The School at the Top of the Dale

Book 0: Top of the Dale

by Gervase Phinn

Genres: Humor & Satire; Small Town & Rural; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

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

Newly qualified teacher Tom Dwyer has been given his first post in Risingdale, a sleepy little village at the very top of the Yorkshire Dales. Unsure if he'll ever fit into this close-knit community, Tom joins a motley staff at the village school. With pupils who know more about sheep than they do arithmetic, Tom has his work cut out for him.

Add to that an altercation with the beautiful but stand-offish Miss Janette Fairborn and an argument with the local squire's son, and Tom's first term proves a baptism of fire. But Tom soon finds himself growing fond of Risingdale, and with a class of lively and demanding pupils, an end-of-term show to put on, and a jewellery thief at large, he will find himself at the centre of drama, secrets revealed, and plenty of love, laughter and new friendships.

Full of colourful characters, and laugh-out-loud moments, The School at the Top of the Dale is a warm and humorous portrayal of life in a small Yorkshire village.

(P) 2018 Isis Publishing

Release date: February 22, 2018

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 503

Sample

Chapter 1

‘Are you out of your mind?’

The speaker, a striking-looking woman with green eyes and a mass of red unruly hair which tumbled out from under her riding helmet, was astride a large chestnut horse. Her face was flushed with anger.

She was addressing a young man who sat in his sports car which had swerved off the road to avoid her and ended up in a ditch. The driver rested his hands on the wheel, shook his head and sighed. He wound down the window.

‘I’m afraid I didn’t see you,’ he shouted.

‘That was patently obvious!’ snapped the young woman. ‘You came around the bend in that fancy sports car of yours like some mad racing driver.’

The young man got out of the car and approached the woman. ‘First,’ he replied, nettled by the woman’s strident tone, ‘I was travelling at a perfectly reasonable speed and secondly, this is hardly a fancy sports car. It’s twelve years old as a matter of fact.’

‘The age of your car is totally irrelevant,’ retorted the woman. ‘You could have killed me. Country roads are full of twists and turns. There are signs all along telling drivers to slow down as tractors might be turning.’

‘But you are not in a tractor, you are on a horse,’ the man told her mischievously. ‘I reckon I would have heard a tractor.’

‘Is that your feeble attempt at humour?’ she asked angrily.

‘And I should add,’ continued the man, ‘that in future I suggest you don’t cross a road on a bend where you have no clear view of what might be coming around the corner. It seems to me to be rather foolhardy of you.’

‘You can keep your advice to yourself,’ she told him sharply. ‘I’m not wasting any more of my time arguing with the likes of you.’ And with an impatient flick of her riding crop on the horse’s flank, she cantered off, stopping a little way down the road to shout back, ‘And I hope you stay in the ditch.’

The man rested his hands on his hips and looked down the empty road, screwing up his eyes in the bright sunlight. He leaned forward, craning his neck and peered into the distance in the hope that rescue was at hand. He glanced at his watch. ‘Now what do I do?’ he asked himself out loud. He examined the vehicle, which seemed undamaged, but there was no way he could drive it out of the ditch. ‘Damn and blast!’ he cursed. He returned to the car and reached inside for a jacket. Then he sat on the drystone wall which bordered the road to consider his options. He could stay where he was and hopefully be able to stop a car and be driven to the nearest garage, or he could walk in search of a house or a farm from where he could telephone for a breakdown service. Of all things to happen on a day like this, he thought. He glanced again at his watch. The governors of the school, no doubt, would be assembling about now for the interview and wondering where he was. Well, there was nothing he could do. He gazed at the vast panorama which stretched before him. It was indeed a beautiful scene: acres of emerald-green undulating fields studded with grey outcrops of rock and criss-crossed by white limestone walls which rose like veins impossibly high to the lonely hills, largely treeless and austere. Rabbits, their white tails bobbing, cropped the grass at the edge of a nearby field and a fat pheasant strutted along another craggy limestone wall. A swaggering magpie pecked furiously at a piece of roadkill. A few black-faced, lazy-looking sheep peered at him, and above in a vast and dove-grey sky, raucous rooks wheeled in spirals. On the telegraph wires a line of sparrows chattered noisily.

