A Lesson in Love

Book 0: The Little Village School Series

by Gervase Phinn

Genres: Small Town & Rural; General Fiction; Humor & Satire

Synopsis

'[Gervase Phinn is] a worthy successor to James Herriott, and every bit as endearing.' - bestselling author Alan Titchmarsh

Love is in the air in the little village of Barton-in-the-Dale. Anyone can see that Ashley Underwood and Emmet O'Malley are made for each other. They've just got to admit it to themselves . . . But as the saying goes, the course of true love never did run smooth.

While romance blossoms on one side of the village, an angry young boy struggles to believe in love. But when tragedy strikes, he learns that comfort and care can come from the most unexpected of places.

Meanwhile, head teacher Elisabeth Stirling faces a new challenge for the start of the school year. An eccentric teacher joins the staff, and there's also a worrying case of potential negligence to answer. In the village too, a puritanical new vicar stirs up trouble. But as always, mixed in with the drama there's plenty of gossip, laughter, friendship - and love - in Barton-in-the-Dale.

(P) 2015 Isis Publishing

Release date: March 12, 2015

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 417

Sample

1

‘Thank you for coming to see me, Elisabeth.’

The Director of Education rose from behind the huge solid mahogany desk which dominated the centre of her large and imposing office at County Hall. She was a stout, rosy-faced woman of indeterminate age with pale appraising eyes and thinning grey hair tied back tightly on her scalp. Elisabeth Stirling, head teacher-designate of the soon-to-be amalgamated schools of Barton-in-the-Dale and Urebank Primary, had been summoned to County Hall towards the end of the summer holidays, ‘to discuss pertinent matters relating to the new school’, which would open the following September.

When Elisabeth had first met her, she found Ms Tricklebank to be a rather stern and forbidding woman, a person of strong views but of few words. However, she had proved to be a perceptive and highly competent woman for whom Elisabeth had a great deal of respect. Ms Tricklebank had visited Barton-in-the-Dale village school as the senior education officer before her promotion and had later sat on the interview panel for the head teacher’s position for the new school of Barton-with-Urebank so she was fully aware of the potential problems which might arise with the merging of the two schools.

The director moved from around her desk, shook Elisabeth’s hand and gestured to a chair.

‘Do sit down,’ she said, as she sat down herself in the adjacent chair. ‘I appreciate your coming in during the summer holidays, particularly just before the weekend, but I think it is important to bring you up to speed with a few things and sort out a few details prior to the start of the new term.’

‘I welcome this opportunity,’ replied Elisabeth. ‘There are a few things which have been on my mind.’

‘I am sure there have,’ agreed the director. ‘Well, firstly let me congratulate you on your marriage. From what I have heard, Dr Stirling is a very able doctor and a delightful man.’

‘I think so,’ replied Elisabeth. She smiled, recalling when she had first met the local GP.

Michael Stirling was a tall, not unattractive man, aged forty, with a firm jaw line, pale-blue eyes and a full head of dark hair greying at the temples and parted untidily. He had been on the governing body at her interview the year before when Elisabeth had been shortlisted for the headship of Barton-in-the-Dale village school and he had voted against her appointment. It was clear that he had had misgivings about this attractive, confident and clearly very capable woman. He questioned why she should be applying for such a post when she was already a head teacher at a large and thriving primary school. There was something he felt that was not quite right about her. Perhaps, he thought, she was looking for a quiet, uneventful life in some small rural school and would be unprepared to put in the time and the effort. Had Elisabeth informed the governors at the interview that the sole reason for her wishing to move to this particular school was to be near her autistic son who had secured a place at a residential school a stone’s throw from the village, Dr Stirling would no doubt have voted for her appointment. Despite his reservations about her, which were not shared by his fellow governors, Elisabeth had been offered the post and in the space of just a few months she had transformed a failing, moribund school into one of the county’s most successful ones. She had also transformed Dr Stirling’s opinion of her. After a shaky start, the relationship of the new head teacher and the local doctor blossomed. Who could have imagined, thought Elisabeth now, that in so short a time I would fall in love with this man and he would ask me to marry him?

‘And I believe you have three teenagers to contend with?’ continued the director.

‘I’m sorry?’ said Elisabeth, still lost in thought.

‘I was saying that you have three teenage boys to contend with. They will be quite a handful I guess.’

