Trouble at the Little Village School Read Online Free Page A

pointedly. ‘It’s surprising you have found the time to wine and dine.’
    The sharp comment was lost on the councillor. ‘Oh, I’m ’ere on hofficial council business. I’m entertainin’ t’mayor of our twin town in France. ’E’s not that fluid in English an’ I don’t speak a word of ’is lingo, so it’s not been easy. P’raps you’d like to come ovver an’ meet ’im?’
    ‘No, thank you,’ replied Dr Stirling. ‘We are just about to go.’
    ‘Suit yerself.’
    The owner appeared.
    ‘Has everything been to your satisfaction, doctor?’ he asked.
    ‘Excellent, thank you,’ replied Dr Stirling.
    ‘I hope that we may see you again at Le Bon Viveur,’ began the owner, ‘and if I might say—’
    ‘Well, if I might say,’ interrupted Councillor Smout, thrusting out his jaw and addressing Monsieur Richeux, ‘I can’t say as ’ow things ’ave bin to my satisfaction.’
    The owner turned slowly to the speaker. The smile had left his face and his mouth drooped in distaste. ‘Really?’ he said.
    ‘I can’t say as ’ow I found t’food to my likin’,’ continued Councillor Smout. ‘Far too fancy an’ not my cup o’ tea at all. I din’t know what I was eatin’ ’alf o’ t’time an’ I ’ave to say that t’portions were not over-generous and, I might add—’
    ‘Please do,’ said the owner. ‘I cannot wait to hear.’
    ‘That we was sat there for a long time before we was served.’
    ‘You know, sir,’ the owner said, a wry smile on his face, ‘were I to challenge you to a duel, I should choose English grammar as my weapon.’ With that he departed.
    ‘T’thing is wi’ foreigners,’ the councillor confided, bending down to speak into Elisabeth’s ear, ‘foreigners allus ’ave problems gerrin their ’eads around our language, don’t they?’
    Dr Stirling and Elisabeth looked at each other and then burst out laughing.

Chapter 2
    ‘Does anyone know who the father is?’ asked Mrs Sloughthwaite, proprietor of the Barton-in-the-Dale village store and post office, leaning over the counter with her great bay window of a bust supported comfortably on the top. She was a round, red-faced woman with a large fleshy nose, pouchy cheeks and bright inquisitive eyes resting in small hammocks of flesh. It was surprising that she was ignorant as to the parentage of the child in question, for there was no one in the village with such an extensive knowledge as she had of all the goings-on. The shopkeeper and postmistress made it her business to know about everything and everybody, and no customer left her premises without being subjected to a thorough interrogation. Once gleaned, the information was quickly circulated throughout the village.
    There were two customers in the shop that Monday morning: Mrs Pocock, a tall, thin woman with a pale, melancholy, beaked face, and Mrs O’Connor, the local GP’s housekeeper, a dumpy, smiling individual with tightly permed hair the colour of copper-beech leaves and the huge, liquid brown eyes of a cow.
    ‘Well, it could be anyone’s,’ observed Mrs Pocock, her lips twisting into a sardonic smile. ‘I mean, without putting too fine a point on it, she puts it about a bit that Bianca. No morals at all if you ask me – like a lot of young people these days. Mrs Widowson who lives next door to the family is forever seeing the girl at the gate to her house, skirt barely covering her backside, kissing and carrying on with no end of boys. She attracts them like wasps around a jam dish. I mean, it was bound to happen.’
    ‘It’s like history repeating itself,’ observed the shopkeeper.
    ‘In what way?’ asked Mrs O’Connor, patting her hair.
    ‘Well, young Danny Stainthorpe’s mother had him when she was barely out of school uniform,’ continued Mrs Sloughthwaite, leaning over the counter. ‘She was a tearaway, was young Tricia, and no mistake. It’s amazing how well the lad has turned out.’
    ‘And she was another unmarried mother,’