Ribblestrop (2 page)

Sam wasn't sure what to think. Ruskin's model had four walls and was then a mass of struts and beams. It was exquisitely built and reminded Sam of a cathedral in miniature.

“You could probably get away without some of the purlins,” said Ruskin. “But we decided to be better safe than sorry. It took most of the holiday, but the best project wins a rosette.”

“And that's the roof we're going to build?”

“If there's enough of us. It's not as complicated as it looks, actually. The principles are pretty straightforward; it all works in triangles. Do you want some tea, Sam?”

Sam didn't know what he wanted. Thoughts and feelings were getting more confused than ever, so he nodded gratefully. Ruskin smiled happily and attended to the other items in his bag. In a short while he'd laid out a flask and two plastic cups. The train was juddering, so pouring was tricky, but soon there were two steaming cups of boiling water. He produced two tea bags from his breast pocket and dunked vigorously. He had cubed sugar, a whisky miniature that held fresh milk, and a plastic teaspoon. Finally, he set down a lunchbox and opened it to reveal a stack of homemade cookies.

“I expect you want to know about the other boys,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Well, they're both good fellows. Do you take sugar? One of them is from South America. He's a funny one, I'll tell you about him—ever so nice, I really hope he's coming back. The other boy's quite old. Sixteen, he says. But he looks older, and he doesn't really talk. We so need eleven! The only game I'm any good at is soccer.”

“I thought it was a big school. I thought I was lucky to get in.”

“Oh, you are! It is! It's a smashing place, really! It's got such an interesting history, too—it was a research base in the Second World War. You know how these stately homes got taken over by the army? They built bunkers and everything—there's tunnels underground. So after the war, it became a donkey sanctuary, I believe. Then the monks arrived, and they're still there, but you don't see them—am I talking too much? I'll just tell you this. The story goes that our headmaster bought the place in
one
day. He made ‘the offer' in the morning and took the cash round in a suitcase that afternoon. He bought the donkeys too. They live on what used to be tennis courts, but what
will
be the soccer pitch—not that you can really play, not with three people, even when the
headmaster goes in goal. And Sanchez can't run too well, because he lost a toe.”

“Sanchez? Hang on, is he one of the other boys?”

“Sorry, yes. The South American boy. He was injured, so he can't really do games, though he does try. When you lose your big toe your balance goes, so he's got a limp.”

“How did he lose his toe?”

“It's a secret, but I'll tell you. You're bound to find out.” Ruskin leaned forward and his voice became a whisper. “This is true, apparently. Though it sounds like I'm making it up. He was kidnapped and held for ransom. And the kidnappers, to show they meant business . . .”

Sam winced.

“Yes. With pliers.”

“Did his parents pay the ransom?”

“Sanchez said they didn't. When the toe fell out of the envelope, they sent the bodyguards in. There was a shoot-out.”

“And Sanchez escaped?”

“He's a very tough boy. I wouldn't want to mess with Sanchez. He's not a show-off, but he can wrestle a donkey to the ground. I saw him do it after Miles had bet he couldn't—admittedly, it was Peter Pan, the oldest donkey, but even so . . .”

“Who kidnapped him?” said Sam. His eyes were wider than they'd ever been. His mouth was slightly open.

“I don't know. His family is from South America, rolling in money. All his clothes are tailor-made. But he's not a show-off, honestly.” Ruskin lowered his voice and leaned in over the table. “The reason he's at Ribblestrop is so no one can find him. He keeps a gun under his bed, just in case: there's a little hole in the wall. Seriously. Dr. Norcross-Webb knows his father, and my father thinks that's where the first lot of money came from. You see, nobody would dream a boy like Sanchez would go to a school like Ribblestrop. So he's safe.”

It was at this point that Sam experienced his second accident of the day. He was destined to suffer three. It was not serious in itself, but it would set off a chain of interesting events. Ruskin had the dangerous habit of resting his eyes on occasions. This involved removing and pocketing his glasses—he'd been advised to do this by a teacher who'd despaired of the boy's painfully slow reading. The effect of this “eye-resting” was that for short periods Ruskin was almost blind. He would grope and grab—and that could be lethal. He was now seeking to pour more tea.

The same complex ritual started: tea bag and cup, spoon to tea bag, hot-water flask standing by. Sam went to finish the cup he'd hardly touched: there was a flurry of hands as Ruskin tried to organize the table, and the large, heavy flask inevitably tipped over. A lake of boiling water swept wavelike over the edge of the train table onto Sam's shorts. He suppressed the scream, turning it into a long high-pitched gasp. Ruskin grabbed at the flask, upsetting the cup. Thus the wave was joined by a short geyser and Sam gasped again. Ruskin rushed to help. But what could he do? Sam's thighs and tender regions sizzled in scalding water; the boy fought to keep cloth from flesh.

“This is totally my fault,” cried Ruskin. “I cannot believe this.”

