Secrets at the Little Village School

Book 0: The Little Village School Series

by Gervase Phinn

Genres: Humor & Satire; Small Town & Rural; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

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

'It's a small village is Barton-in-the-Dale, Mrs Stirling,' said the shopkeeper. 'You ought to know that by now. Nothing can be kept secret for too long. News travels fast.'

In the little village of Barton-in-the-Dale, long-hidden secrets are bubbling to the surface. Ashley Underwood and Emmet O'Malley are set to tie the knot, when a revelation from the handsome Irishman's past returns to haunt him. The town's resident nosey-parker discovers some juicy gossip about the primary school's dishy new staff-member, and head teacher Elisabeth Stirling has a very special secret of her own.

As the wedding day draws closer, brewing secrets threaten to boil over. But along with the skeletons tumbling out of the closet comes plenty of laughter, drama, friendship and love. One thing's for sure: for some, life in Barton-in-the-Dale will never be the same again.

(P) 2016 Isis Publishing

Release date: October 20, 2016

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 401

Sample

Chapter 1

‘It is a sad fact,’ announced Mrs Robertshaw, teacher of the lower juniors at the village school, ‘that there are some in our profession who just do not like children and are singularly unsuited to being teachers, and in my book, this Mrs Humphrey-Snyde is one of them.’

The speaker was sitting in the corner of the staffroom after school on Friday afternoon, nursing a tepid mug of tea on her lap. Such had been the length of her diatribe so far that she had not raised the mug to her lips, and the biscuit on the plate beside her had remained untouched.

‘I mean,’ she continued, getting into her stride, ‘the woman’s a supply teacher, for goodness’ sake, not a permanent member of staff, and she’s been in the school one week – one week, I ask you – and she thinks she owns the place. In my entire teaching career I have never encountered anyone so patronising, self-opinionated and downright ill-mannered as that woman.’

Mrs Robertshaw, a broad individual with a wide face and steely grey hair gathered untidily on her head, was dressed in a brightly coloured floral dress and a shapeless brown cardigan, and wore a rope of pearls and matching earrings. She was normally a jolly, comfortable woman with the ease and confidence of a teacher who had been in the profession for more years than she would like to recall. It was true that she was strong-minded and could be brusque and forthright in her manner, but it was out of character for her to be so impassioned and so critical of another.

Her colleague, a tall, pale-faced man in his thirties, with an explosion of wild, woolly hair and large enquiring eyes, had listened without interruption.

‘Well, am I right?’ demanded Mrs Robertshaw.

Mr Hornchurch, the teacher of the upper juniors, smiled. ‘It’s not like you to be so restrained in your views, Elsie,’ he said mischievously. ‘Why don’t you say what you really think about Mrs Humphrey-Snyde?’

‘It’s all very well you being flippant about it, Rupert,’ she replied gravely. ‘You heard her in the staffroom the first day of term, when she made her appearance like the wicked fairy at the christening, with her smug self-righteousness, pontificating about education as if she were the Director of Education herself instead of a mere supply teacher. Probably couldn’t hold down a permanent job. And I’ll tell you this, if she is offered a post in this school, that will be the day I hand in my resignation.’

‘I don’t think there’s much chance of that,’ observed her colleague mildly.

‘Well, just you wait and see. There is no way I can work with that woman.’

‘I meant that it’s unlikely our head teacher will want to keep Mrs Humphrey-Snyde on. I should imagine that like you, she is not overly impressed with her.’

‘Not overly impressed!’ Mrs Robertshaw repeated. ‘Huh, that’s an understatement if ever I heard one. I sincerely hope that we’ve seen the back of the dreadful woman and she will not make an appearance next week. Since she’s been in the school she has made no effort to fit in and has succeeded in rubbing everyone up the wrong way.’

It was true that the supply teacher had in one week managed to annoy everyone with whom she had come into contact. She had arrived on the Monday morning at the junior site of Barton-with-Urebank Primary School minutes before the beginning of the new spring term, and strode smartly into the entrance trailing melting snow and muddy water behind her from her knee-length black boots.

