Ribblestrop Forever! (37 page)

‘Can you see any police?’ shouted Miles.

Sanchez was scouring the area with Timmy Fox’s binoculars. ‘No. We must have missed them. They’re gone.’

‘Can you see a train?’ cried Millie. ‘We could try and catch up, or go further up the line, or—’

‘There is a police car!’ said Sanchez. ‘By the doors. Wait . . .’

They floated nearer and Miles adjusted the valve so they dropped.

‘Oh no,’ said Sanchez. ‘I’ve got them.’

‘Let me see!’ said Millie.

She pressed her head next to her friend and they used an eye-piece each. They played the instrument along the track and came onto the platform. Sure enough, huddled in forlorn isolation, they
saw the three teachers they loved.

‘They’re in their pyjamas,’ whispered Millie.

‘Slippers, too,’ said Sanchez. ‘They’re not even dressed properly. I can see handcuffs – it’s horrible – they look so sad! Miles, I think the
train’s coming – we’re not going to make it . . .’

‘Sanchez,’ said Miles. ‘Give me the binoculars, please. I can see something else.’

‘What?’

‘Give me the binoculars!’

Miles was leaning over the basket, gazing down in a different direction. He put the binoculars to his eyes and swore quietly.

‘What?’ said Millie.

‘Look. You don’t need these any more. It’s incredible . . .’

‘Where?’

‘Everywhere. Look around you! Look!’

Miles started to laugh. He grabbed Millie’s hand and put his arm round Sanchez. ‘It’s a revolution! It’s a complete, total revolution! Look, Sanchez . . . they’re
everywhere! We’re saved! They’ll stop the trains, won’t they? That’s what they’re here for!’

There were just two roads to Tiverton Parkway station and both were thronged with school children. They overflowed the pavements, so they marched in the centre of the road, and
the traffic had come to a hooting standstill. A bus disgorged fifty more and there were minibuses arriving. Children as young as five were hand in hand with older brothers and sisters. Most were
holding cellphones and a simple text message was flicking back and forth, back and forth. It had been passing through classrooms for the last hour.

Tiv Park. Get there. Close it.

II

Blocking the line was easy.

Henry was a quarter of a mile south of the platform, and found a level crossing. He was with two High School boys, and they simply lay down on the tracks and refused to budge. The traffic
stopped and the signalman had to telephone ahead, to say there was an obstacle on the line.

Angry motorists argued with the children and one even tried to drag them off. They simply linked arms and clung to the rail. The hooting queues lengthened on either side. Jacqueline, Charlie and
Podma did the same thing at a crossing half a mile north. They clambered over the barrier and walked up the line as if they were off on a picnic. They ignored the cries and threats, and sat down on
the sleepers, smiling happily.

Tiverton Parkway was cut off and the south-west trains network had to be halted. Speeding expresses were held at other stations and the one bound for the Ribblestrop teachers came to a gentle
stop – close, but not close enough.

Meanwhile, the texts continued to fly.

It had all been started by the High School children, of course. They made full use of their social networks and the airwaves were full – the world wide web buzzed with the outrage and then
the solution. The word spread, mushroomed and magnified; the curiosity turned to determination, and anger turned to rage. Something wrong was happening – good teachers were under attack and
the wrong had to be righted. Soon the pupils from a dozen schools were simply walking out of classrooms and it was a ground-swell that could not be contained. Children hauled open their school
gates and caught buses. They persuaded friends to drive them. They came on mopeds and bicycles, and many simply jogged. The access to the station was soon choked with children in green, black,
blue, magenta, maroon – every colour of the rainbow. It was a fire of pure indignation.

Teachers ran among them, shouting and waving. They were ignored. A police car tried to push through and was blocked, helpless, by the throng of young bodies that refused to give way. When a
child in a red striped blazer jumped on the roof and started to dance, he was cheered. It was a peaceful protest and few understood its object – but there was change in the air.
Get
there
, flickered the message.
Get there now. Drop everything.

The children of The Priory School got direct calls from their friends on the moor. They rose and left their desks. Soon, the place was empty, for every child was running. A pair of off-duty bus
drivers were persuaded and both vehicles were crammed. They got as close as they could, but of course the traffic was gridlocked, so the children stepped out onto the railway embankment and walked.
In Bristol and Exeter, camera crews were scrambled. Daytime television was interrupted. The Education Minister received a desperate phonecall and was helicoptered straight to the scene. She looked
down, helpless.

From the balloon as well, it was an extraordinary sight and the three friends held each other, unable to speak.

Sanchez turned the burner off completely and they sailed low. Thousands of faces gazed up at them and hands were waving. The station car park was full and the railings had collapsed. In the
distance blue lights were flashing, but every emergency vehicle was covered in children and everyone was dancing.

Doonan, Professor Worthington and the headmaster were standing together, gazing in disbelief.

They were guarded by just three policemen – the escort hadn’t expected trouble, so now they had no idea what to do. Lady Vyner was there – she was in a wheelchair after her
man-trap experience, and had come specially to see her enemies’ final humiliation. Instead, she saw her own grandson walk confidently up the line towards her. Sam, Ruskin and Oli were beside
him, and a group of boys and girls she’d never seen before arrived on bicycles, pedalling between the rails. The station staff could do nothing. The crowds were simply laughing at them. The
police moved in to safeguard their prisoners, but there were now five hundred children swarming over the platform, and they found themselves lifted off the ground by gentle hands. When they
struggled and resisted, the hands got firmer – they were shoved into an office and the door slammed shut.

