Ribblestrop (14 page)

“No. Not a lot really,” she said.

“Secret rooms?” He chuckled. “Ghosts and ghoulies?”

“No.”

“Anything strange, lovey? Anything a policeman should know about? Like I said, there's a lot of gossip about those tunnels and who's down there.”

“I just got very tired. What might I have seen?”

“That's what I'm asking, lovey. You'd be wise to tell me.”

“Haven't you been down there?”

Inspector Cuthbertson stared at her in silence for a moment and his lips gradually closed. “You'd better listen to me, chicken,” he said. He pushed at another strand of her hair, both hands close to her head. “What's out of bounds is out of bounds for good reason. We're going to get new locks fitted and you need to tell your little friends to stay aboveground.”

Millie said nothing. She drew back her lips, itching to bite the fat fingers or the chubby wrist. She remembered a friend of hers at
a previous school. One of the math teachers had attempted to straighten her tie. She'd bit hard, clamping her jaws shut tight. Oh, the screaming and the jet of bright red blood. He'd lost the movement of three fingers; the teeth had cut clean through the sinews. After all, the jaw muscle is one of the strongest in the body. And all for the sake of a straightened tie.

The telephone was ringing on the headmaster's desk. “I hope we meet again,” she said. “I'll pass everything you've said on to my friends, so thanks for the advice.”

“Ribblestrop Towers, good afternoon.”

Millie and the inspector continued to look at one another.

“How did you hurt your fingers?” he said.

Millie still had her hands behind her back. He must have noticed the bandages as she fell through the door.

Over at the desk, the headmaster's face was turning pink. “Clarissa!” he cried. “You're here already—that's wonderful!”

“I fell down,” said Millie.

The inspector lowered his voice. “I like to know who's on my patch, Millie Roads. I gather you like lighting fires, like another little boy we had here.”

“Oh, that's excellent news!” said the headmaster.

“If you light fires round me, it's you who'll get burned,” whispered the policeman.

The headmaster was chuckling. “Yes, of course! I'll pull the children together, they'd be delighted. Just a moment—Millie?”

“Sir?”

“If you've finished, Inspector, we've just had some wonderful news. Our new head of science—just arrived! She's parking up on the terrace and it's all hands to the pumps. Millie, could you round up the others, we need to unload some equipment. Clarissa,” said the headmaster into the telephone, “the police are just leaving: we're on our way. Stay exactly where you are.”

Professor Worthington, MA(Hons.), BSc., FWIW, CCS (Ottawa) made a dramatic first impression. The sound of the screaming engine had drawn the boys already: they were there before the headmaster. As he emerged from the main gate, gown fluttering, he was in time to see a large hire-truck make another violent effort to get its backside up the stone steps to the terrace by the fountain. It had made the first five and now appeared to be stuck, motor howling. He sprinted to the scene, as the driver's door flapped open. An elderly lady was at the wheel, craning her head round the shoulder of her vehicle. The engine roared yet louder and the back wheels shot gravel in all directions: there was a crunch as another step was mounted, wedging the chassis on old stone.

“Stop!” cried the headmaster. “Stop, Clarissa!”

“Giles! Is that you?”

The driver swung herself down from the cab and tottered on the balustrade. She let herself be helped to safety by the headmaster and they clasped each other's hands. Sam, Ruskin, Millie, and Sanchez were now gathered, watching the spectacle—the couple kissed lightly on both cheeks, and then the driver let the headmaster help her to firmer ground. She had the look of an elderly movie star: her grasshopper skinniness was wrapped in furs and feathers, as if she'd dressed for the premiere of her own film. She smiled broadly.

“And these are the children!” she gushed. “Here they are, all four of them! Oh my word, this is your dream, Giles!”

“Just part of it, Clarissa—this is a mere fraction!”

“There're more? That's wonderful . . . you always said you wanted your own school, and here you are!”

