Ribblestrop Forever! (16 page)

‘She’s learning, sir,’ panted Asilah. He was still astride her, holding the reins firmly in both hands. ‘She knows we mean business, now, so I think we can try again
tomorrow.’

‘Never give up, eh?’ said the headmaster.

‘Never, sir,’ said Asilah.

A lot of the children were staring at Mr Ian still, with undisguised hostility. He could feel their eyes boring into him. As far as he could tell, there was still no sign of Miles, and that
comforted him a little. He remembered his mission and tried to think of something to say.

‘Quite a project,’ he managed to whisper.

‘Oh, we don’t mess around here,’ said Asilah. ‘Maybe we didn’t make that as clear as we should have done.’

‘What are you here for, Mr Ian?’ said Millie.

Somehow, Mr Ian flailed his face into a smile. He was sticky with sweat and his head was aching. He had a feeling that his trousers had split when he sat down, but he was determined not to draw
attention to the fact. He tried to think himself into more comfortable surroundings, and thought of the cricket pitch at The Priory. He imagined himself talking to parents with tea from the marquee
. . . and the thought calmed him a little. He would get back to civilisation. The nightmare would end.

‘Lord,’ he said, hoarsely, ‘what a wonderful day we’re having. We didn’t expect this, did we, Scott? The fun they have at Ribblestrop, eh? Ha!’

Israel appeared with three clay cups of water on a tray made of bark. Mr Ian took one and drank deep. He tried out his laugh again and heard it emerge with a retching sound.

‘Can we take our blazers off yet, Mr Ian?’ said Jacqueline.

The headmaster clapped her on the shoulder. ‘Of course you can, my dear! I’ll find you a costume if you want. That’s Anjoli, there – under all that face paint.
He’ll show you round, let you try out the bridges. They’re too high for me, but I’m something of a coward. What about you, Scott? Do you want to unbutton your jacket?’

Scott’s eyes dilated with fear. ‘Oh no,’ he said.

‘Ha!’ said Mr Ian, quickly. ‘There’s nothing we’d like more than a good old . . . you know . . . tour. To get stuck in. Wouldn’t we, Scott? But the fact is,
we’ve got quite a drive if we’re to get back for prep. It’s nearly five as it is and I—’

‘We don’t use watches,’ said Millie. ‘We go by the sun.’

‘Do you have prep every day?’ said Ruskin. ‘Prep is homework, isn’t it?’

‘We have it all the time,’ whispered Scott. ‘If we don’t finish the work, we just have to stay in hall till we do. And it affects the food we get – you know, the
portions. If we get things wrong, the portions get smaller.’

‘Oh,’ said Mr Ian, laughing again. ‘That’s, er . . . what we call an “urban myth”, Scott. I don’t think that’s ever actually happened, has
it?’

‘It happened to my brother,’ said Jacqueline. ‘Last Monday. The prefects see to it.’

‘Oh, only in fun. We believe in pupil leadership, you see, so the prefects—’

‘They gave him one scoop of mash and a bean. He got fifty-six per cent in a vocab test and, as a scholarship boy, that’s not allowed—’

‘Vocab?’ said Imagio. ‘What’s vocab?’

Mr Ian laughed again and clapped his hands. ‘This is what I call a real getting-to-know-you session. It’s like two tribes meeting, isn’t it? Discussing customs, and . .
.’ He hunted for the word. ‘. . . rituals. If we had more time I’d like for nothing more—’

‘Why doesn’t he loosen his tie?’ said Caspar, who was the one boy still in the chariot. ‘He’s going to faint in a minute. Look how red he is.’

The hunted look came back into Scott’s eyes and his hand leapt to his throat. ‘I’m fine,’ he said.

‘You get crosses if you’re out of uniform,’ said Jacqueline. ‘Three crosses and you go to The Darkroom.’

Mr Ian was caught off-guard again. ‘Oh, Jacqueline,’ he said, gently. ‘You’re going to give the wrong impression if you carry on like this. The Darkroom, I should say, is
what we call . . . well, it’s a kind of small room—’

‘I remember it,’ said Miles.

Mr Ian swung round and saw two unblinking blue eyes gazing at him. The boy’s arms were folded and he held a long knife.

‘I remember it well.’

‘It’s really not that dark,’ said Mr Ian. ‘Just a tradition, really—’

‘I don’t want to go there,’ said Scott, suddenly. ‘I haven’t taken my blazer off, sir. I’m wearing it!’

‘You’re not going there!’

‘I don’t want to!’

