knew a great deal about him, for he was essentially a very private man. He never said much about himself, uttered a bad word about others or indulged in gossip. He had been a bright, studious boy from a relatively poor farming background who had passed for the grammar school with a county scholarship. After a spell in the army he attended St John’s teacher-training college, secured a post in a school in a neighbouring village and returned to Risingdale to be near his ailing mother and run the smallholding. His father had died the previous year. When his mother passed away soon afterwards, Gerald Gaunt kept the farm on. Promotion in education came fast and it was not long before he was appointed headmaster at the village school in Risingdale, where he had stayed for most of his career. He could have become the head teacher of a much bigger and more prestigious school, but he had decided to stay in the village.
Gerald Gaunt was a
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