Ribblestrop (17 page)

Pythagoras's Theorem was invoked and suddenly the antique words
hypotenuse, perimeter, circumference
transformed themselves to boundaries, center spots, and penalty areas. Anjoli became a human chalk mark on the end of a radius, sprinting and laughing, tied at the waist. Thus was the pitch painted. Just before lunch a flatbed truck delivered a dozen strips of planed-up three-by-two, and hammer blows ricocheted over the school, the orphans balancing on one another's shoulders. The goalposts went up square and true, dug into firm earth. Hooks were screwed in strategically and some old tennis nets were tailored into shape. By the early afternoon, Henry had successfully removed two trees from one of the penalty areas, and—hot and sweaty, but feverishly proud—the children surveyed their work. The pitch tilted, no
doubt about it: but that would advantage nobody. One of the touchlines bulged outward where Ruskin had fled a wasp: such things would be corrected.

“Police,” said Sanjay.

“What?”

The child had the eyes of a buzzard. He was stripped to the waist as usual, his tie bound round his temples again to keep the sweat from his eyes. Sure enough, an engine got closer and after several minutes, a large white car came into view. The children waited, slightly nervous. They weren't aware of laws preventing the creation of soccer pitches in the grounds of old stately homes, but a police car is never a comforting sight, unless you've been mugged. The driver's window slid down and a grinning, gray face peered at the children.

“Ribblestrop Towers' first eleven!” said Inspector Cuthbertson. “Am I right? I'll be rooting for you, boys—wish I could be there at the match. Now, look: I was in town yesterday, and I thought of your penniless headmaster. A little gift—tell him it's from me.” There was a soccer ball on the passenger seat. He picked it up and made as if to throw it. “Anyone been down in the dungeons again?” he whispered. The whisper turned to a giggle, and his gaze moved from orphan to orphan, from Sanchez to Sam. He found Millie and his smile seemed to get stuck. “What about you, my dear? Ooo, my word . . . what happened to your face?”

Millie said nothing.

She looked past the policeman's eye, taking in as much detail as she could. There were fish-and-chip wrappers stuffed into the door pockets. There was a clutter of loose change, sweets, and paper cups. The policeman had twinkling eyes and at the back, again, she saw a hint of madness—she'd seen it in a dog once, just before it went for her. Millie had never liked policemen, largely because they'd never liked her. He had bad skin too and there was a dressing taped over the knuckles of one hand.

“I'm not going down there again,” she said. “You made it sound so scary.”

“Very wise,” said the inspector. “I'm talking to a sensible girl, aren't I?”

“Did you find your rabbit?”

“What?” The smile disappeared. “What did you say?”

“I said thank you for buying us a soccer ball, it's a very nice gesture.”

Inspector Cuthbertson blinked. One of the orphans was reaching to grab the ball and there was a twittering of excitement. “That's not what you said,” he cried, but Millie was letting herself be jostled out of the way; the policeman was shouting, but he couldn't make himself heard. All at once the ball was flung high in the air and then booted hard. Everyone was running and the whole crowd flew to the other end of the pitch. When Millie looked back at the car, she saw the inspector sitting at the wheel, motionless.

“He seems nice,” said Sam.

“Did you look at his face?” said Millie, to Sanchez. “He's got the same sores as me. Just by his lips. Would you trust him, Sanchez?”

“Where I come from you don't talk to policemen, ever.”

“He's up to something. They're working together, all of them.”

There was a shifting of gears and the police car drove off, windows closing.

“Up to what, Millie?”

“Something that stinks. The headmaster said he had a map of the cellars—we've got to go back down. I haven't forgotten your promise, you know. You're hoping I have, but I haven't.”

*

“Kick!” shouted Captain Routon. It was evening. He was bowling the ball toward the line of orphans, who were decked out in school shoes, gray school shorts, and vests. Millie, Sam, Henry, Ruskin, and Sanchez were all watching: they did not need the basic practice the orphans did.

“They're coming on,” said Ruskin. He said this just as one of the smaller boys—his name appeared to be Eric, but that seemed
unlikely—kicked hard and high. Having missed the ball completely, he ended up on his backside, his face split in half by a delighted smile.