Mr Gribbon, the caretaker, standing sentinel at the door, shouted after her.

‘Excuse me! I’ve just buffed that floor!’

Mrs Humphrey-Snyde turned. ‘Are you by chance speaking to me?’ she asked sharply.

‘Yes I am,’ said the caretaker indignantly. ‘In future I should be very much obliged if you would wipe your feet. You’re leaving puddles on the parquet floor. I’ve just gone and buffed it.’

‘Is this floor of some priceless architectural interest?’ asked the supply teacher sardonically.

‘Eh?’

‘It is a floor,’ she told him, ‘and floors are for walking on, are they not? Sometimes they do get wet. It will not have escaped your notice that it is snowing outside.’ She began to leave, but stopped and turned. ‘And I have to say that the path outside is extremely hazardous. I should have thought that on a morning like this, the first priority of a school janitor would be to clear away the snow, rather than being concerned about a bit of water on his precious floor.’

‘Now look here . . .’ Mr Gribbon began, bristling.

‘I can’t waste my time bandying words with you,’ said Mrs Humphrey-Snyde. ‘I have a class to teach.’

Without another word she walked off briskly in the direction of the school office, leaving the caretaker staring after her open-mouthed.

Mrs Scrimshaw, the school secretary, peered over the top of her unfashionable horn-rimmed spectacles when the supply teacher entered the school office. She brushed a strand of mouse-coloured hair from her forehead, smiled, wished the visitor a good morning and enquired if she could be of help.

‘I’m the supply teacher,’ Mrs Humphrey-Snyde informed her without so much as a good morning. She was a tall, angular woman with small colourless eyes half hidden below dark lids, and greying hair pulled into a tight bun. Her thin mouth was compressed and unsmiling. She had had a long and arduous journey along icy roads, and was not in the mood for pleasantries. ‘Would you tell the head teacher that I have arrived?’

‘Mrs Stirling is in her classroom,’ the school secretary replied. The smile had left her face. She did not like the woman’s offhand manner.

‘Well could you find her and tell her that I am here?’ The visitor sounded irritated.

‘I’m afraid I can’t leave the office unattended,’ said Mrs Scrimshaw loftily, taking exception to the sharpness in the visitor’s voice. ‘You will find Mrs Stirling in the second classroom on the left, down the corridor.’

Mrs Humphrey-Snyde remained where she was.

‘Is there something else?’ enquired the school secretary.

The supply teacher reached into her briefcase, produced a wad of paper and placed it on the desk before her. ‘I would like thirty copies of these worksheets and should be grateful if they could be photocopied for tomorrow morning and placed on my desk before the start of school.’ With that, she left.

‘And pigs might fly,’ muttered Mrs Scrimshaw, brushing the papers away with a sweep of her hand.

Mrs Humphrey-Snyde found the head teacher, Elisabeth Stirling, in her classroom, placing dictionaries on each desk.

‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘I’m the supply teacher, Mrs Humphrey-Snyde.’

‘Good morning,’ replied Elisabeth brightly. ‘I’m the head teacher, Elisabeth Stirling. I rather expected you earlier so I could show you around the school, introduce you to the other members of staff and familiarise you with how things work around here.’

‘That is not necessary, Mrs Stirling,’ replied Mrs Humphrey-Snyde. ‘I have been on supply at this school a good few years ago, well before your time of course, during the period when Miss Sowerbutts was head teacher. Therefore I am well acquainted with how things work here. As for not being here earlier, it will not have escaped your notice that there was a heavy downfall of snow last night and it is snowing again this morning. The roads are treacherous. In addition, I do live on the other side of Clayton and it is quite a distance for me to travel.’ She paused for a moment before adding, ‘I did consider phoning through and saying I couldn’t make it, but didn’t want to let you down.’ The woman clearly thought she was doing everyone a great favour by turning up.

