Trouble at the Little Village School by Gervase Phinn

would take all the pans out of the cupboard in the kitchen and put them in order of size. He became quite obsessive about neatness and routine.
    ‘Hello, John,’ said Elisabeth.
    The boy started rocking again, moving rhythmically to and fro, his brow furrowed as if something troubled him.
    ‘Well, young man,’ she said, trying to sound cheerful. ‘I hear you’ve had a bit of a do?’ John continued to rock and stare before him. ‘Well, it’s all over now.’ She squeezed his hand.
    Elisabeth spent an hour with her son, sometimes chattering on about the school and things she had done, at other times just sitting there in silence holding his hand and staring through the classroom window at the panorama of pale green fields and limestone walls and distant peaks. When she had done this on previous visits, she had often wondered if John understood anything, but on the odd occasion when she mentioned a memory there would be a reaction – a slight turn of the head, a small change of expression, a rapid blink of an eye. That morning John continued his slow rocking seemingly oblivious to all that she said.
     
    ‘I wouldn’t worry your head too much about it, Mr Gribbon,’ said Mrs Scrimshaw casually as she tidied her desk before departing for home.
    ‘It’s all well and good you saying that,’ the caretaker told the school secretary, ‘but if they’re getting rid of some teachers, downscaling as they like to call it—’
    ‘Downsizing,’ corrected the school secretary.
    ‘Whatever. It means they’ll be redeploying and sacking other people as well, and it might be you and me what has to go.’
    ‘When, and indeed if, this proposed amalgamation does take place,’ said Mrs Scrimshaw, ‘and nothing has been decided yet, there will be two premises to manage, one here and one at Urebank, so that means they will need to have a secretary here and one over there to answer all the calls and deal with all the paperwork. I have no worries on my account. In fact, I’ve been assured by Mrs Devine that my position looks pretty secure.’
    ‘Aye, well, I’m very pleased for you, I’m sure, but what about me?’ whinged the caretaker. ‘She’s said nothing to me. Has she said anything to you?’
    ‘About what?’
    ‘About me,’ he said, thrusting out his jaw.
    ‘Why should Mrs Devine discuss your future with me?’ asked Mrs Scrimshaw. ‘I suggest you ask her about your position yourself.’
    ‘I will do,’ replied the caretaker.
    ‘Of course they may just have the one caretaker,’ added the school secretary mischievously.
    ‘What?’
    ‘A peripatetic.’
    ‘Somebody what’s disabled?’ exclaimed the caretaker. ‘How can he do the job? He won’t be able to get up a ladder.’
    ‘Peripatetic – someone who moves from one premises to the other,’ explained the secretary, shaking her head.
    ‘Moves from one premises to the other?’ the caretaker repeated. ‘I don’t like the sound of that. I can’t be going backwards and forwards to two schools like a fiddler’s elbow. I have enough on dealing with this place. I couldn’t manage two, not with my back. Anyway, I’m supposed to be getting a part-time cleaner to help out here. Mrs Devine promised me.’
    ‘Well, the situation might have changed,’ the secretary told him. ‘I don’t imagine they’ll be taking on any more staff at this time. As I said, it may be that they appoint one caretaker to look after both schools.’
    ‘Well, it’s not something I want to take on,’ grumbled Mr Gribbon. ‘I can tell you that for nothing.’
    ‘Well, you might not have to.’
    ‘How do you mean?’
    ‘The caretaker at Urebank might do it,’ she told him.
    Mr Gribbon went suddenly quiet. ‘Yes, I suppose they might,’ he said under his breath.
    ‘They’ll probably appoint a site manager,’ said the secretary, ‘to oversee both places, and a team of cleaners at each school.’
    ‘You think?’
    ‘Well, it’s a possibility.’
    ‘I don’t