‘Oh, the boys are no trouble and, touch wood, we get on really well. James is my husband’s son by his first marriage and he is very even-tempered and studious, so I don’t have any difficulty with him. Then there’s Danny, who we are in the process of adopting, and he is such a happy young man, so it’s a lovely busy house at the moment. I taught them both at Barton actually and they move on to Clayton Comprehensive next term. As you know, my son John is at Forest View, the residential special school.’

‘And how is he getting on there?’

‘He’s making slow but steady progress,’ Elisabeth said. ‘I’m told there is no disorder as confusing to comprehend or as complex to diagnose as autism and I have no idea how much John understands. The main thing is that he receives the best possible care and education and he certainly gets that at Forest View. John’s teacher, Mr Campsmount, is excellent too. He’s such a keen, hard-working and personable young man, and he relates well to the children. John has really taken a shine to him. I couldn’t be happier.’

‘That is good to hear,’ said Ms Tricklebank. ‘I have heard good reports about this young man too. I think he will go far. Well, down to business. Things are pretty well in hand for the proposed amalgamation, with the infant children based at the Urebank site and the juniors at Barton. The governing body is in place and parents seem very satisfied with the arrangements. Well, I’ve had no complaints anyway. I do appreciate that managing a school on a split-site will be something of a challenge but I am confident that you will cope very well.’

‘My worries are not concerning the split-site,’ Elisabeth told her. ‘It’s getting the teachers from the two former schools to work together which I think will be the greater challenge.’

‘Well, perhaps we should discuss the staffing at the new school first then. Now, if I am correct, you and Mrs Robertshaw will stay at the Barton site and Miss Wilson will move down to Urebank to join the two infant teachers there.’

‘That’s right.’

‘As regards the remaining staffing needs—’ began the director.

Elisabeth frowned, thinking of Mr Richardson, the former head teacher at Urebank who had been offered the post as her deputy which he had accepted grudgingly. She had crossed swords with this self-important and patronising man the previous year and it was clear he was angry and resentful when she had been offered the new head teacher’s position. However would she manage to work with him? Ms Tricklebank clearly noticed the knitted brows.

‘Now don’t look so down,’ she said, smiling. ‘I have some news which I am certain will not be unwelcome. Mr Richardson has secured another position. He will not be joining you in September.’

Elisabeth tried not to show her massive relief at this news but inside she wanted to jump for joy.

‘Really?’ she replied, trying to sound calm.

‘He came to see me at the end of last term,’ continued Ms Tricklebank, ‘and explained that he couldn’t work as your deputy head teacher in the new set-up. Having been a head teacher himself, he felt he would find it hard not being “at the helm” as he put it. I can quite understand this.’ Ms Tricklebank paused for a moment as if thinking of what to say next. ‘And of course, what with the troubled relationship he has had with you in the past, he felt . . . well I need not go on. Last term he started to apply for other positions and, “as an interim measure before securing another headship” – his words, not mine – he has accepted the post of Deputy Headmaster and Director of Studies at St Paul’s Preparatory School in Ruston, to begin there at the start of the new term. Of course technically he needed to give two months’ notice but, under the circumstances, I agreed that his resignation would take effect immediately.’

‘I am very pleased for him,’ replied Elisabeth. ‘Things seem to have worked out well for both of us.’

‘This means, of course, that there will be the appointment of a deputy head teacher in charge of the Urebank site and we will need Miss Brakespeare’s replacement at the Barton site.’

Miriam Brakespeare was Elisabeth’s deputy at Barton-in-the-Dale, a small, timid, bustling woman who had jumped at the opportunity to take early retirement the previous term and had moved to Scarborough.

‘And will Mr Jolly be moving on to another post too?’ asked Elisabeth, hopeful that the former po-faced deputy head teacher at Urebank and the teacher of the upper juniors there might have found another position as well.

‘No, he will be joining you at the Barton site,’ said the Director of Education.

‘I see.’