He suddenly became aware of two farmers leaning on a gate on the other side of the road. They had appeared out of nowhere. Both men observed him with a detached kind of indifference. The first was a grizzled individual with a wide-boned, pitted face the colour and texture of an unscrubbed potato, a long beak of a nose with flared nostrils and an impressive shock of white hair. He was dressed in a grubby, long-sleeved, collarless shirt, a waistcoat which had seen better days and ancient wellington boots turned down at the top. His threadbare corduroy trousers were held up by a piece of twine. A cigarette dangled from his lips. His companion was a fair, thick-set young man with an equally weathered face and tight, wiry hair. He was dressed in a loose-fitting grey jumper with holes at the elbows, baggy shorts and large, heavy military-style boots. His legs were wind-burned to the colour of copper.

‘Admirin’ t’view?’ called out the older man. He sucked on the cigarette and then blew out a cloud of smoke.

‘I’m afraid I’m stuck,’ replied the driver, clambering down from the wall and crossing the road to where the two men stood.

‘Aye, I can see that,’ said the farmer, rubbing his nose. ‘Come off of t’road I see.’

‘To avoid a horse,’ he was told.

‘Tha shun’t sit atop o’ that wall,’ the younger farmer said. ‘Thas’ll dislodge all t’stones, then t’wall’ll collapse an’ then t’sheep’ll gerrout. You townies are a bloody nuisance leaving gates oppen, not stickin’ to t’footpaths an’ lettin’ yer dogs off of t’leads.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said the driver. He was minded to remind the speaker that he had not been through a gate or on a footpath and that he didn’t have a dog and that the wall was still intact but, needing the men’s assistance, he thought better of it. Instead he replied pleasantly, ‘I wonder if you could help?’

The older man stared at the car, rubbed the stubble on his chin and gave a world-weary shake of the head. ‘Mebbe,’ he said. He dropped the cigarette on the grass and ground it with the heel of his boot.

‘I should be really grateful if you could lend a hand to get my car out of the ditch for me.’

The old farmer stared for a moment, then, leaving the gate, and, in no great hurry, went to examine the vehicle. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘Convertible, is it?’

‘That’s right,’ replied the driver.

‘Pity tha couldn’t convert it into a tractor.’ He chuckled at his own witticism.

The young man smiled weakly. ‘Yes, indeed,’ he said. ‘So could you help?’

‘Tha ’as to tek it easy on these rooads,’ said the farmer. ‘Tha can’t drive round ’ere as if it were a racetrack.’

The young man was inclined to tell the farmer that he was not travelling fast and that it was the mad woman on the horse who had caused him to come off the road. However, he thought it best not to prolong the conversation. He was desperate to be away. ‘So, could you help me?’ he asked for the third time.

‘’Appen I could,’ said the farmer. He turned to his young companion. ‘Stop gawpin’ and go an’ get t’tractor an’ we’ll give this chap a tow.’

‘’E shun’t ’ave been drivin’ so fast,’ said the younger man. ‘This is a bad bend an’—’

‘Never thee mind what ’e should or shouldn’t ’ave been doin’,’ interrupted the other swiftly, ‘just thee go an’ get t’tractor an’ stop thee mitherin’.’

The boy made an irritable puffing noise before ambling off, grumbling to himself.

‘And frame thissen,’ the old farmer shouted after him. ‘We don’t want to be ’ere all day.’

‘Do this, do that,’ the boy mumbled.

‘Gerra move on an’ stop thee carpin’.’

‘Thanks,’ said the driver, holding out a hand. ‘My name’s Tom Dwyer by the way.’

