Summer with the Country Village Vet

Colourful stepping stones marked a path across the playground, leading up to a doorway which had ‘Boys’ etched into the arched brickwork above. She stared up at it – wondering if she’d somehow been transported back in time – when a young woman, with cropped trousers, a floaty blouse and paint covered hands appeared on the step.

‘Hi there! You must be Lucy.’ The woman smiled. ‘Come in, come in. Oh, don’t worry about that.’ She’d followed Lucy’s gaze. ‘This school was built back in the days when they thought pre-marital hand-touching was a sin, we’ve got a girl’s entrance over there.’ She pointed to another entrance at the other end of the playground. ‘We use that for open days, and everybody dives in through this one the rest of the time. You’ll have to excuse me, I’ve been helping Reception Class with finger-painting.’ She wriggled red and yellow fingers, and Lucy felt some of the flutters disperse. Just some. ‘Mrs Potts is about somewhere, she’ll show you round while I get myself cleaned up. Good journey?’

She paused for breath and Lucy smiled back.

‘Great thanks.’ Better not to mention the wrong turnings.

‘I’m hopeless, I always get lost even with a satnav. I’m Jill by the way, classroom assistant and chief bottom wiper. I won’t shake hands – not with fingers like this. If you sign in there and grab a visitor’s badge I’ll find Liz, she’s probably gone to buy some biscuits. Best part of an interview day,’ she grinned, ‘candidates have biscuits and we get to finish them off, we usually get bourbons and cream custards, much better than the normal digestive biscuits. Ah, here she is, I’ll leave you in her capable hands, and get back to painting caterpillar pictures. Catch you later.’

Liz Potts was frighteningly capable. After checking that Lucy had signed herself in properly, and had made a note of her car registration correctly, she gathered up her bunch of keys and set off on the introductory tour of the school at a speed totally at odds with her appearance. She reminded Lucy of Mrs Tiggy-Winkle. Which could have been down to her rather rounded appearance, sharp nose, and tiny feet. Or the speed they were scuttling down the corridors at.

Lucy was being whisked through the school with a ruthless efficiency, and a nod to left and right at various classrooms which Mrs Potts seemed to consider superfluous to teaching.

‘Reception and Class 1 here on the right… and the dining room is there… this is our little library… Class 2 here, rather a big intake, it must have been a bad winter.’

‘Sorry?’ Lucy craned her neck, trying to peek inside at the children who seemed remarkably engrossed in their work.

‘Snow, a hard winter always results in a flurry of autumn births don’t you find?’

It had never occurred to Lucy, but there again there was probably less to do here than in the middle of Birmingham, which very rarely saw snow anyway.

The corridors seemed eerily quiet compared to what she’d been used to at her previous school, although that could have been partly down to the fact that it had been a modern build with thin partition walls and echoing areas between them – whereas this was a delightfully solid looking brick built affair that appeared to have been part of the village for years.

‘Er, yes, well.’ Easier to change the subject. ‘Do you have a Wi-Fi connection throughout the school?’

‘Wi-Fi?’ Mrs Potts actually paused, very briefly, so that an unprepared Lucy had to swerve, before they picked up speed again. She was more than used to chasing round after young children, and dashing round a classroom to avoid catastrophe, but it was the sheer determination of the woman as she darted down the corridors that had caught her by surprise.

‘You’ve got wireless throughout the school? An internet connection?’ Flat shoes were obviously going to be a necessity here, if she took the five week cover position.

‘Oh good heavens no, dear.’ Mrs Potts pursed her lips and shook her head dismissively. ‘That isn’t how we do things here.’

Oh hell, she’d been right. They probably wouldn’t even have interactive whiteboards. It would be old-fashioned style teaching, which was about as progressive as old fashioned granny knickers and string vests.

‘We’ve got chickens.’

Lucy came to a stop, then she had to dash after her tour guide who was steaming ahead, had flung a door open and as far as Lucy was concerned might well dive through it and disappear. ‘Chickens?’ God, she was out of breath, this was worse than Sports Day.

‘And a wonderful vegetable patch. Come along dear, I’ll show you.’ Mrs Potts glanced at her watch, her pace never faltering. ‘We are rather pushed for time as the children are waiting to interview you, they’ve been preparing all week.’