Mr Jolly’s name belied his character for he was, by nature, not a jolly man. In fact he was a rather sad and lonely figure. It had always been the case. As a boy he had had no friends to speak of. Other children found him strange and distant, a boy who never laughed and seldom smiled. He was never invited to be part of the laughing, boisterous crowd of boys which congregated in the school yard at break times. None of his fellow pupils called at his home, invited him to their birthday parties, asked him to join them on bike rides, go to the cinema with them, fish in the local stream or play football with them on the rec at the weekend. Not that he was good at sports anyway. He was usually the last to be picked for any team games at school. Even Anthony Davidson – who was slow and fat and wore large round wire-framed glasses, the lenses of which resembled the bottoms of milk bottles – often got picked before he did. Despite his name and temperament, Donald Jolly was never bullied, for his peers merely viewed him as something of an irrelevance. He had been an average student, one of the unremarkable majority in the boys’ grammar school which he had attended, the big hump in the academic bell, a dull, plodding pupil soon forgotten by his teachers. He achieved a moderate success in his examinations and managed to secure a place at a minor teacher-training college where he scraped a certificate in education. Then he had got a job at Urebank Primary School at a time when teachers were in demand and it was said that anyone warm and breathing could secure a teaching position. He had remained at the same school for his entire career to date. When Mr Richardson was appointed as head teacher, he immediately recognised in Mr Jolly a compliant colleague in whom he could burden all the tedious administrative duties, knowing that they would be done without complaint. Hence when the position of deputy head teacher arose, Mr Richardson was happy to put Mr Jolly’s name in the frame, describing him to the governors as a most dedicated, loyal and supportive colleague. Unfortunately Elisabeth could now perceive difficulties, given the two schools had merged and Mr Jolly would no longer keep his coveted but rather undeserved position.

‘I asked Mr Jolly to come in and see me at the end of last term to discuss his future,’ said Ms Tricklebank now. ‘He informed me that he has taught junior school-aged children for his entire career and has no experience of early years education. He would therefore wish to teach at the Barton site.’

‘As just a classroom teacher?’

‘That’s right.’

‘How does he feel about returning to be a classroom teacher having been a deputy head?’ asked Elisabeth. ‘I am sure he can’t have welcomed such a demotion.’

‘Actually he seemed quite resigned to it,’ Ms Tricklebank told her. ‘I explained to Mr Jolly that I could not guarantee he would secure a senior position elsewhere in the authority. Of course, should a deputy head teacher’s post come up in another school, he would be free to apply for it but it would depend on the governors of that school as to whom they appointed. I think he realised that there was little chance of him getting such a post. The school inspectors found quite a deal lacking with the leadership and management of the school when they visited Urebank and he came in for some pretty severe criticism. He is, I am sure, fully aware of his shortcomings. I explained to him that should he accept a position as a class teacher at the newly amalgamated school his present salary would be protected. Of course, if he wished, he could be redeployed as a classroom teacher to another school.’

‘Well, I have to say I am rather surprised that he wants to come and teach in the new set-up,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I can’t say I took to him when we met and it was clear to me that the feeling was mutual.’

‘Mr Jolly is a pragmatist,’ said Ms Tricklebank. ‘As I said, I think he realised that he would not get a deputy head teacher’s post elsewhere and would not wish to put himself through the ordeal of an interview. With his salary protected and his pension secured, he has little to complain about. It can’t be long before he retires anyway.’

‘I suppose it was too much to expect to get a teacher of the calibre of Mr Campsmount.’

‘I have to admit that Mr Jolly is not the best teacher in the world,’ Ms Tricklebank told her, ‘but I dare say that with your guidance and encouragement he will improve.’

‘I fear it may be a little late in the day for that to happen,’ replied Elisabeth. ‘As you say, he is nearing retirement age.’

‘I imagine you felt the same way about Miss Brakespeare when you took over as head teacher of Barton-in-the-Dale and she certainly proved you wrong. I am sure that Mr Jolly, under your guidance, will do the same.’

‘I hope so.’ Elisabeth sounded doubtful. ‘One wonders how he came to be offered a senior position at Urebank.’

‘As you know, the appointment of staff is firmly in the hands of the school governors,’ said the Director of Education tactfully. ‘There have been a number of occasions when I have advised governors against the appointment of a particular candidate only to be ignored. It is the governors’ decision who is offered the post. Education officers are there to recommend and not to decide. Fortunately when it came to your appointment for the new school they listened to what I had to say and heeded my advice, not that it was needed. As you may have gathered, the decision to offer you the post of head teacher was unanimous.’

The Director of Education rose and reached over to her desk to retrieve a plastic folder containing a number of files that Elisabeth had spied since her arrival. Sitting back down next to Elisabeth, Ms Tricklebank opened the file and continued.