‘Well, Mester Dwyer,’ said the farmer, ‘it were lucky we was in t’area. Tha might have been stranded out ’ere until t’cows come home. Anyroad, we’ll soon ’ave thee out o’ theer. In an ’urry was tha?’

‘I’ve an interview this morning for a teaching post at Risingdale Primary School. I guess I’ve missed out on the job now.’

‘Naw, they’ll ’ang on. Nob’dy’s in any gret ’urry, up ’ere in this part o’ t’Dale,’ remarked the farmer. ‘Mester Gaunt, ’e’s ’eadmaster, ’e’s not t’sort o’ bloke to be in any ’urry.’

Tom shook his head. ‘I hope you’re right. I’m afraid I got lost trying to find the place. There’s so many little twisting roads, some of which end up in tracks, and so few signposts, and when I did find a road sign, one arrow pointed one way to Risingdale and another told me to go in the opposite direction. I’ve been backwards and forwards for nearly an hour.’

‘That’s because some o’ them signposts ’aven’t been changed from afore t’War,’ explained the farmer. ‘They was purrup to confuse t’Germans if they invaded.’

‘Well, they certainly baffled me,’ said Tom.

‘So who did you nearly knock off of t’orse?’ asked the farmer.

‘A young woman with flaming red hair and a temper to match,’ Tom told him.

The farmer chuckled. ‘That’ll be Janette Fairborn. She’s a spirited young woman wi’ a reight old temper on her that lass. Teks after ’er father.’ He waved a hand in the direction of the surrounding fields. ‘’E owns most o’ t’land around ’ere.’

The chugging of a tractor along the road heralded the arrival of the younger farmer. A few minutes later Tom was back behind the wheel of his car, which had been towed out of the ditch.

‘Thank you so much,’ said Tom. He reached into his pocket and produced his wallet. ‘What do I owe you?’

‘Never thee mind that,’ replied the farmer. ‘My mother used to say that if tha does a good deed for someone, then do it wi’out expectin’ any reward but tell ’em to pass it on. ’Appen one day thas’ll ’ave t’chance to do a good deed for someb’dy else.’

The farmer’s companion gave a hollow laugh.

‘Thee do summat for free!’ he said. ‘That’ll be t’day.’

‘Thee shurrup an’ tek t’tractor back.’

‘That’s very generous of you,’ said Tom to the farmer before starting the car. ‘And if I might trouble you again, could I ask you direct me to Risingdale School?’

‘Keep goin’ along this road for about a mile ’til tha get to t’crossroads,’ the farmer told him. ‘Ignore t’signpost directin’ thee to go left to Risingdale but turn right. Keep goin’ for a couple o’ miles up a long hill an’ you’ll get to Lower Bloxton village. Turn left at t’Pig and Pullet pub, signposted Skillington and drive up another steep ’ill an’ tha’ll end up at Upper Bloxton. Turn right an’ you’ll get to Risingdale. T’school is at t’top o’ t’Dale about a mile out o’ t’village. An’ mind ’ow tha goes. Tha dun’t want any more disagreements wi’ ’orses.’

Tom laughed. ‘No, I’ll go steady. May I know your name?’

‘I’m Toby Croft,’ said the farmer, ‘an’ t’lad on t’tractor is my son, Dean.’

‘Well, thank you both,’ said Tom before driving away.

‘Does tha think ’e’ll get t’job, Dad?’ asked Dean, as they watched the car disappear in the distance.

The old farmer sucked in his bottom lip and scratched his nose. ‘Mebbe ’e will,’ he remarked, ‘but if ’e does, I reckon ’e won’t be stoppin’ long. I can’t see t’likes of ’im settlin’ up ’ere.’

After a couple of wrong turnings, Tom found himself in the centre of the picturesque Dales’ village of Risingdale. He drove slowly past a row of pretty rose-coloured stone cottages with mullioned windows and blue-slate roofs and the squat grey-stone Primitive Methodist Chapel. He passed by the Norman church with its spire spearing the sky and the adjacent imposing Victorian vicarage built in shiny red brick with its broad gravel drive curving through an overgrown, untended garden. He drove on by the King’s Head Inn, the post office-cum-general store, past the village green and duck pond and then up the hill, all the time keeping his eyes peeled for the school.