Lucy frowned, this all seemed rather over the top for a temporary post, in fact it was exactly what she expected in an interview for a permanent position. It seemed that the school took its staffing very seriously indeed. Mrs Potts had picked up speed, marching across the playground with Lucy running to keep up, to where a small patch of rather worn grass was fenced off, with what had to be a wooden chicken coop inside. ‘We do have computers in the classroom plugged in,’ she gave Lucy a stern look which suggested she didn’t approve, ‘for teaching purposes, but they can’t learn about responsibility by looking at those, can they? Now if the monitors for the day forget to shut the hens up at night, they won’t repeat that mistake again, will they?’

‘Won’t they?’ Lucy stared at the small wooden building, and a rather scraggy chicken gave her a beady once-over then proceeded to peck at the dirt.

‘Of course not.’ Mrs Potts looked at her as though she was a simpleton. ‘The fox will get them, won’t it?’ She made a cut throat gesture that looked slightly sinister, as she headed back across the playground and Lucy scurried after her.

‘It will?’ The sense that she’d entered some kind of tranquil backwater where life was idyllic started to disperse.

The drive up the M6 motorway had left her frustrated and tense (sure that she would be late, and she was never late), and then she’d lost her way twice which had left her with sweating palms and the start of a headache, but the moment she’d entered the village the stress had started to ebb away and as her shoulders had relaxed she’d eased back on the accelerator and started to appreciate the pretty flower strewn hedgerows.

By the time she’d reached the well-kept village green with its swathes of bright dancing daffodils the pounding in her temples had stopped. Momentarily.

Until she’d taken an unwanted tumble back to her childhood, before being unceremoniously tossed to the curb by a very big man. With a firm grip, tousled hair and gorgeous eyes. Oh hell, now all she needed was for him to be one of the parents and word would soon get round that she was up for a grope with any passing strangers. Not that she’d actually kissed him. Luckily. But she had rubbed herself against him. And wriggled against his crotch.

What the hell was she was letting herself in for?

‘It certainly will. Foxes can be relied on.’ They ground to a halt, and Lucy nearly cannoned into her. ‘Believe me, the children only make that mistake once. And we have the vegetable patch of course.’ Mrs Potts was on the move again. Of course. At Lucy’s previous school they’d settled for egg shell men with cress hair, and a sunflower growing competition. And her sweet peas. Something caught in her throat at the thought of the seeds in their packets waiting to delight her class who had very little colour in their lives – apart from Pokemon and Marvel heroes.

‘Picking their own beans is far more rewarding than a gold star on a chart, and if the slugs or rabbits eat their lettuces well there’s a lesson or two to be learned, isn’t there? Oh now would you look at the time! Come on, chop, chop, we’ve got a lot to fit in today.’

It was no wonder the staff were happy to be treated to an extra portion of biscuits, working here would burn more calories than a double dose of Zumba followed by a Spin class.

Chapter 2 (#u23298fff-6520-53f7-9c70-d5f75026dc1c)

‘We don’t normally take on temporary staff, but we’re in rather a difficult situation, and you do seem ideal for the job. We need somebody who will fit in, and I’m sure I speak for everybody else when I say I think you’ll slot right into life at Langtry Meadows Primary School.’ Timothy Parry, the head teacher looked round the table for confirmation.

A bearded governor leant forward – his forearms on the desk and an earnest expression on his face – then suddenly smiled, showing a chipped tooth. ‘The children loved you. Always a good sign, that is.’

Lucy wasn’t sure ‘loved’ was the right word. Her second worst nightmare scenario (after being sacked) had to be a lesson where a child turned out his pocket to reveal an astoundingly large amount of soil and worms. The child in question, a chubby farmer’s son called Ted with bright blue eyes and a pudding-bowl haircut had then tried to present her with the longest worm he had, ‘to match her long hair.’ He’d stretched it out so that it dangled ever closer to her head. Assuring him that the other applicants would be devastated if she accepted, she’d persuaded him to deposit the wriggling but rapidly drying out creature into a jar, for release into the wild at break-time.