‘With the closing of some small schools in the county, we have a number of teachers we need to redeploy and I would like you to consider a couple I have in mind. Now, if I am correct, we have just these two vacancies at Barton-with-Urebank?’

‘That’s right,’ replied Elisabeth. ‘There’s Miss Brakespeare’s replacement on the junior site and now Mr Richardson’s on the infant site.’

‘Well we are nearly at the start of the new term,’ said the Director of Education, ‘so we have to move pretty quickly. We could, of course, employ two supply teachers to fill the vacancies until more permanent members of staff can be appointed, but I am hopeful that two teachers seeking redeployment might just suit.’ Ms Tricklebank consulted a file. ‘The number of pupils attending Tarncliffe Primary has greatly declined over the past few years and it was with regret that we have had to close the school in July. The head teacher, Miss Drayton, one of these permanently optimistic and cheerful people whom nothing and no-one seemed to dishearten or discourage, has taken early retirement as has her deputy, Mrs Standish. Both were totally dedicated teachers who ran an excellent school. It was such a pity Tarncliffe had to close. Anyhow, the remaining junior teacher at the school is a Mr Hornchurch who sounds like your Mr Campsmount. Miss Drayton describes him as dedicated, enthusiastic, full of ideas, and a most creative and considerate young man.’

‘He sounds exactly what we are looking for,’ said Elisabeth.

‘But there is something you need to know about him,’ she said.

‘Oh dear,’ sighed Elisabeth, ‘this sounds ominous.’

‘Mr Hornchurch is, well, rather different,’ said the director. She thought for a moment, pondering how best to put it. ‘To be perfectly blunt, he is one of life’s eccentrics. He’s idiosyncratic, unpredictable, untidy and sometimes, when he has a project in mind, he can be rather over-enthusiastic and not a little exasperating. Miss Drayton says in her reference that he does brilliant things – like a project on astronomy when he had the whole class and their parents sitting in the playground in the middle of the night staring up at the stars and identifying all the constellations – but then, on another occasion, he took the children on a school trip to the wildlife centre at Willowbank and failed to notice one child climbing into the pond area. After the child got home and had his tea, he was sent upstairs to get ready for bed. His mother discovered him sitting in the bath, surrounded by bubble suds, with a baby penguin paddling away merrily in there with him.’ The director had a smile on her face.

Elisabeth let out a crack of laughter. ‘Oh dear,’ she chuckled.

‘I am afraid that the parents, the governors and the wildlife centre officials did not find it quite so funny.’

‘But something tells me, Ms Tricklebank, that you rather admire Mr Hornchurch’s idiosyncrasies?’

‘Perhaps I do. The teachers I recall with affection at school and the ones who had the greatest impact upon me were rather unconventional and unpredictable. No teacher teaches in exactly the same way. Great teachers not only instruct but inspire. In my view teaching can take any shape whatsoever provided that children come to love learning and achieve good results. Mr Hornchurch is without doubt out of the ordinary. I can’t see him fitting in at some schools I could think of in the county. I guess most head teachers would find him infuriating but I feel under your direction he could be a real asset.’ She waited for a reply but when one was not forthcoming she asked, ‘Would you like to think about it?’

‘I should really like to meet Mr Hornchurch,’ said Elisabeth. ‘He sounds very interesting.’

‘I’ll arrange it.’

‘What about the other teacher?’

‘Miss Kennedy was deputy head teacher at Sunnydale Infants, another school which sadly had to close. She is efficient, hard-working, experienced and, in contrast to Mr Hornchurch, perhaps a little traditional in her ways but this is no bad thing. Having heard of the possibility of a post at the new school, she is eager to be considered. I am sure she might prove to be an excellent replacement for Mr Richardson.’

Anyone would be an excellent replacement for Richardson, thought Elisabeth. ‘Miss Kennedy sounds very promising too,’ she said.

‘Good,’ said the director, smiling. ‘I’ll arrange for her to see you as well. If you can put your head together with your Chairman of Governors and let me know a convenient date for the informal interviews, I’ll arrange for the two teachers to visit the school, meet you and look around. As I said, we are nearing the end of the summer holidays so we have to be quick.’

‘I’ll organise something for next week,’ Elisabeth told her.

‘Good,’ said Miss Tricklebank, closing the folder, ‘If you are happy with them and they feel comfortable with starting in September then we can proceed. I shall ask Mr Nettles, the education officer who will be your point of contact here at the office, to join you when you have fixed the date.’