‘Look,’ said the headmaster in a decisive voice. ‘I can see that this gentleman’s come to see us for a reason, and it’s very rude of me not to find out what that
is. So, here’s a plan. We’re going to have a private chat, and I want you children to give Jacqueline and Scott a tour of the camp. I’m putting you in charge, Sam –
you’re the most sensible. Back here in half an hour. Asilah, can you get the donkey into its paddock? And Mr Ian . . . let’s go in here, the children will be fine, I promise you. No
need to worry. We’re having a pig-roast later and you are welcome to join us if you’re able to change your plans.’ He took his guest by the arm and led him forward. ‘Ah,
Captain Routon, in the nick of time, that’s lucky . . . This is Mr Ian of The Priory School. I have a feeling he’s got something up his sleeve and I’m dying to hear what it
is.’

Captain Routon was bare-chested, wearing a canvas cloak and army trousers. ‘How do you do, sir?’ he said, extending his hand.

‘Well,’ said Mr Ian, weakly. ‘Thank you. I wonder if—’

‘Step this way,’ said the headmaster. ‘Your pupils will be fine. We aren’t cannibals.’

Mr Ian was staring after Jacqueline and Scott, who were surrounded by tribesmen. Even as he watched, they were moving away from him and their blazers were being peeled from their shoulders. He
felt a hand on his arm again and he was ushered by two adults into a tall, thatched construction, the floor of which was strewn with reeds.

‘So,’ said the headmaster. ‘How can we help?’

Mr Ian could feel the phone in his pocket buzzing and he knew at once that it was Cuthbertson. He felt a pang of helpless fury – the man would be asking for a report, already. He knew the
visit was today. He sat in the shadows, cursing his luck and wondering, for the hundredth time, if there was any way out.

There wasn’t.

‘Well,’ he said, at last. ‘You’re right, I have come with a . . . proposal.’ He drank more water and remembered his manners. ‘A request, actually. I’m
here to ask a favour and . . . well, if you gentlemen can help me out, I’d be in your debt forever. The whole school would be, actually.’

‘I’m intrigued,’ said the headmaster.

Mr Ian looked him squarely in the eye and asked the question that Cuthbertson had told him to ask. They had rehearsed it together. ‘How seriously do you take outward bound?’

‘Very seriously.’

‘Oh good. So do we. It’s pretty much at the heart of The Priory’s curriculum.’

‘I wish we could say the same,’ said Captain Routon.

The headmaster nodded. ‘We’ve often said that with the moors on our doorstep and all this land we should do a lot more outward bound than we actually do. Especially in the summer
term.’

Mr Ian felt encouraged. He was over the first hurdle. ‘Do you by any chance do the International Pioneers’ Award?’

‘No,’ said Captain Routon. ‘Never heard of it.’

‘It’s quite a high-level programme,’ lied Mr Ian. ‘It replaced the, er, Queen’s Orienteering Medal about three years ago. The Royal Marines designed it, so
it’s quite . . . arduous.’

‘I’m interested already,’ said the headmaster. ‘What’s it involve?’

‘Map reading. Survival. A bit of climbing. It’s a bit like the Tor Trail. Did you ever do that?’

‘I did,’ said Captain Routon. ‘Quite a few years ago. I was a marshall for that in Scotland with the paras. That’s when you have to climb at least three peaks and pick up
coded information. One of the lads took a bullet in the shoulder – that’s how competitive it got.’

‘Yes,’ said Mr Ian. ‘That’s . . . probably a bit more serious than the schools’ version, of course.’

‘Our kids don’t get enough competition.’

‘Don’t they?’

Routon shook his head. ‘Soft as butter, half of them.’

‘Oh.’

‘We go for a co-operative approach,’ said the headmaster. ‘As Routon says, it means some of our boys can be a bit a little retiring.’

Mr Ian nodded. ‘Well, the Pioneers’ Award is a pretty tough programme and it does mean spending a few days out on the moor. Living . . . without the supervision of adults, in wild
isolation.’

‘And I take it you do this at The Priory?’ said the headmaster.

‘We most certainly do.’

‘Is it popular?’

Mr Ian nodded again, more fiercely. He was going to go through with it. Cuthbertson’s plan was about to be unveiled. A boy had appeared in the shadows with a cup of something and he took
it gratefully. The Ribblestrop teachers were staring at him, keen to hear more. ‘It’s gone down an absolute storm,’ he said. ‘These outward-bound activities, they really
help separate the weak from the strong – and it looks so good on a child’s resumé. It helps us too, because we can find out who the cry-babies are and crack the whip a
bit.’ He paused. ‘In a protective and supportive way, of course.’

‘So what has this to do with us?’ said Captain Routon, clapping his hands. ‘What’s brought you all the way to Ribblestrop?’