‘I’m Jim Stafford. I’ve seen more interviews than you’ve had hot dinners my dear, and I’m telling you, you’re spot on.’ The governor leaned forward even further and tapped the back of her hand, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial level. ‘Ted Wright’s father used to be the Head of Governors and he takes it very much to heart does our Edward if anybody upsets his little Teddy.’

Ahh, so that explained that one. Diplomatic relationships with parents was an essential part of the job that unfortunately had been barely touched on during her teacher training, and she’d had to learn fast.

Timothy coughed, politely regaining control. ‘Edward would normally be here himself, but I’m afraid he had other commitments.’

‘Sheep.’ Jim tapped the side of his nose knowingly.

‘Sheep?’

‘Lambing time love.’ He nodded wisely. ‘Busy time is spring.’

‘A masterstroke to slip in the animal welfare implications, as well as showing such equanimity to your fellow applicants.’ A thin, well-dressed woman with her hair scraped back into a severe bun chipped in, steering them back onto the matter at hand. Lucy had a vague idea that she’d been introduced as the former deputy-head, ‘now retired, but very active in the community’. ‘One of our interviewees abandoned his post after Daisy produced a frog from her pocket.’ There was a disapproving tut lurking just behind the thin lips. ‘What does he expect in the countryside? Honestly!’

The nearest to wildlife Lucy had seen in the classroom at her previous school had been head lice, at least frogs didn’t make her want to scratch her head in sympathy – which the sight of nits always had.

The interview with the school council, the pupils, had been the most astounding part of this whole process. At all her previous interviews, the children had asked well-thought out (and no doubt prompted) questions about positive reinforcement and community spirit – the children at this school had been more interested in her reaction to frogs, whether she agreed with Alice’s dad that ‘those buggers sat behind desks had no right to tell him when he could cut the sodding hedges’, and what she thought about the country pong in the air following the liberal slurry spraying over the weekend.

It had taken all of Lucy’s self-control to stay in her seat, and to resist putting a peg on her nose. She was not a country girl; she didn’t like mess, unpleasant smells, or any kind of large livestock in the immediate vicinity. She really had never ever considered when hedges were cut (but maybe the ‘buggers’ had the bird’s welfare at heart?) and she really did wonder what she was letting herself in for. But now that she’d got over the initial shock of being cast back to her childhood, and been able to rationalise that it wasn’t the same after all, she’d been able to admit to herself that the village was really the most gorgeous place. Ideal for a week’s chilling out kind of holiday, but what working here would be like could be a different matter altogether.

Except it was simple. She was saving her house, her future. She had to concentrate on that. This was a short term solution, for a few weeks cover. It would be good for her, help her lay some ghosts to rest, and then she was sure something more suitable would turn up. All would be well. She’d be back on track.

‘Oh no, what a shame.’ She dredged a weak smile up, thinking herself lucky that she’d only had to cope with worms, and tried to remember which one Daisy was.

‘That lass is just like her dad.’ Jim chuckled. ‘I remember when he brought his ferret in to school, took it out in the middle of the 11 plus exam. Teacher was as calm as you like, whisked it away and stuck it in a cardboard box. Shame of it was that the bugger had eaten his way out by the time we’d finished, whole school had to join in the search.’

Quoting health and safety rules probably wasn’t the right response. ‘Well children will be children.’ She crossed her fingers under the desk, hoping that if she got this job neither frog nor ferret would find its way into her classroom.

Luckily the head teacher shuffled the papers on his desk and coughed, to regain control of the meeting. ‘They certainly will. Well I’m sure I speak for everybody when I say we’d be delighted if you could start as soon as possible, Miss Jacobs, or may we call you Lucy?’ He was totally unlike any of the head teachers she’d come across in the city: older, kinder, owner of a bow-tie, a very well-worn tweed jacket with actual elbow patches the likes of which she had only ever seen on TV before, and he hadn’t mentioned account balancing or issued a single rule about the use of blu-tac or staple guns. And she was pretty sure that the only type of metal-detector would be the handheld type for use on the school field, in search of ancient coins rather than knives and knuckle dusters. ‘Your references are excellent, and I really feel you could bring new vitality to our little school whilst maintaining a positive and kind outlook. Now we mentioned to the agency the first day of next term, after the Spring break. Would that suit? Does that give you time? Monday is a teacher training day, so we quite understand if you can’t start until Tuesday.’