It was fortunate that Tom was driving slowly and being watchful for as he approached the brow of the hill, a small boy, about ten or eleven years of age, leaped over a wall of greenish-white limestone and darted across the road directly in front of the car. Tom screeched to a halt, missing the child by inches. The boy stood stock-still in the middle of the road like a creature caught in amber. He was a plain-looking, thin little individual with a wide mouth, dark eyes, large ears and tightly curled hair.

His shirt was hanging out from a baggy grey jumper, his socks were concertinaed around his ankles and his shoes were so scuffed it was difficult to tell whether they were originally black or brown. His hands and face were entirely innocent of soap and water.

Tom pulled over to the side of the road and climbed out of the car. ‘That was a very silly thing to do,’ he said, approaching the little scallywag.

‘Sorry, mister,’ said the boy. ‘I was being chased.’

‘Chased,’ repeated Tom. ‘Who by?’

The boy pointed to a copse a few hundred yards from the road. ‘By that lad who is hiding in the trees.’

Tom looked to where the boy was indicating with his finger. Half hidden behind some pine trees was a tall, fat, moon-faced boy with lank black hair. He was scowling.

‘Why was he chasing you?’ asked Tom.

The boy shrugged. ‘He always does,’ he replied casually. ‘Most times I get away because I’m a good runner and he hardly ever catches me but today he was waiting for me.’

‘But why would he want to harm you?’

The boy shrugged again. ‘For the fun of it,’ he replied. ‘He’s nothing better to do, I suppose. He doesn’t hurt me if he catches me, just clips me around the head and calls me names. Actually, I feel a bit sorry for him. He doesn’t have any friends and is bottom of the class at school.’

‘Have you told anyone about this bully, to get him to stop picking on you?’

‘Like who?’ asked the boy.

‘Your dad or your teacher.’

‘I’ve not got a dad and the last teacher we had couldn’t do much. She had a lot of trouble with him. We’ll be getting a new teacher next term.’

‘Well, you ought to tell someone to get it stopped,’ Tom informed him.

‘Maybe I will,’ said the boy nonchalantly.

‘Well, you get along and don’t go running into the middle of the road in future. You might get killed.’

‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry about that,’ said the boy. ‘I’ll see you around.’

With that, he set off sprinting down the hill.

Tom saw that the figure in the trees had now disappeared.

 

After driving for a mile up a twisting, precipitous road, Tom wondered whether he had taken a wrong turning again, but then as the road divided into a track, he saw what he guessed was Risingdale School. It was a solid, square single-storey building with a greasy grey-slate roof and small square windows, enclosed by low, craggy, almost white limestone walls. Beyond rose an expanse of pale and dark greens, cropped close by indolent sheep. It looked like any other sturdy Yorkshire country dwelling. No traffic triangle warned drivers that children might be crossing and there was no board at the front indicating that this was a school. Tom pulled off the road, climbed from the car and approached the gaunt grey building. He could feel the warmth of the late summer sun on his face and catch the tang of leaf and loam and woodsmoke.

‘You’ve arrived then.’

The speaker was a tall man with dark, deep-set eyes, very thick, wild white hair and a large nose which curved savagely like a bent bow. Long eyebrows met above the nose, giving the impression of a permanent scowl. He was leaning back lazily on a bench in the bright sunshine with a lugubrious expression on his long, pale, angular face.

‘Oh, good morning,’ said Tom brightly. ‘I take it this is Risingdale School?’

‘It is,’ replied the man. There was no trace of a smile.

‘And am I speaking to Mr Gaunt, the headmaster?’

‘No, you’re not. You are speaking to Mr Leadbeater, the caretaker, cleaner, handyman, gardener and general factotum.’