 

Later that afternoon, Elisabeth stood by the window in the sitting room at Clumber Lodge, her home for the past year, and stared at two photographs in silver frames carefully arranged on a small inlaid walnut table. One was of Michael’s former wife, a striking-looking young woman who had been killed in a riding accident. She was dressed for the hunt in a black jacket and white cravat and posed before a large chestnut horse. Another was of Michael, handsome and smiling, dressed in a dinner jacket with his arm around her. They both looked so happy. Elisabeth sometimes wondered when Michael put his arm around her if he would ever be as happy with her as he had been with his first wife. It was clear that he had adored her and after her death he had gone through a dark and difficult time. He had shunned the company of others, appeared sharp and bad-tempered and neglected his appearance and the state of the house.

Elisabeth looked around the room. How different it was now. When she had first visited Clumber Lodge, she had found the sitting room cold and uninviting with its heavy fawn-coloured curtains, earth-brown rug, dark cushions and dusty furniture. Despite the housekeeper’s efforts, badgering the doctor to try and be a bit tidier, it had remained cluttered. The bookshelf was crammed with books and journals and papers were piled on a sofa which had seen better days. On the large oak desk was an old-fashioned blotter, a mug holding an assortment of pens and broken pencils and more papers stacked untidily. On the walls were a few dull prints and an insipid watercolour of a mountain and a lake.

Then Danny came to live at Clumber Lodge. Dr Stirling had much to thank the boy for. After his mother’s death, his son James had become unnaturally introverted, wrapping himself up in a protective shell, never speaking, never smiling. He had been like a small timid creature, deep in a world in which it seldom showed its face. His only friend had been Danny, in whom he had confided, and it was Danny – good-humoured, patient and understanding – who brought his son out of the shell. It wasn’t long after Elisabeth arrived in Barton that Danny’s grandfather, who had raised him, sadly died and Danny was put into care until Michael agreed to foster him. Without realising it at the time, it wasn’t just an opportune move for Danny but for every one of them.

Before Danny arrived at Clumber Lodge, Michael arranged for one of the musty and unused bedrooms to be redecorated. Elisabeth and Mrs O’Connor, the housekeeper, had seen the opportunity and prevailed upon the doctor to give other parts of the house greatly in need of some refurbishment an overhaul. The sitting room had been transformed and it now looked homely and bright. The walls were painted, the wood shone, the prints and watercolours had been replaced by some large bright paintings, the faded curtains had given way to long plum-coloured drapes and a thick-pile beige carpet had been fitted. The desk had been moved out and replaced by a deep cushioned sofa. Even the large pot plant in the corner gleamed with well-being.

Just before Elisabeth and Michael were married, the two photographs in the silver frames disappeared.

‘Michael, why have you moved the photographs of your wife?’ Elisabeth had asked him.

‘We will be starting married life soon,’ he had told her. ‘I just thought that when we are, you may not be too happy about seeing pictures of my first wife in such a conspicuous position.’

‘Not at all,’ Elisabeth had replied. ‘She was such a part of your life and you loved her very much. The last thing I want is for her to be forgotten.’

So the photographs were put back on the small table next to one of Elisabeth and Michael on their wedding day. On occasion Elisabeth wondered however if Michael had been right. Sometimes their presence seemed to trouble her. Her eyes were so often drawn to the photographs of the beautiful woman with the dazzling smile and she pondered whether Michael could ever love her as much. Rousing herself from her thoughts, Elisabeth heard the front door open and a moment later Michael entered the room. He came over and kissed her on the cheek, then went to the sideboard and splashed a couple of inches of whisky into a glass.

‘Drink?’ he asked before taking a sip.

She shook her head. ‘No thank you. It’s a bit early for me.’

‘It is for me really,’ he said, ‘but I needed this.’

‘Hard day?’

‘Very.’ He took a sip of the whisky, flopped onto the sofa and rested his head on the back. ‘It seems the entire village is down with something. So, how did it go?’ he asked.

‘Oh, the meeting?’ replied Elisabeth sitting next to him. ‘Much better than I expected.’

‘That’s good to hear.’ He put his arm around her. ‘I know this amalgamation has been on your mind lately. You’ve not been able to think about much else.’

‘Actually I was told some good news. Robin Richardson won’t be starting at the new school in September.’

‘Hallelujah!’ exclaimed Michael.