‘Well, now you are here, I’ll show you to your classroom,’ said Elisabeth, rather taken aback by the woman’s brusque manner and self-assurance. ‘The schemes of work, school prospectus, lesson guidelines and curriculum policy documents are in a folder on your desk.’

Mrs Humphrey-Snyde gave a dry little smile. ‘I have been a supply teacher now for over twenty years, Mrs Stirling,’ she told the head teacher in a rather condescending tone of voice, ‘so I am fully conversant with the requirements of the primary curriculum. I produce all my own materials, so I will not need any lesson guidelines. I have found from experience that it is a much more effective approach if I use my own resources rather than relying on other people’s.’

‘I see,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Well, I will let you make a start. You will be teaching a lower junior class. The seven-to-nine-year-olds. The classroom is just across the corridor.’

 

Mrs Humphrey-Snyde, attired in a heavy black skirt, grey cardigan and prim white blouse buttoned high at the neck, arrived at the staffroom at morning break on that first day of the new term to find Mr Hornchurch by the sink, whistling to himself. He stopped and beamed widely when she entered. He was a happy, good-natured young man who seemed to have a smile permanently etched on his face.

‘Good morning,’ he said brightly. ‘Just in time.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ replied the supply teacher.

‘I’ve just made a pot of tea. I’m sure you would welcome a cup. I’m Rupert Hornchurch, by the way, teacher of one of the upper junior classes.’

‘Mrs Humphrey-Snyde,’ she told him, sitting down, resting a capacious handbag on her knee and placing her briefcase next to her.

‘Do you take milk and sugar?’ she was asked.

‘I bring my own beverage, thank you,’ she replied. ‘I only drink herbal tea and I use my own receptacle.’ She produced a large china mug from her bag. ‘Travelling around schools as I do, I prefer to use my own mug. One never knows what one may catch from other people’s crockery.’

‘Well, we managed to eradicate the Black Death here last term,’ said Mr Hornchurch amiably. His attempt at humour was clearly lost on the supply teacher, who raised an eyebrow and stared back blankly, then rose to make herself a drink.

‘And how are you finding your class?’ asked Mr Hornchurch.

Mrs Humphrey-Snyde approached the sink, which she examined like some public health inspector. She poured boiling water into the mug and popped in a tea bag, which she agitated vigorously, having carefully rubbed the spoon on a tea towel. ‘It’s early days,’ she replied, ‘but they seem a docile lot.’

Docile? thought Mr Hornchurch. Not a word I would use.

‘I don’t doubt that when they get to know me,’ continued Mrs Humphrey-Snyde, ‘the class comedian will make his presence felt and some of them will try things on. It always happens with a new teacher. I do, however, know how to deal with cheeky and misbehaving children. I have been in the business a long time.’ She drank from her mug with little bird-like sips before resuming her seat.

‘Actually they’re a decent set of kids,’ Mr Hornchurch told her. ‘I don’t think you’ll have any problems with them.’

‘Oh indeed I shall not,’ she answered. ‘As I have said, I have been in this business for a long time and know how children’s minds work. Some children are very adept at exploiting a teacher’s weakness. I make no apology for being of the old school, one who believes in discipline and good order.’ She took another sip of her herbal tea.

‘I see,’ murmured Rupert, taking a dislike to this dogmatic woman.

‘I don’t recall there being a staffroom when I was here before,’ the supply teacher remarked.

‘This was the previous head teacher’s room,’ Rupert told her. ‘Mrs Stirling had it converted into a staffroom.’

‘So where is her room?’

‘She doesn’t have one. She works from her classroom.’

‘And she teaches?’

‘Yes.’

‘Her predecessor, Miss Sowerbutts, didn’t teach.’

‘So I gather.’

‘Who is in the room next to mine?’ she asked.

‘That’s Mrs Robertshaw.’

‘She clearly likes a noisy classroom,’ remarked the supply teacher. ‘I tend to be old-fashioned in that I like children to get on with their work quietly.’