‘Well, good morning,’ said Tom. ‘I’m afraid I was held up.’

‘Who are you?’

‘One of the candidates for the teaching post. I had a bit of an accident on my way here.’

‘Did you?’ He didn’t sound the slightest bit interested.

‘Nearly hit a woman on a horse.’

‘Really.’

‘And I got lost a few times.’

‘A lot of folk do.’

It’s like talking to a brick wall, thought Tom. ‘I suppose I have missed the interviews.’

‘Interviews?’ repeated the man.

‘For the teaching position at the school. I have been called for interview. Has the headmaster left?’

‘He hasn’t arrived yet,’ the caretaker told him. ‘He phoned to say he’d be along later.’

‘I see.’

‘Two of his sheep got out last night and he’s after getting them back. He has a smallholding has Mr Gaunt. Course I don’t usually come into the school during the holidays. I’ve had to make a special effort today to open the place up. It’s very inconvenient.’ He made no special effort to get to his feet.

‘There are interviews here today, aren’t there?’ asked Tom, looking around. He could see only one other car next to his own, an ancient half-timbered Morris Traveller van.

‘I don’t know anything about any interviews,’ the caretaker told him. ‘I was just told to open up the school and that there’d be a visitor. Mind you nobody tells me anything around here.’

‘I see,’ said Tom, wondering what sort of school this was.

‘Go in and have a look around if you want,’ he said, standing up and stretching.

The previous year Tom had trained at Barton-with-Urebank Primary School and enjoyed every minute of his time there under the guidance of Mrs Stirling, an experienced and dynamic head teacher and the supportive members of staff. He had learnt a great deal, loved the company of young people, knew teaching was the profession for him and had gained his certificate in education with a distinction. That school was an immaculately clean and tidy building with a warm, welcoming and optimistic atmosphere. Paintwork shone, floors had a spotless, polished look, brass door handles sparkled and there was not a sign of graffiti or litter. The display boards, which stretched the full length of the corridor, were covered in line drawings, paintings, photographs and children’s writing. Everything looked cheerful and orderly. There was a profusion of bright flowers to the front of the school, and at the rear there was an attractive and informal lawn area with ornamental trees, shrubs, a small pond, garden benches and picnic tables. He could not have trained at any better place. The school inspectors had graded the school as outstanding and Barton-with-Urebank was regarded as the flagship school in the county.

This school was very different. The heavy mud-coloured door, with the tarnished brass knocker in the shape of a ram’s head, needed a good lick of paint. It opened with a loud creak into a small vestibule which was dark and unwelcoming with its shiny green wall tiles and off-white paint. From the entrance stretched the corridor, on one side of which were several old pine cupboards and on the other, a line of large, black iron coat hooks. The floor of pitted linoleum was the same colour as the door to the school.

All four classrooms were small and square with hard wooden floors and mean little windows set high up. One classroom, clearly where the infants learnt, had tables and little melamine chairs, some large coloured cushions and a small carpeted area. There was a Wendy house and a modest collection of picture books. Along one wall were pinned children’s colourful artwork: round figures with smiling faces, huge eyes and stick-like fingers. On another wall were glossy posters of animals and birds alongside lists of key words and rules of the classroom. On a large table were painting materials, coloured crayons, a sand tray and large coloured boxes containing a variety of building blocks and educational toys. The area was tidy and colourful and it was obvious the teacher had made a real effort to provide a stimulating environment for the children.