‘He’s been offered a job at St Paul’s Preparatory School.’

Michael finished the whisky in a gulp. ‘Well, that’s a weight lifted from off your shoulders. What about the other chap, that deputy of his, what’s his name?’

‘Jolly.’

‘Has he got another job as well?’

‘Unfortunately not. He’ll be with me I’m afraid.’

‘Well I am sure you will win him around.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘You are quite a persuasive woman, Mrs Stirling. Now, no more about school.’

There was a longish silence. ‘Are you happy, Michael?’ she asked him suddenly. She wasn’t sure where it came from but thoughts of the past and what-ifs were obviously playing on her mind today.

‘Of course I’m happy!’ he exclaimed. ‘Whatever brought this on?’

‘Oh, it’s just I’ve been a bit of a pain lately, worrying about this amalgamation, complaining about things, getting so tied up with school. It’s a wonder you’ve put up with me.’

He put the glass down on the floor. ‘Look, Elisabeth,’ he said turning her face to his, ‘I couldn’t be happier. You made me the happiest man on earth when you said you’d marry me. I like putting up with you. I love you, you must know that.’

There were tears in her eyes. She glanced over his shoulder to the photographs in the silver frames. ‘And I love you too,’ she said before pressing her lips to his.

Mrs O’Connor, Dr Stirling’s housekeeper, bustled into the room. She was a dumpy, round-faced little woman with the huge liquid-brown eyes of a cow and a permanent smile on her small lips, both framed by a tight perm that clung to her head in all weathers. Like many of her race, she embroidered the English language with the most colourful and original axioms and expressions, most of which were throwbacks to her old Irish grandmother, who had a caustic comment, a saying or snippet of advice for every occasion.

‘Hello, Dr Stirling,’ she said. ‘Back early for once.’ Before Michael could reply, she prattled on. ‘Now then, Mrs Stirling,’ she said cheerily, ‘I’ve done upstairs and finished in the kitchen. Would you like me to give the sitting room a quick going over before I go?’

‘No thank you, Mrs O’Connor,’ Elisabeth told her. ‘You get off.’

‘Well, to be honest, I do have quite a lot to do. Now that I’ve taken on a bit of housekeeping for Father Daly at St Bede’s, I don’t seem to have a minute to myself. He’s a very nice man, so he is, but the state of the presbytery! You should see his study. It’s like a junk shop. Full of clutter, so it is. I just don’t know where to start. It was a sight worse than this room before we tidied it up. I can hardly get in for all the statues and books and candlesticks and lamps. It’s the devil’s own job to clean because Father Daly won’t let me move things. He’s so stubborn; he’d whistle a jig at a gravestone as my Grandmother Mullarkey was wont to say.’ Elisabeth opened her mouth to say something but Mrs O’Conner chattered on. ‘He met the new vicar last week.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Elisabeth, who was not really listening. ‘Who did?’

‘Father Daly. He thought he’d pop round to St Christopher’s to introduce himself. He’s something of a cold fish by all accounts.’

‘Who is?’ asked Michael.

‘That new vicar. Mr Sparshott. Didn’t give Father Daly the time of day evidently. The poor priest was quite put-out when he got back. Wasn’t even offered of a cup of tea. Stand-offish he was, this new vicar. It’ll be a while before Father Daly makes a return visit I can tell you. “Never boil your cabbage twice,” as my grandmother used to say. This new chap is not like the last vicar, that friendly Reverend Atticus who was made the archdeacon and is off living in Clayton. He was a real gentleman, so he was. Always passed the time of day when he met you in the village. And I don’t know how that nice young girl curate will get on with the new man. Personally I’m not in favour of women priests but having said that, the Reverend Underwood, from what Mrs Sloughthwaite in the village store has told me, she is like a breath of fresh air and Father Daly, who works with her as a chaplain at the hospital, hasn’t a bad word to say about her. Gets on like a house on fire with the patients, so she does. I can’t imagine her getting on with this new vicar. Mind you, I can’t imagine many getting on with him from what I’ve heard.’

To describe the new Vicar of Barton as ‘something of a cold fish’ was an understatement in the view of many in the village. The Reverend Algernon Sparshott had made a very inauspicious start. In his first visit to his new parish, prior to taking up his position, to attend a musical evening in the church, an event that had been organised by the curate, Reverend Ashley Underwood, he had succeeded in annoying everyone with whom he came in contact. Asked by t