‘Really?’ said Rupert. ‘Did you know that there is no evidence to suggest that working in a quiet atmosphere is any more efficacious, educationally speaking, than in a noisy one?’

‘No, I did not know,’ replied Mrs Humphrey-Snyde, ‘and in my considered opinion that is quite plainly wrong. Children work much better in a quiet environment. The noise from the next-door classroom was most disturbing.’

‘Mrs Robertshaw would be doing drama,’ Mr Hornchurch told her, and then added, ‘Drama does tend to be a bit boisterous at times.’

‘Well I won’t be doing any drama, and that’s for sure,’ said Mrs Humphrey-Snyde. ‘I think there is quite enough drama in schools without encouraging any more. It winds children up. I am of the considered opinion that such things as drama and poetry and art decorate the margins of the more serious business of study. Not my words, but those of the former head teacher here. Miss Sowerbutts was, like me, one of the old school, and believed in the basics – spelling, punctuation, grammar and neat writing. I agreed with her. Children should know how to add up, know their times tables and master arithmetic.’

‘It’s called number work now,’ Mr Hornchurch informed her.

‘Yes, well as I said, I tend to be old-fashioned. I still call it arithmetic. In my experience, trends in education come and go. Everything comes around. It won’t be long before arithmetic makes its appearance again.’ She raised the mug to her lips.

‘I believe that drama, poetry and art – and, of course, music – are essential parts of a broad and balanced curriculum,’ said Mr Hornchurch, ‘and add immensely to the quality of one’s life. Would you not agree?’

‘No,’ she replied, ‘I wouldn’t.’ The woman’s face twisted into a half-smile. ‘I guess that is what the colleges of education are teaching these days. In my considered opinion, one can indulge in such subjects when the children can all read and write and add up.’

‘Well I’ll let you enjoy your herbal tea,’ said Mr Hornchurch, wearying of her doctrinaire opinions. And with that, he left the room, shaking his head.

At lunchtime, Mrs Robertshaw found the supply teacher sitting in the corner of the staffroom, eating a sandwich.

‘Oh hello,’ she said. ‘You must be Mrs Humphrey-Snyde. I’m Elsie Robertshaw. I missed you at morning break because I was on yard duty. It was freezing cold out there. I’ll be glad when we see the back of all this dreadful weather.’

‘Yes, it is cold,’ agreed Mrs Humphrey-Snyde before taking a small bite out of her sandwich.

‘I say, you don’t need to bring your own food,’ said Mrs Robertshaw. ‘The staff eat with the children.’

‘I don’t,’ replied the supply teacher. ‘I’m afraid I can’t stomach school meals and prefer to have a break. I see quite enough of the children during the day without giving up my lunch hour.’

Mrs Robertshaw bristled. She didn’t like this woman, with her tight little mouth, sharp features and tiny eyes. She didn’t like her abrupt manner either. ‘During lunchtimes,’ she said, ‘it’s a good opportunity to meet the children more informally. It’s a nice social occasion.’

‘That may be your view, Mrs . . .’

‘Robertshaw.’

‘That may be your view, Mrs Robertshaw,’ answered Mrs Humphrey-Snyde before dabbing the corners of her mouth with a napkin, ‘but I don’t share it. I need some respite in my lunch hour.’

‘Well I’ll let you enjoy your sandwich and your respite,’ said Mrs Robertshaw. And with that, she strode angrily to the door.

 

For the remainder of the week, Mrs Humphrey-Snyde decided to spend her breaks and lunchtimes in her classroom. She did not find the atmosphere in the staffroom conducive. To use one of her frequently uttered phrases, in her considered opinion, the Robertshaw woman was full of her own importance, spouting her fancy ideas about education and letting the children run riot in her classroom. The other teacher, the man with the earring and the hair like a mass of wire wool, was friendly enough but decidedly odd. His classroom was so jam-packed and cluttered, it looked like a junk shop. No doubt he allowed his pupils to get away with murder and, like his colleague, had adopted all the fashionable fads and fancy initiatives the government saw fit to burden teachers with. No, she thought to herself, not the sort of colleagues she warmed to. Miss Sowerbutts would never have countenanced such teachers when she was the head here. She believed in standards, good old-fashioned discipline, a traditional curriculum and hard work.

