Ribblestrop (6 page)

“Coeducation,” said Lady Vyner. She had balanced a thick pair of spectacles on her nose and had found a paragraph on the third page. “Wait a moment, Caspar, this is interesting. I was always under the impression that this was a
boys
' school—that's what's in the lease, of course. Which expires, very soon, you know.”

“Only the one girl at the moment, sadly, but a very interesting character.”

“Psychopath or arsonist?”

“I won't deny she's had a few difficulties. But, I like to think my school offers every child a new start. We take the children other schools reject—”

“How attractive you make it sound.”

“We take the children some schools give up on.”

“You take the rubbish the good schools discard. And it sounds like you're now mixing it up with the detritus of the Third World. These are the folk you want my grandson to meet as your miserable seed . . . uncoils. You burn down half my home; you lose a boy—whose body might be buried out in the grounds for all we
know—and you bribe the police to stay out of jail— What the devil's that noise?”

“Lady Vyner, those are serious allegations—”

“Crippen! What is that noise?”

The air all around the tower was filled by a hard, metallic throbbing. It seemed to hammer on the roof and, sure enough, a brick-sized lump of plaster crashed from above, smashing an ugly chord from the piano it struck. The headmaster ran to the window and heaved it open. “It's a helicopter!” he cried. “It must be . . . Yes! It's the Sanchez helicopter!”

“Crippen!” shouted Lady Vyner again, and her elderly servant who was snoozing outside was jerked awake. “That thing is not landing in my garden! I never gave permission for helicopters!”

“He's coming down! Look at that, he's circling—he's got . . . Bless my soul! One, two, three . . . they're here!”

The headmaster leaned out and waved frantically. Four boys he could count—they'd spotted him and were waving back, cheerfully. The craft was descending expertly, its tail upraised like a scorpion. You could see the grass shivering in the downdraught as Mr. Sanchez selected his spot.

“Perfect landing! What a pilot!”

The noise was deafening.

“Look here, Headmaster. Listen to me!” Lady Vyner pulled at the man's gown, but Dr. Norcross-Webb couldn't hear her. Four children scuttled from helicopter to steps, and he heaved himself back into the room, tears in his eyes.

“You must excuse me,” he said. “I must attend to my students.”

“Listen to me, Doctor!” She stood in the doorway, her fists clenched into tight little balls.

Caspar had the pistol ready, and the servant was in the doorway, covering his ears.

“Listen!” shrieked the old lady. “Your school is a failure because
you
are a failure. Give it up, while there's dignity!”

“Please, Lady Vyner, I have to go . . .”

“The school was a mistake from first to last . . . Listen to me!
Your children are noisy, without respect! Don't you push Caspar, don't you dare! Come back here!”

But Dr. Norcross-Webb was leaping, dizzying himself down the south tower's spiral staircase, until he emerged, staggering, into the late sunshine. Four children stood on the terrace, their hair flowing in the gale from the helicopter as it rose again. They looked around them, taking in the grandeur of the parkland, the house, the dream that was Ribblestrop. And as they stared—what was that coming into view? A car—an expensive car, whistling down the drive. The doctor blinked hard and stared again: there were
two
cars, shiny and purposeful.

“Boys!” he said. “Andreas Sanchez! Jacob Ruskin! Welcome back, how good to see you!”

Sanchez came forward, disguising his limp as best he could, for a firm handshake.

“I know you,” said the headmaster, looking at Millie. “I know you from a newspaper cutting . . .”

“Millie Roads,” said Millie.

“Millie Roads—delighted. And there was me saying ‘boys' when now at last I can say ‘boys and girls,' ‘girls and boys,' as I have dreamed of doing!”

Millie stared hard. Dr. Norcross-Webb failed to notice. He moved to the frailest member of the party.

“And you must be Sam—am I right?” The headmaster crouched in front of Sam, leveling their eyeline. “I know I am, your parents were kind enough to send a photograph along with your swimming certificate. Sam Arthur Tack . . .” The child's hand appeared from his blazer sleeve and clasped the headmaster's. “We're building a dream here, Sam. Are you a dreamer or a builder? You need to be both: a school you'll never want to leave. A home! A nation state! Now how did you manage to come down together? What planning, what foresight! Cool drinks inside, and then we'll be meeting for supper. Will you allow me just to . . . to welcome the other new arrivals? This is such perfect timing!”