Dr. Norcross-Webb was rocking with pleasure, his hands still clasping those of the professor. He was blinking back tears. “This is an emotional moment for me,” he said. “And something of a landmark. Boys, listen. Only a few of you will remember just how painful science lessons were last year. Remember, Ruskin?”

“Yes, sir, they were very difficult.”

“And why were they difficult? You will be too polite to say, so I will answer my own question. Because
I
was teaching them and science is not my strong point.”

“And, sir,” said Sanchez, “as you said, sir, we had no facilities.”

“Apart from the sauce pan,” said Ruskin.

“Which is precisely why I have invited a very old friend to join us. ‘Begged' would be a better word. I wrote letters, I made calls—for this is Professor Worthington: zoologist, astrologist, and metaphysicist. How have we persuaded her to bring us her skills?”

“A question he's
not
going to answer . . .” muttered Millie to herself.

“Because here at Ribblestrop, we're at the cutting edge! Considerable investment has been made. Am I right, Professor Worthington?”

“Very considerable, Headmaster, but worth every penny!” She had a fluting voice. The notes lifted and streamed upward. “I've brought everything we need, I've just rolled off the ferry from Norway. So, the first job—which is the most exciting always, like Christmas and birthdays all rolled into one—is getting all the boxes into the lab and unwrapping them. When do we start?”

“Right away. No lessons, children. Today's a day of preparation! Now, the orphans are upstairs—”

“There
is
a lab, isn't there, Giles? You said there'd be a lab?”

“You have your own
tower
, Clarissa—north tower, I sent you a sketch! Routon and I were working all through August and the orphans are up there now.”

“Just a few jars and bottles, then, boys. It won't take strong men like you more than a moment.”

Jars
, thought Millie. She remembered the underground room and the rows of little faces. She felt her stomach turn over and she went cold. Somebody had saved her life. There was a whole stretch of time blanked out, but that room was etched in her mind . . . Were they going down there, now?

“Come on, Millie!” said Sam. “Aren't you coming?”

“Something's not right,” she said. “I'm telling you, Sam. Listen.”

But Sam was scampering off with the others, and she was left to plod wearily after them.

*

It actually took all day to unload the truck, and they didn't go down any stairs. Professor Worthington's laboratory appeared to be at the top of the north tower, which meant climbing one hundred and thirty steps countless times. The truck was piled high, and box after box emerged, followed by bag after bag. The names on the sides were unpronounceable, but two words became very familiar.
Fragile
screamed in red.
Danger
shouted in black. Here and there the skull and crossbones was painted, as if the goods had been supplied by pirates. Often the language was that of a distant country, the letters making no sense at all.

Conversation was not easy, but Millie persisted. Sanchez was the one she picked, and she tried to make him listen. “You think I was dreaming, don't you?” she said.

“You weren't well,” said Sanchez. “You admitted that.”

“I saw what I saw. I was not having hallucinations. We are moving stuff, and I think it's the stuff I saw—jars, bottles. Bottles with animals inside!”

“Oh, come on. You were frightened, Millie, you were exhausted . . .”

“That doesn't mean you see things that aren't there!”

“Don't shout at me!”

“Then stop calling me a liar!”

Sanchez stepped back in frustration. The girl opposite him was like no girl he had ever met, and yet again she seemed ready to do him violence.

Ruskin stepped in: “Millie, nobody is calling you a liar.”

They paused on one of the landings, sweating and panting.

“How much else did I make up?” whispered Millie, furiously. “What is all this? Am I just trying to get attention?”

“I did not call anybody a liar,” said Sanchez, bitterly. “Come on, keep moving.”

“Look, Sanchez, I saw something dangerous. You said yourself strange things were going on last term. Children ran away. One boy disappeared completely.”

“That was Tomaz and he went home. All I'm asking, Millie, is what we can do. Can you find this place again?”

“Possibly not, but I can try.”

“You have the map? The one you found.”

“I didn't just find it—it was given to me, with my food.”

“Where is it now?”