“There's no shortage of guts.”

“Stickability,” said Sam. “My father told me that you should always stick at things. They're definitely sticking at it. Are they really all brothers? Whenever I forget a name, someone says, ‘This is my brother, Ajay,' or whatever.”

“I think,” said Sanchez, “they use brother to mean
close friend
. They call Asilah ‘uncle.' ”

“They lived in the same village,” said Sam. “I think they must be sort of related, they behave like they are.”

“They'd be good in a crisis,” said Ruskin. “Have you seen how they work together—when they're getting food, for example?”

“No.”

“Everything's divided fairly—the big ones check the little ones eat first. Where do they sleep, d'you think?”

“They have the east tower,” said Sanchez. “Henry visits them sometimes—they had to rebuild part of it. Look, they can't see the ball anymore.”

“I wonder if Captain Routon ought to postpone his tactics lecture,” said Ruskin. “Save it for when we're all fresh. By the way, I thought you were excellent, Sam. First class.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“I'd make you captain. You said you played for your last school?”

“I did, actually. It was only a small school, but we—”

“I'm captain,” said Millie. “I've already said.”

“Why?” said Sanchez.

“Because I'm experienced. I understand the word
strategy
, which no one else here could even spell.”

“Captain Routon's in charge,” said Sanchez. “He'll select.”

“As long as he selects me, that will be fine. The high school won't know what's hit it.”

“You know,” said Ruskin, “I try not to take these games too
seriously. As far as I'm concerned it's going to be nice to meet some boys from a local school. Dr. Norcross-Webb thinks it could be the start of all sorts of interesting projects—stamp swapping, Scrabble tournaments. I've never been one for interschool rivalry. Life's far too short.”

“Is it a mixed school?” said Sanchez.

“Oh yes.”

“Good,” he said, looking at Millie. “Maybe we'll meet a few proper girls.”

The homework that night was to write an account in symbols and words of the process of laying out bisected rectangles and inserting radii of different lengths. It was to be accomplished with pencils, string, and a drawing pin—and every child scored full marks.

The headmaster beamed as he served the nighttime cocoa. They had moved to the dining hall and two bright braziers flamed away to take the chill off the air. The wind tugged at a tarpaulin and there was the feeling of an army gathered. Sugar had run out as rations were low, so he distributed boiled sweets, which were dunked for a few minutes in the scalding china cups. Millie had been made hot water urn monitor and had taken great care in filling them, especially as so many of her customers were almost too tired to hold the handles. The orphans had a knack of using each other as furniture: before nine o'clock the smaller ones were leaning fast asleep on the older ones.

“Another fabulous day,” whispered the headmaster. “Just time for an evening prayer.”

Millie looked up. “I thought this wasn't a religious school.”

“Well, it isn't, Millie, you're right.”

“You said,” said Millie, challengingly, “that you didn't believe in God. You said you were a rationalist.”

Sanchez looked down and put a hand over his eyes. “Millie,” he said, “must you always be the one to embarrass everybody?”

“I'm asking about religion, why is that so embarrassing?”

“Man, because maybe it's personal?”

“You're not religious, are you?”

“Yes.”

“Really? Hindu?”

“Just how ignorant are you?” snapped Sanchez. “I come from a Catholic country, don't you even know that?”

“I've been asked to say a prayer by Captain Routon,” said the headmaster. “He was a little dismayed by soccer practice this afternoon. Not dismayed at the effort or the . . .
enthusiasm
. But he does feel we might appeal to a higher power, and out of plain courtesy I think we should assist him.”

“Do you need a prayer mat?” said Millie, to Sanchez.

“Shh!” said Asilah.

The headmaster stood up and leaned on the table. “You can keep your eyes open if you want to. I'll ask everyone to bow their heads.” He was thoughtful a moment; then he looked up and said to the ceiling: “Thank you, God, for what makes us different and thank you for what makes us the same. Thank you for all the awkward questions in the world and the honesty in asking them. God . . .” The headmaster paused. “Please look down on us all in your mercy and if you can consider assisting us, that is . . . offering us some
guidance
in the rather everyday matter of ball control . . . we would be most eternally grateful. We ask for no unfair advantage, nor do we ask for miracles. Just a sense of direction.”