“It's all right.”

“It's not. Hang on . . . glasses. Hold on, Sam. Oh my word, you're soaking!”

“Oh no.” Sam was whispering.

“Are you burned? I'm so sorry . . .”

“It's all right.”

“Stand up, Sam. No, sit down. Oh my! Have you any spare shorts?”

“No. I only . . . Ow. Help.”

“Look. I have. They're in my trunk, which is down in the—”

“I think I'll stand up.”

“You're completely red, look at your legs! Should I stop the train?”

Ruskin flapped while Sam dabbed at himself with two soaking handkerchiefs. He was feeling sick again and the fire round his thighs was fading to hot clamminess. The seat was wet as well.

“Such bad luck. Look, let's go down to the baggage car and see if my trunk can be got at. Then you can have my spares—and I've got a towel as well. Can you walk?”

Sam peeled himself off the seat and stood dripping in the aisle. A handful of other passengers were staring, icily, as if the boys were seeking attention.

“I'd better take our stuff. Follow me.”

Ruskin packed the bags and, when he'd done so, Sam managed a bow-legged, dripping hobble down the carriage. The first toilet was engaged, but the second one was vacant. Sam dried himself as best he could and emerged slowly.

“I'm a clumsy oaf,” said Ruskin. “I do apologize.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“Follow me. I'm fairly sure we can get at my trunk—it's in the baggage car, which is right down the end. If we can get to it, we can do a quick change; I mean obviously they'll be a bit big, but you're wearing a belt. If it was the other way round we wouldn't stand a chance—oh my word, look!”

Sam was still prying wet cloth from his thighs, so he didn't look up. The dividing door closed as Ruskin barged excitedly forward, and Sam's thin body was crushed in the steel frame. An angry-
looking businessman leaned from his seat. “Don't play with the doors! Sit down!”

“I can't really. I'm—”

“You boys are a blessed nuisance. Up and down, up and down!”

Sam shoved the door back as hard as he could and staggered out of the carriage. A train conductor was heaving his way through, looking haggard. Sam's “Excuse me” was lost as the big man wrenched open the door. Then there was a clatter of points and Sam was thrown forward, catching his forehead on the luggage shelves. His friend was way down the far end of the next carriage, so Sam hobbled after him, realizing that had this happened a few hours ago, he would have undoubtedly started to cry. Perhaps he was growing up already, he wondered, just as his father had promised. Perhaps he was a man and was responding to burns and blows the way a man would do. Double vision was the price you paid.

When he caught up with Ruskin, the boy seemed at a loss: he was staring at a passenger, in a trancelike state. At length, he managed two words: “I say . . .”

Sam saw a blurred version of what Ruskin was looking at. Sitting in a seat was another child, in the identical black-and-gold stripes of their own uniforms. But this child was slumped low, with its feet on the empty seat opposite, and was listening to music through headphones. It was unaware it had an audience; it was gazing at the scrubland of outer London. This was just as well: Ruskin's scrutiny had gone on now for a full minute. The child's head nodded to the beat of the music; its mouth was chewing. Ruskin seemed dazed.

“Oh my word,” he finally said.

“What?” said Sam. “What's the matter?”

“Look at this.”

The child in the seat turned at last. A frown spread instantly across its features.

“What?” it said. Aggressive. Confident.

“Hello,” said Ruskin.

The child clicked off its music and yanked the earphones out of its ears.

“Why are you staring at me? What do you want?”

“I'm so sorry,” said Ruskin. Apologies seemed to tumble out of his mouth. “I didn't mean to stare, it's just we saw your . . . blazer. We thought—I thought—I'm so sorry, I thought you were Ribblestrop.”

The child's frown turned to confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Same colors, everything. From the other end, you see, you looked like you were on your way to Ribblestrop Towers, my school, but—”

“I am,” said the child. “I think. Don't say you're there as well.”

“I'm a second year,” whispered Ruskin.

“I'm new,” said Sam, over Ruskin's shoulder.

The child's eyes flickered back and forth as if it were watching fast tennis.

“Look, I don't mean to be rude,” said Ruskin. “I don't mean to be rude at all. But . . . you're a girl, aren't you?”

The child's face scrunched into a wizened glare. Her hair, brushed hard back from her forehead and ears, was drawn into a short plait. She'd put on a little lipstick. There was just a hint of glittery eye shadow as well, on her eyelids. A jewel gleamed in the left earlobe and there was a ring on one finger. Ruskin was looking at her legs, half hidden by the table but still stretched up onto the opposite seat. They were covered to the knee by shorts, and this was confusing.

“I mean, you
are
a girl. You're a girl, and Ribblestrop's a boys' school,” he said. “Well, it was,” he added, weakly.

“Are you seriously telling me
you
go to it?”

“It's a boys' school,” said Ruskin, faintly. The girl had a rather gravelly voice. