‘Can I come with you to look at the school?’
‘I don’t see why not, but we probably won’t get to see much. I’m going to call in and have a quick chat, then we can make an appointment to look round another time.’
‘Can we get some sweets from the shop while we’re there?’
I thought about the hundred pounds Dad had put in my account to tide me over. ‘OK. As long as we don’t spend too much. Until I start working, we’re going to have to be very careful with our money.’
Bertie nodded. ‘Can we see the school now?’
‘Yes, just let me have a cup of tea, then we’ll go.’
It was a mile walk along the track from the farm to the village, but Bertie chatted the whole way and we reached the village quickly. The village housed a post office and shop, a pub, a church and the school. Most of the houses were small stone cottages. Even the newer estate built on the outskirts of the village had houses clad in the same local stone. It was picturesque, with views out to moorland in one direction, and views to the river and valley in the other.
At the school gates, Bertie hesitated.
‘It’s OK, there’s nothing to worry about. We’re only finding out about spaces. I’m not signing you up for anything yet.’
Bertie took my hand, and we walked across a tarmacked playground to a Victorian building with large windows and a bright blue front door. I rang the doorbell, and a buzzer signalled we could enter.
The reception area was about as far from Bertie’s previous school as it was possible to get. The blue carpet was faded and worn through in places, and the walls looked in need of a lick of paint. Boards housed children’s drawings and photographs of the staff, who only numbered six.
‘Hello, can I help you?’
‘Hi,’ I said, peering through a perspex screen to be greeted by a middle-aged woman with bright pink hair. ‘I’m hoping for some information about the possibility of enrolling my son into the school. I wasn’t sure if you have any spaces.’
‘Have you just moved into the area?’
‘Yes, we’re staying at Lowen Farm.’
‘Oh, I know it well. I worked with Mr Nickson, sorry, Pat, for several years before he retired.’
‘He’s teaching me to play chess.’
‘Is he now? And who are you?’ asked the lady, leaning closer to her screen.
‘My name’s Alberto Simmons, but everyone I like calls me Bertie.’
‘What about those you don’t like?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
The pink-haired lady laughed. ‘Well, I hope you’ll let me call you Bertie?’
‘Yes. I like your hair.’
The lady laughed again. She turned to me. ‘Tell you what, I’ll fetch the head for you. If she has time, I’m sure she’ll be happy to give you a quick tour.’
‘Thank you.’
We’d only been waiting a couple of minutes when the pink-haired woman returned with a large lady who wore a suit, bow tie and a wide smile.
‘Good morning. I hear we may have a new recruit. I’m Mrs Grange, very pleased to meet you.’
‘Mrs Simmons,’ I said, shaking her hand. ‘But call me Liv.’
‘Nice to meet you, Liv. You can call me Mel.’
‘My name’s Alberto, but you can call me Bertie.’