Amens rattled out among the snores.

Then, in the peace and quiet—that lovely moment of meditation—a voice creaked out from the darkness. “Headmaster?”

Those who were awake turned abruptly. The voice came again, urgent and impatient: “Where is the headmaster, please? I'm looking for the head—”

“Oh, my word—Miss . . . this must be Miss Hazlitt!” The headmaster's voice was full of warmth, and he leaped to his feet. “Is that really you?”

“Nine thirty, you said. It's nine forty.” The figure emerged from the doorway, clutching the wall for balance. Now the light caught
the black fabric of its dress and the whiteness of its face. Tall and thin, so easy to overbalance, the figure rocked from side to side, unsteady on a plank. Little arms and legs jutted from the long body as if a child had sketched them; a high collar supported a face that was all sharp angles. Millie recognized her immediately: the woman from the train, complete with metal briefcase. She managed to step down to one of the duckboards on the mud. Yes, it was the same sharp discus of a hat, throwing the woman's face into shadow as she looked down. When she looked up, her lipstick was red as a wound. “I'm very keen to meet the pupils,” she said. Miss Hazlitt brought her voice down to a whisper and there was a soft growl to it. “Could you bring them to the office, perhaps—one by one? It's the uneven ground, I'm not finding it easy.”

“You can meet them here, my dear! Come on in!”

There was an urgent chirruping sound from a bag or a pocket. Like a gunfighter, the cell phone was drawn in a blur of long, slim fingers, and was at her ear. “What?” she said. “No, no, not right now, no . . .” She was bent over like a hook and the voice rasped with impatience. There was a gust of sweat and cigarette. She looked even more buglike than Millie remembered—elbows out, head forward on a surprisingly long neck. “Try again,” she said, angrily. “Contact him, get an estimate, and run it past the major; keep me in the loop . . .” She cut the line and came farther still into the wreckage of the hall, picking her way, holding walls then tables for balance, the briefcase now under her arm. She licked her lips eagerly, keying a number into the phone. “Item for agenda,” she said quietly. “Health and safety in eating area; request survey of facilities and double-check all insurances.” She looked up and tilted her head to one side, trying hard to smile, stretching her lips. She put out a hand and took an orphan by the tie. It was Anjoli. “Uniform, headmaster? We agreed on a dress code, I thought. What's your name, little one?”

“Anjoli,” said Anjoli.

“Miss Hazlitt, we were just relaxing, we were—”

“We can't call this a uniform, can we? Not according to the diagrams
we exchanged. A little street urchin perhaps, but oh—look at this . . .” She ran her hands around the boy's head, her thumbs exploring and pressing. “Does this child not have a comb? What kind of hairstyle is this?”

“Well, it's the evening,” said the headmaster, moving toward her. “After a day of sport, things get a little casual, and we've all been running around! Anjoli, for example, plays midfield.” He drew Anjoli out of the woman's grip.

“Sport?” she said. “Today's Friday. I could have sworn . . .” She'd found a pair of spectacles and was looping them over her ears. They flashed as she turned her head this way and that. She had a paper in her fingers and peered through thick lenses. “
Tuesday
is sport,” she said, trying to chuckle. “Tuesday!”

“Yes, but there's been a bit of good news—”

“You see,” she cried, “exercise must never be random. I drew up the timetable weeks ago and it distinctly says—I have it here—sport on a
Tuesday
. A structured program, children—that is the key.”

“I think I need to update you on a few developments, Miss Hazlitt,” said the headmaster. He clapped his hands. “Children! Can I have your attention?” The orphans were sitting up uneasily. Anjoli had moved well back, toward Millie. She put an arm round him and was surprised to feel his heart beating rapidly: the boy was terrified. “Miss Hazlitt has come all the way from London,” said the headmaster. “She used to work with a number of very important people and she even did work for the government. So, we are very lucky, and very glad to have her here until . . . well, Christmas at least!”