The other three classrooms, probably for the juniors, varied little. All had ranks of dark wooden desks of the old-fashioned lidded variety, heavy and battle-scarred, with holes for inkwells. They faced a dais on which were a sturdy teacher’s desk made of pine, a high-backed chair and a large blackboard. Some effort had been made in two of the rooms to make the environment bright and cheerful but the third looked neglected. The room was dark, dingy and airless with a dusty wooden floor. On the walls, devoid of any displays or pictures and painted in a sickly green, were a few dog-eared posters on the rules of English grammar and on famous historical figures. Above, black beams with curved wooden supports stretched across the high ceiling where the paint was flaking. There was a solid cupboard and two old bookcases containing sets of class readers, a stack of dictionaries, some hardback textbooks and a pile of folders. Tom noticed that there were no bright, glossy-backed novels, poetry anthologies or reference books in evidence. Framing the high windows were hung long faded floral drapes; there was a cast-iron Victorian fireplace, its mantle of dark slate and heavy black grate filled with some sad-looking dried flowers and dusty pine cones. Above the teacher’s desk were faded samplers in discoloured frames. Tom read them out loud.

 

‘May the children of this school

Earn their teacher’s praise,

By being good and working hard,

To walk in Wisdom’s ways.

 

Children to the Lord on high,

Your early honours pay,

While vanity and youthful blood

Would tempt your feet away.

 

Jesus permit thy gracious heart

To stand as this first effort of Eliza Clark,

And while her fingers on this canvas move,

Encourage her tender heart to seek thy love.

With thy dear children let her play her part

And write thy name dear Jesus on her heart.’

It was like going back in time.

As Tom emerged from the school into the bright sunshine, he cracked his head on the lintel in the porch. He cursed and began furiously rubbing his forehead.

‘A lot of people do that,’ observed the caretaker unhelpfully. He had resumed his position on the bench. ‘It’s a tad on the low side. You have to be careful.’

He might have shared this information with me before, thought Tom. He screwed up his eyes to see a lean individual climbing out of a battered pickup truck. The man sported a shabby trilby hat, green corduroy trousers tied at the knee with string, a thick tweed jacket with elbow patches and substantial boots.

‘Here’s the headmaster now,’ the caretaker said, tilting his head in Tom’s direction. He made no effort to move from his position on the bench.

‘Ah, Mr Dwyer,’ said the thin individual, striding towards Tom and holding out a leathery hand. He smiled widely. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you. I’m Gerald Gaunt, headmaster of this establishment, for my sins. I’m sorry you have had a long wait but—’

‘He hasn’t,’ interrupted the caretaker. ‘He’s only just arrived. Had an accident on the way here.’

‘Accident?’ repeated Mr Gaunt. ‘Oh dear.’

‘He hit a woman on a horse,’ said the caretaker.

‘No, I nearly hit a woman on a horse,’ said Tom. ‘I swerved to avoid them and ended up in a ditch.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Mr Gaunt. ‘You’re not hurt, I hope.’

‘No, I’m fine,’ Tom told him.

‘And the woman and the horse?’

‘They are fine too.’

‘There’s an old Dales’ saying,’ said the headmaster, ‘that one should beware a cow, a horse and a woman, for each of these have time and again proved guilty of the indiscretion of crossing the road on the approach of a tractor.’

Tom managed a weak smile. He smoothed down his hair and straightened his tie.

‘I must apologise for my appearance,’ he said, looking down at the flecks of dirt on his trousers and his muddy shoes. At college he had been told how important it was to make a real effort with one’s appearance and to present oneself for an interview for a teaching position smart and well groomed. First impressions were important and candidates had lost jobs because governors took exception to the way they were dressed.

‘No, no, it is I who must apologise for my appearance,’ said Mr Gaunt, ‘I’ve been trying to find two of my sheep which got out of my field. Some rambler, I guess, had left a gate open. I couldn’t go chasing the creatures in a collar and tie. I’m afraid I didn’t have time to change.’

‘I told him that,’ said the caretaker.

‘Told him what?’ enquired Mr Gaunt.

‘That you were after chasing sheep. Did you find them?’

‘I’m afraid not.’ He turned to Tom. ‘Well, let me show you around the school and then we can have a little chat and see if you would like it here.’

‘He’s had a look round,’ said the caretaker.