“I dropped it. It's somewhere under that staircase. Look, what you're saying, Sanchez, is forget all about it. That is your solution. But I'm telling you, that lab is really very weird . . . laboratory. I nearly died down there, I still don't know why I didn't! That policeman was down there too—and he was asking me about what I saw.”

“Did you tell him?” said Sam. “If it's against the law—”

“Of course I didn't tell him! I don't talk to policemen or headmasters—I don't trust any of them. Look at this place!”

“Millie,” said Ruskin. “Your box is coming undone, you're spilling stuff.”

“Shut up. Look at this place. There is no way this is a proper school—it's the most dangerous place I've ever been. He lets you go wandering onto railway lines. He lets Sam get his skull broken.
And then, just when we all need a rest, we're made to unload a truck.”

Sanchez took Millie's box and set it on the steps. The children looked at each other and Millie wondered if she should try again or simply hit someone. The frustration of not being believed was hurting even more, and her skin was fizzing as if she'd been sunburned. She'd had two hot baths. She'd eaten well and slept on a camp bed the captain had rigged up for her, having smothered her fury that there were clearly no facilities for girls. Still, the urge to set off down the drive and make that phone call—the urge to leave all this nonsense behind her—rose up again. “It's slave labor,” she muttered. “Slaves to a bunch of crooks and weirdos.”

“Millie,” said Sanchez, gently. He sat down on the steps and the others did the same. “We are simply helping move equipment. You can't expect the new teacher to do it by herself.”

“What about the lift?” said Millie. “Why aren't we using the lift?”

“Because there isn't one.”

“I saw one! They don't want us to know about it, but—”

“But you don't know where you were!”

“I was under the school, I know I was. Damn this, what's her name, this woman? Professor Something?”

“Professor Worthington,” said Sam. “I thought she looked rather strict.”

“I thought she looked nice,” said Ruskin.

“You're not listening to me! What about the invisible person who saved my life? God give me strength, why won't you—!”

“God should give you manners,” said Sanchez, and Millie stepped forward with fists clenched.

“I'll show you manners,” she hissed. “Do you want round two, Sanchez? Any time you want, I'm ready!”

“Ah!” said a voice. “Having a rest?”

The four children looked around, guiltily. A woman was beaming at them from the landing above. She'd changed into a filthy white coat and her hair was wild. She peered through large safety
goggles. She had coils of thick cable over her arms and shoulders. One was looped round her neck.

“Not much more,” she cried. “We're on the last leg! Put the boxes outside, we'll ferry them in—it's pandemonium in here! Keep going!”

*

After dark the headmaster emerged on the terrace with a trolley of soup and rolls. They sat on the steps under the first glimmering of stars, chewing happily.

“Where are the orphans?” said Sam.

“Inside the lab,” said Sanchez. “Didn't you see?”

“I didn't go in.”

“At the top of the tower. The orphans are doing the plumbing.”

Millie said, “How can they do plumbing?”

“Talk to Asilah,” said Sanchez. “He's telling me, that was their job, some of them. They work in a factory as slaves, and the headmaster paid for them to leave.”

“Oh, right,” said Millie. “I am getting the whole picture. Slaves in Bogga-Bogga Land, slaves now at Ribblestrop Towers.”

“Yes, you ask if they are unhappy,” said Sanchez. “Unlike you, they are prepared to work.”

“It's called exploitation, Sanchez. This whole place is wrong.”

“Where's Bogga-Bogga Land?” said Sam.

“Sam,” said Sanchez. “It's a place she makes up because she knows nothing about them and is also racist.”

“You think I'm a racist?”

“Have you spoken to them? Do you know anything about them? They
want
to be here!”

“They don't know any better, do they?”

“Millie,” said Sanchez. “We are all so tired.”

“Listen. What if a group of people have been doing animal experiments? It's possible, isn't it? And now, a crackpot scientist arrives with a whole load of orphans at her disposal. How can you tell me all this is in my imagination? Last term they lost a boy! Is that suspicious, or is that suspicious?”