The first of the two cars had swung up to the steps. Every door
opened and bodies seemed to fall out onto the gravel. But no, the bodies were up onto their feet in no time and a buzz and a birdsong filled the air around them. Everyone stood counting—eleven, twelve, thirteen—one child had skipped round the back, maybe it was twelve in total. Their black-and-gold uniforms were immaculate and they were putting on caps and lining up for inspection: they'd even formed up in order of height, the oldest being a skinny eleven or twelve, the youngest being no more than six. Under the caps dark, anxious eyes faced front and each had a satchel over their left shoulder.

“My orphans . . .” whispered the doctor. “As promised . . . as prayed for and promised.”

The second car was now unloading: a giant of a boy, elbowing his way out of a Mercedes that suddenly seemed toylike as it rocked under his weight. Hairy legs, hairy wrists, a satchel like a tiny purse in his fist, and a cap so dainty it might have been a skullcap.

“Henry, my dear boy.” The headmaster gripped the hand of the giant. “Oh, you're exactly punctual . . . Welcome, all of you. Cold drinks in the, er . . . conservatory. I'll help you with your things. Oh, the joys ahead—the joy of an autumn term here at—”

There was a sudden moan.

“Henry?”

It was a mixture of alarm and pain. The helicopter had gone. There was silence, broken only by birdsong. But Henry had seen something: he was looking upward, his face creased in horror.

“Henry, please—what's wrong?” The headmaster stepped toward him, then stopped. He turned and followed the boy's gaze.

Henry had seen what nobody else had noticed: the spectral form of Lady Vyner leaning out of the highest tower window, tea tray in hand. She dropped one side and let the tea service slide gently into space: cups, saucers, and spoons seemed to hang in the air. Then it all accelerated cartoon-style: doilies were shed, sugar lumps scattered.
Smack!
The tea service cracked into the center of
the terrace, exploding china with a sickening crash. The shrapnel flew and everyone leaped backward, hands to their heads, eyes scanning upward for the next assault. Little Caspar was throwing scones, one after the other. Sanchez took one on the shoulder. Crumbs burst on a car roof.

It was the headmaster who thought first: “Into the house, quickly!” he cried. A milk jug exploded at his feet. A biscuit glanced off his arm.

“Pay me my money!” wailed a voice.

Children scattered; an orphan screamed. Sanchez had catlike reflexes: he grabbed Millie and pinned her behind him with one arm, then he dragged her through the doors of the school building. The other children made a wide run, avoiding the center of the terrace. Only Ruskin and Sam seemed stuck, and it was Ruskin who made up his mind. Thinking only of his friend, he grabbed Sam by the shoulders and propelled him forward. “Move!” he was yelling. “Move, Sam!”

Ruskin was a loyal, courageous boy and in that split second knew he had to put his friend's life first. He could erase the horrors of spilt tea and lost shorts: he would save Sam whatever the cost.

Sadly, the teapot was on its way: a good old-fashioned heavyweight, from the potteries of Staffordshire. Ruskin drove Sam forward straight into its path and the teapot landed squarely on the top of the boy's uncapped head.

He went limp in Ruskin's hands.

Ruskin lowered him to the ground, horror-struck. Blood oozed and formed a puddle. The puddle became a pool. Sam was smiling but his eyes were closed.

“He'll be fine with me! Give us a hand there, lay him out—off the trolley, that's right. Light as a feather, isn't he? Put him on the cooker, I'll clear some space. Out cold. Let's hope it's a flesh wound. Flying teapots and whatnot, oh my word! Now then, let the dog see the rabbit . . . Fetch me some nail scissors, would you, girlie?”

Millie delved in a basket nearby. “Nothing's broken,” she said. “I felt all over his head. And his windpipe isn't crushed, I did his airway.”

“Did you, miss? That's good.”

“We had to do all that sort of stuff at my old school. People got beaten up every day.”

Ruskin had gone, too traumatized to be any use. Millie and Sanchez had rushed Sam by tea trolley to the temporary hospital.