‘I am sure Mr Dwyer would welcome a cup of tea, Bob,’ said the headmaster, giving him a look of patient indulgence. ‘Would you put the kettle on please?’

There was a pained expression on the caretaker’s face. ‘I suppose so,’ he grumbled, rising from the bench with little enthusiasm. He sighed as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders, scratched his head and headed for the school in no great hurry, pausing only to inform the headmaster, ‘There’s no milk.’

‘Bob is not,’ began the headmaster, lowering his voice, ‘the most good-humoured, industrious and energetic of men, but he has been caretaker here a long time and I am not one to welcome change. I guess I could employ someone more enthusiastic and capable but better the devil you know, as they say. We are without a cleaner at the moment which has not improved his temper.’

The headmaster’s room was small and cluttered and dominated by a huge oak desk with brass-handle drawers. On the top was an old-fashioned blotter, a large glass inkwell, a jam jar holding an assortment of pens and broken pencils, a large mug half full with a pale, cold liquid and a jumble of papers and folders. A battered grey-metal filing cabinet stood by the window next to a heavy bookcase crammed with books and journals, magazines and files. On the floor was a hard, thin carpet and on a pale yellow wall were a few dull prints of various animals and an insipid watercolour of a ruined castle. Propped up in a corner was the strangest-looking contraption: a long wooden trumpet-like instrument over ten feet long with a cup-shaped mouthpiece.

‘Come in, come in,’ said Mr Gaunt, casually throwing his hat into a corner. He removed a pile of folders from a small spindle-backed chair before sitting behind the desk and leaning back. ‘Do sit down,’ he said. ‘I mean to tidy the place up one day but have never got around to it. Mrs Leadbeater, my secretary, is always nagging me to do it. She’s the caretaker’s wife by the way.’ He smiled genially.

Tom took a seat. The chair wobbled beneath his weight.

‘Now,’ said the headmaster, ‘I’ve read your application and the references from the school where you trained and from the university where you studied.’ He stared thoughtfully at the piles of papers on the desk. ‘They are here somewhere. Just can’t lay my hands on them at the moment. Never mind, they were very impressive and I think you are just the sort of chap we are looking for.’

‘Really?’ Tom was quite taken aback. He had expected a formal interview with governors and an education officer firing difficult questions at him. He had taken a deal of time preparing for the event.

‘You were a professional footballer, I believe,’ said the headmaster.

‘That’s right,’ Tom replied.

‘Bit of a change being a schoolmaster.’

‘It is,’ he agreed, ‘but I really enjoy teaching. Since Easter I’ve been doing supply work in different schools, but just when I get to know the children and the staff, I have to leave. I really would like a permanent post.’

‘The head teacher of the school where you did your training says she would have offered you a job had there been a vacancy but she’s been prevailed upon to take a redeployed teacher.’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Tom.

‘As you are no doubt aware, quite a lot of small schools in the county aren’t viable any more, with the decline in pupil numbers, and have had to close, with teachers needing to find other positions. Fortunately, touch wood, our numbers have remained pretty static but we shouldn’t be complacent, although I think if they tried to close Risingdale, there’d be a riot. It’s a very close-knit community as you will find out. They closed one Methodist chapel but when they tried to close the other, they were sent away with a flea in their ears.’

‘Yes, I’m aware that a lot of teachers need to be redeployed,’ said Tom. ‘That’s why it’s been difficult to find a job. There’s been a lot of competition.’

‘I’ve had three teachers who needed redeploying up here to look around, but none of them took to the place and to be frank I and my staff didn’t take to them. That Mr Nettles at the Education Department at County Hall, a useless individual who is intoxicated by the sound of his own voice – but that is by-the-by – has given up sending any more, so that’s why I went to advert.’ There was a meaningful silence. ‘Now look, Tom,’ he said suddenly. ‘I may call you Tom?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘To be honest Tom, Risingdale is not one of the county’s foremost schools. We never win the sports’ cups or the county poetry and art competitions – not that we enter the children for