It was on the Tuesday lunchtime that Elisabeth found the opportunity to speak to the supply teacher. She found her in her classroom, reading the newspaper.

‘I wonder if I might have a word with you, Mrs Humphrey-Snyde,’ she said, walking in to join her.

‘Yes, of course,’ replied the supply teacher. She folded the paper carefully into a neat square and turned to face the head teacher. ‘I welcome this opportunity of having a word with you too.’

‘I noticed that you were not in assembly this morning.’

‘No, I was preparing my lessons for the day.’

‘I do like all members of staff to join the children in the assembly,’ said Elisabeth good-humouredly. ‘It’s an excellent opportunity for all of us in the school to be together, to start the day with a prayer and a hymn and to hear the notices.’

‘At the last school where I did supply work, the head teacher gave the staff the opportunity of preparing their lessons while he took the assembly.’

‘Well in this school I do like all the teachers to attend. I believe that lessons should be prepared in the teacher’s own time.’

‘I see,’ said Mrs Humphrey-Snyde. ‘Teachers do have a life outside school, Mrs Stirling. I don’t intend spending all my evenings doing school work.’

Elisabeth decided not to argue the point but would certainly tackle the teacher again if she failed to turn up for assembly the following day. ‘I noticed two pupils standing outside your door this morning,’ she said.

‘Yes, the Norton boy and that silly Norman Stubbins,’ replied Mrs Humphrey-Snyde. ‘They are both impudent and lazy. I will not tolerate children answering me back. The Norton boy didn’t get on with his work and disrupted the other children in getting on with theirs, and he was impertinent.’

‘What did he say?’ asked Elisabeth.

‘I told him that I could see a coat on the floor and asked if he would care to pick it up, and he replied, “Not really”, so I sent him out.’

‘And what about Norman Stubbins?’

‘Oh, that silly boy! He kept on jumping up and down in his chair, and when I ordered him to sit, he started barking.’

‘I see,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I shall have a word with both boys, but I would ask you, Mrs Humphrey-Snyde, if you have trouble with a pupil, to send him to me and I will occupy him with some appropriate work. I am not in favour of a child standing aimlessly outside a classroom.’

‘I was not having trouble with him, Mrs Stirling,’ retorted the teacher sharply. ‘I have been teaching for over twenty-five years and do know how to deal with troublesome children. I made both boys stand outside to cool off and to think about their unacceptable behaviour.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Elisabeth answered, ‘I should be grateful if in future you would send any child you feel should “cool off” to me.’

‘When I was at this school before,’ said the supply teacher, not prepared to let the matter rest, ‘the head teacher, Miss Sowerbutts, was very much in favour of taking a disruptive pupil out of the classroom environment so that others could get on with their work, and when I undertook supply work at Urebank Primary School, the headmaster, Mr Robinson, also regularly had badly behaved pupils standing outside his door.’

‘Miss Sowerbutts is no longer the head teacher here,’ Elisabeth reminded her, ‘and Urebank was amalgamated with this school.’

‘Yes, I am aware of that,’ replied the supply teacher.

‘So in future please do not have pupils standing in the corridor. I do not approve of the practice.’

‘Is that everything?’ asked Mrs Humphrey-Snyde, pursing her lips.

‘I would also appreciate it if you joined the children for lunch.’

The supply teacher sighed. ‘I believe I am entitled to a lunch hour, Mrs Stirling,’ she said. ‘I don’t recall there being anything in my contract that stipulates I have to eat with the pupils.’

‘No, there isn’t,’ agreed Elisabeth, ‘but I think it is a valuable experience for the children to sit with their teachers over lunch. It’s a pleasant social occasion. However, if you feel you do not wish to, then that is up to you. Now I believe you wished to have a word with me.’