Mr Ian smiled. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Now we’re at the crunch.’ He sighed and sipped his drink – it had a taste like ammonia and his gums instantly smarted.
‘I’d better lay my cards on the table and be completely honest. We need a partner school for our next outing. We hoped it would be you.’

‘Excellent!’ said the headmaster.

‘Yes. We had a bit of a set back last term with an outbreak of mumps, which put us behind schedule. We have to go out again, in the next couple of weeks—’

‘My word,’ said the headmaster. ‘As soon as that?’

‘Yes. We want to take advantage of the good weather.’

‘I can see that makes sense,’ said Routon.

‘We also have exams looming,’ said Mr Ian. ‘So we haven’t much time to sit around.’

The headmaster sat forward. ‘Exams, eh?’ he said. ‘That’s something else I’m trying to get started. What kind of exams do you do?’

‘What kind?’

‘We want difficult ones. Soon as possible.’

‘We do the scholarship tests, of course. Profile A and B. Most boys take the Common Standard and Extension papers and everyone has Creativity Checks. We do the Cambridge Numeracy Programme
in early June and our top set does the Oxford High-Flyers. Later in June it’s Mods and Consolidation Tests. And we finish with Career Profiling, so every child knows what it’s aiming
for.’

Mr Ian sipped his drink again. The phone buzzed in his jacket and he ignored it. Captain Routon was looking at the headmaster, who was nodding thoughtfully.

‘I’m keen,’ he said. ‘I love the sound of this award and I think our lot would jump at the chance to get out on the moor. I don’t want to tread on Doctor
Ellie’s toes, that’s the only drawback. This history project’s been inspired by her and she’s the one steering it.’

Mr Ian stared. ‘Doctor Ellie, the . . . Not the elderly lady who photographs stones?’

‘You’ve heard of her?’

‘Yes.’

‘She’s a marvel, isn’t she? She gave the most splendid lecture last night on natural poisons. There’s a very potent lichen that grows near here. You wet it in urine
apparently, add boiling water, and it becomes quite deadly.’

‘That’s . . . extraordinary.’

‘One mouthful’s enough.’

‘Can we combine the two projects, sir?’ said Captain Routon.

‘Ah,’ said the headmaster. ‘Lateral thinking. I find Routon often sees a way forward when lesser men see obstacles. What are you thinking?’

Captain Routon put his fingertips together. ‘If the Pioneers’ Award is Royal Marines,’ he said, ‘it’s going to be top-dollar. Tough but fair. No better training for
the would-be warrior. So why don’t we combine it with the flare paths and go off on a proper adventure? This is a gift horse, sir. We should not be looking in its mouth.’

The headmaster was nodding. ‘I think it’s a yes,’ he said. ‘We’ll run the idea past Doctor Ellie and, if she’s as happy as we are, we can get things moving at
once.’

The three men walked back out into the sunlight to find the camp almost deserted. A few boys were tending to the pig-roast and Doonan was peeling potatoes. Miles was tending
one of the fires. He got to his feet when he saw Mr Ian and smiled his friendliest smile.

‘Hello again, Mr Ian. Are you all right?’

‘Yes, I’m . . . The sun seems rather bright. I might need to sit down.’

‘How was your coffee? We’re experimenting with some herbal infusions.’

Mr Ian tried to smile, but his facial muscles were paralysed. His cup was half empty and the ground was spinning.

‘I wonder what’s happened to your two?’ said Captain Routon. ‘We said half an hour, so we can’t really expect them back just yet. Do you know where they went,
Miles?’

‘Tree House Two, I think, sir.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ said the headmaster. ‘It’s the prettiest. How’s your head for heights, Ian? You’re looking pale.’

‘I’m fine! Lead on, please . . .’

He managed to get his legs moving. Before he knew it, he was climbing, rung after rung, and he recalled a nightmare he’d had once in the middle of a terrible fever. He’d been trying
to climb out of hell as demons and devils poked at him and laughed. When he got onto the tree house platform he couldn’t bear to look around him, for the wind had risen and his stomach was
heaving more wildly than ever. He could still taste the strange brew but now there was a stink of coconut in his nostrils because – unbelievably – a boy was crouched over a small fire
cooking some kind of sweet sludge. Other children were eating it with their fingers. There were savages down on their haunches, playing a game, and when he was drawn forward he saw, with another
awful rise of nausea, that gambling was in progress. They were betting on the progress of slugs and caterpillars, and the cheering was cacophonous. Worst of all, he could see the blurred figures of
his own pupils, Jacqueline and Scott – the boy’s shirt was torn and the tail was filthy from where he’d been sitting on it. They were tie-less and dishevelled and had long
feathers behind their ears . . . He could stand it no more and only just managed to get to the tree house window before he vomited copiously into the leaves. He sank to his knees.