When they checked their belts, their keys were gone.

The three teachers were uncuffed and they raised their arms. The children around them started to cheer. They were embraced, then lifted high. They found themselves standing on a bench, and the
sea of children stretched almost as far as the eye could see, and the cheering wouldn’t stop.

It was easy to drop a rope to them.

Miles went down to help the headmaster and he was soon clambering up to the basket. Professor Worthington followed and Doonan came last. As he dangled, he saw an ice-cream van limp up the
railway track, its tyres cut to pieces and its engine howling. Captain Routon got out onto the van bonnet and waved both hands, but he didn’t try to reach the basket even though it came close
to his nose. Sanchez raised his thumb and the burner blazed once more. The balloon rose and rose, until it was dot in the sky.

‘You know we’re real fugitives now,’ said the headmaster, as he looked down.

‘We always have been,’ said Doonan.

‘What have you done wrong?’ said Miles. ‘Explain it to me.’

‘I don’t know. I just started a school.’

Millie said, ‘How long shall we stay up here? Will they try and shoot us?’

Professor Worthington was laughing. ‘You fought them,’ she cried. ‘You fought them and you won. We’re free!’

‘I can see Ribblestrop,’ said Sanchez. ‘Just look at it . . .’

The evening sun had saved itself, and was ready. It caught the old building in a spotlight of gold and the building glowed like a lantern. They floated close and the four towers caught fire.
They saw the Neptune statue, white as pearl in a lake that was turning silver. All at once the sky turned lilac and the moon burst up from the horizon. It rose and rose and the flare paths blazed
again. There was laughter, everywhere – for Millie was holding Sanchez, and he was holding Miles. They floated over the courtyard and hung there in silence.

It was dark when their friends came up the drive.

The Priory children were with them and the High School cyclists too – determined to camp on the lawns all night and tell tales forever.

They lit a fire, of course – and soon they were singing:

III

And Doctor Ellie’s library van?

It was spotted as it approached Bristol airport.

One of its tail-lights wasn’t working and a police officer pulled it over for a routine check. The computer revealed that it was a stolen vehicle and, when the young man opened the back
doors, he found Mr Ian, sobbing quietly under a mountain of books. He called for back-up at once.

Gary Cuthbertson made a run for it, but security was so tight in the area that he was captured within minutes. He was arrested with Timmy Fox and taken into custody. Mr Ian would have joined
them, but for his injuries. He was hospitalised and woke the next day surrounded by policemen.

Lady Vyner arrived home to find the locks and grilles had been torn from the windows. The whole building was full of children and she gave up all resistance. When she went up
to her flat, she discovered that the recent rain had soaked through the ceilings and floors, and she had nowhere to live. The elderly ladies she’d admitted were nowhere to be seen, but she
found them eventually, chatting with the orphans in their dormitory. They had agreed to share the job of matron and were already getting the laundry organised.

She sat down, trembling, and they brought her tea.

As for the prosecution of the teachers, it was halted at once.

The great truckload of police paperwork was mysteriously lost – after all, the Ribblestrop teachers were heroes now. When the chief constable visited the next morning, he spoke of
‘misunderstandings’ and ‘breakdowns in communication’. His handshake was firm and reassuring.

The headmaster’s telephone now rang constantly. Every educational expert wanted a consultation and the government asked him to chair a special committee on the future of schooling. He
refused, of course, because he had a school of his own to run.

Doctor Ellie took a full-time job at Ribblestrop, and Vicky was taken on as art teacher. The real problem was how the school could accommodate the hundreds of children who now wanted to enroll.
Queues formed every day, all down the drive. The Priory and the High School were to be partners, of course; three beacons of excellence, whose light would shine forever.

Life Is Dangerous!
ran the motto. All three institutions adopted it. The words were stamped on all letterheads, and they fluttered on flags. They were there on every blazer badge, in gold
and black, under the lion and the lamb. Most importantly, however, they came to form the mantra that would beat in the pupils’ hearts:
Life Is Dangerous
.

For every child knows, deep down, that a life lived in safety – protected and controlled and deprived of all excitement – is a life not worth living.

I am grateful to my agent Jane Turnbull, who gave constant support, as usual, advising, approving, rejecting and enjoying. Michael Gee helped me with the history, but the
mistakes are mine, not his. Advice and information also came from Martin Gosling, Mike Smith, Michael Hemsley, Canon Bill Anderson, Charu Misra, Mansi Prakash, Toyah Singh and Nancy Zuang. The
series received an enormous boost from
The Guardian
: thanks to Philip Ardagh, Julia Eccleshare, Michelle Paver, Marcus Sedgwick and Julia Golding. Thanks also to my editor, Venetia Gosling,
who worked on book one with me and stayed with the whole trilogy, so the children are hers as much as mine – and thank you to Ingrid, for her faith. I’m grateful to Serge Seidlitz for
his unique visual inventiveness, and Melissa Hyder for such careful, creative copy-editing.

But it was Joe T who started it, and to him I will forever be in debt.

Andy Mulligan was brought up in South London and educated at Oxford University. He worked as a theatre director for ten years, before travels in Asia prompted him to re-train as
a teacher. He has taught English and drama in India, Brazil, the Philippines and the UK. He now divides his time between London and Manila.