‘I have to say that I am not entirely happy with things in this school,’ said the supply teacher. She sounded like a school inspector delivering a critical report.

‘Really?’ said Elisabeth.

‘No, I’m not. Yesterday I asked the secretary to copy some worksheets for me for this morning and put them on my desk, but she has failed to do so, and when I asked why, she was very offhand and told me it was not her job to produce materials for the teachers. I also find the janitor very abrupt and uncooperative. I like my classroom clean and tidy, with everything in its proper place, unlike one of the other teachers I could mention. I asked the janitor yesterday to dust the top of some shelves. He has still not seen fit to do so.’

‘Well, Mrs Humphrey-Snyde,’ Elisabeth told her. ‘I am sorry to hear that Mrs Scrimshaw appeared to you to be rude. It’s certainly out of character, for I have always found her cheerful and very helpful. I should say, though, that she has quite enough on with the work I ask her to do, particularly at the beginning of term, without doing jobs for the teachers. As for Mr Gribbon, the caretaker, he is without a cleaner at the moment – she starts next week – and so he has much to do, particularly in this bad weather when he needs to clear the paths of snow. However, I will have a word with them both. Now, if you will excuse me.’

Some moments after Elisabeth had gone, Mrs Humphrey-Snyde became aware of a small boy standing at the door. He was a bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked child of about ten, with clear brown eyes and hair cut in the short-back-and-sides variety and with a neat parting. His hands were clasped behind his back. He looked like a little old man.

‘What do you want?’ she asked him.

‘I just thought I’d pop in and say hello,’ said the boy cheerfully. ‘I’m Oscar and I’m in Mr Hornchurch’s class. You must be the new teacher, Mrs Humphrey-Snyde.’

‘Yes I am,’ she replied. What a strangely old-fashioned-looking boy, she thought, and with such a curiously mature way of speaking for one so young. ‘What is it you want?’

‘Oh, nothing in particular,’ said the boy casually. He approached the teacher’s desk. ‘We had a hamster called Humphrey once. He was a little rascal and was always escaping from his cage. Once, my father had to pull up the floorboards because he had found his way under the house – the hamster, that is, not my father.’

‘Shouldn’t you be out in the playground with all the other children?’ asked Mrs Humphrey-Snyde.

‘I’ve been tidying the books in the library,’ said Oscar.

‘That’s what your classroom needs,’ said the supply teacher. ‘A good tidy.’

‘Oh, Mr Hornchurch prefers it the way it is,’ the boy replied.

‘Really?’

‘He says that genius is seldom tidy. He’s quite a character.’

‘Yes, he is,’ muttered the supply teacher.

Oscar shook his head and chuckled. ‘Once, when we went away for Christmas,’ he said, ‘we put Humphrey in the conservatory, and when we got back home he was all stiff and lifeless, curled up in the corner of his cage. We thought he was dead and buried him in a pot in the back garden. Then our neighbour told us he might just have gone into a sort of temporary hibernation because it was so cold, so we dug him up, and do you know, when we warmed him up, he came back to life. Isn’t that incredible? My mother said it was a little miracle and that we should rename him Lazarus. He was a person in the Bible who came back to life.’

‘I do know who Lazarus was,’ said Mrs Humphrey-Snyde. ‘Now, I am very busy, so you go about your business.’

‘Righty-ho,’ said Oscar, heading for the door. ‘I’ll no doubt catch up with you later.’

‘Precocious child,’ she muttered before returning to her crossword.

 

By Friday lunchtime, Mrs Humphrey-Snyde had had quite enough. Nothing in the school suited her – the head teacher, the teaching staff, the ancillaries, the children or the ways of working. How different it had been in Miss Sowerbutts’ time. She had never insisted on the teachers attending assembly or having to eat with the children. She was every inch the head teacher, with her prim white blouse and air of authority. Many was the time she had children standing outside her room for misbehaving in class. And she would have hammered the basics, not indulged those teachers who wished to teach such fanciful subjects as drama and have classrooms like landfill sites. No, thought Mrs Humphrey-Snyde, it had been a most unpleasant week and she determined that she would not be returning to the school the following Monday. She allowed herself a small smile of quiet satisfaction. Let Mrs Stirling try and get another supply teacher at such short notice.