It was actually a temporary kitchen. Once inside the walls of the school—which was an exact four-turreted square—Millie had been surprised at the extent of the fire damage. Beyond a single corridor, you came into the courtyard and . . . there was nothing really there except ruin. It had once been a dining hall, a library, and a chapel: it was now open to the stars but for a series of roped tarpaulins. There was the stink of damp fire damage still and, though the timbers had been stacked and the fallen stone organized into various piles, the space was still a chaotic mess of ropes,
crates, pallets, and trenches. There were ladders and bits of scaffolding, a couple of cement mixers—and here, behind a wall of metal racking, a temporary kitchen.

There was a cooker connected by a hose pipe to a large bottle of gas. Old wooden lockers held the rather battered pots and pans, and a bench on two trestles was littered with onion skins. A couple of desk lamps had been strung up overhead, the cables running over the mud to a long extension lead looping from a high window. Millie and Sanchez laid Sam on the bench, sweeping the rubbish to the floor. The chef, or the nurse, was a slim, powerful man of six foot four and he'd been kneading pastry when they hauled the trolley in. His cook's hat made him seem massive, as did his enormous Wellington boots. He wore an apron so splattered with mud and food, you couldn't see much cloth. It was drawn in around his middle by a carpenter's tool belt, in which sat a couple of meat knives, an adjustable spanner, and a pair of pliers. He'd rolled his sleeves up and his forearms were covered in tattoos.

This was Captain Routon and he was good in a crisis. “You've stopped the flow, miss, that's for sure—we've got a nice little clot forming there. Let's see if we can stitch him . . . give me the scissors. Boil up some water between you and let's get this blazer off. I need to prop him up.”

“Are you a doctor?” asked Millie.

“In a manner of speaking. I've had to deal with a lot worse than this, that's for sure. I've had to hold men's brains in before now: this won't be hard.”

“Will he be okay?” said Sanchez. He had covered Sam with his own blazer and his hand still held the unconscious boy's fingers.

“The skull can take a battering and it's a clean wound, far as I can see . . .”

Sam's hair started to fly from his head as the big man worked away with nail scissors. “That woman—my word, she's a menace. I've been here a month and I warned him, this is no place for kiddies with that sort of maniac—”

“I'll do that if you want,” said Millie. “I did promise him a haircut.”

“If you would I'd be grateful, and I can just throw the pastry . . . you'll find my razor in the bathroom round the corner. What's your name, son?”

“Andreas Sanchez, sir.”

“Ah, you're the Sanchez boy, are you? Right, find a blanket and ask Dr. N. how many for supper. We've got a meat pie but I don't know how far I can stretch it. Oh, and tell him that the ramble's on for tomorrow . . . That's it, my dear, shave it round. We need a good inch, quick as you can—that'll be sore, that will. Friend of mine did that for me in a much more private place, I can tell you—bullet from a Legionnaire, North Africa. I felt every cut.”

Sam remained unconscious. It was just as well, as there was no anesthetic and a dry shave is a painful experience. Millie snipped, then rasped away at the scalp: the wound was actually quite small and the skull was undoubtedly intact. A number of people had felt for fractures, including the headmaster himself. He had explained to the assembled students (gathered safely in the hallway) that the sphere, i.e., the skull, was indeed the strongest structure known to man, which was why the brain was kept there. “Stronger than the rib cage,” he said, “but of course that has to contract, which the adult skull never has to do. Interestingly, the most vulnerable part of the human anatomy is also the most precious. Gather round, have a look—can you see the blood congealing?” He sat Sam upright and pointed with a pencil. The orphans seemed particularly interested and were soon poking Sam with enthusiasm, twittering and laughing. It was Sanchez who took charge at this point, foreseeing a long lecture. He and Millie left Henry and the orphans listening politely to the headmaster, who had moved on to an explanation of how the human brain is actually afloat. They had carried and wheeled Sam down some steps, into the kitchen by themselves.

“Now we can clean the wound,” said Captain Routon.
“Alcohol's right here, best thing you can use . . . paper towel by the side there, not ideal, so soak it well.”

Millie was quite surprised how easy it all was. Sam might as well have been a soccer ball or a cushion. She held him by the ears and the big man rubbed neat rum into the skin and then swished briskly in and out with the needle. It went in so smoothly, knotting the flesh, and soon he pulled the edges together like a pair of smiling lips. The blood was cleaned away and there was a nice little zip spreading five centimeters over the child's cranium—and he had a new haircut too, which Millie vowed to finish as soon as Sam was awake.