‘Hello again.’ Oscar appeared at the door.

Mrs Humphrey-Snyde sighed. ‘Oh not him again,’ she muttered. ‘I haven’t the time to listen to your stories today,’ she told the boy curtly. ‘I am far too busy. Now be about your business and don’t bother me.’

‘I was just going to tell you, Mrs Humphrey-Snyde—’ began Oscar.

‘Well don’t.’

‘But I need to tell you—’ tried the boy again.

‘Did you not hear me, young man?’ asked the supply teacher, raising her voice. ‘I do not wish to hear it. Now off you go.’

‘Oh very well,’ said Oscar.

 

One minute before the end of school on Friday, Mrs Humphrey-Snyde packed her bag, deposited the unmarked worksheets in the bin, put on her coat and lined the children up by the door. She intended to spend no more time in Barton-with-Urebank Primary School.

‘Are you coming back next week?’ asked Norman Stubbins glumly.

‘No, I am not,’ replied the supply teacher sharply. ‘I have had quite enough of lazy and impertinent children like you.’

‘And I’ve had enough of rotten teachers like you,’ muttered the boy.

Mrs Humphrey-Snyde was about to respond when the shrill ringing of the bell indicated it was home time. She pushed her way through the melee of children, strode across the corridor to Elisabeth’s room and put her head around the classroom door. ‘Just to let you know, Mrs Stirling,’ she said, ‘I won’t be coming in next week.’

If the head teacher was surprised, she certainly didn’t show it. ‘Thank you for letting me know,’ she said calmly.

‘I am afraid this school doesn’t suit me,’ said the supply teacher.

‘I think we can agree on that,’ Elisabeth replied. ‘I am sure you will be a lot happier in another school.’

Mrs Humphrey-Snyde was taken aback by this response. She had been expecting the head teacher to enquire why she wished to leave, and perhaps try to persuade her to stay. It was clear that this was not going to happen.

‘I think you will find it difficult to get another supply teacher at such short notice,’ she said smugly, ‘but I really don’t feel I could continue working here.’

‘I appreciate that,’ said Elisabeth, ‘and actually it was not that difficult to find another teacher. He starts on Monday.’

‘Oh,’ was all Mrs Humphrey-Snyde managed to say. It was clear to her then that the head teacher had had no intention of keeping her on.

‘Drive safely,’ said Elisabeth.

‘Well, I’ll be off then,’ said Mrs Humphrey-Snyde rather feebly. ‘Good afternoon.’

As the other teachers gathered in the staffroom for the Friday staff meeting, Mrs Humphrey-Snyde, on her way out, encountered Oscar in the entrance. He was sitting quietly, reading a book, waiting for his mother to collect him. He looked up as she approached and was about to speak, but the teacher ignored him and swept out of the door. A minute later, she returned, in a furious mood.

‘I thought you’d be back,’ remarked Oscar.

‘What!’ she snapped.

‘I said I thought you would be back.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I guess your car won’t start,’ said Oscar. ‘It will be a flat battery. You left your lights on.’

‘And how would you know that I left my lights on?’ she asked angrily.

‘I noticed at lunchtime,’ said Oscar.

‘Then why didn’t you tell me, you silly boy?’ demanded Mrs Humphrey-Snyde.

Oscar shook his head and breathed out rather noisily. ‘I did try and tell you, a couple of times in fact, but you said you didn’t want to hear what I was about to say and told me to go about my business. So that is what I did.’

‘This is too much!’ exclaimed the supply teacher. She looked at Oscar. ‘You can make yourself useful and find the janitor for me, and tell him I need some help in starting my car.’

‘I would like to be of as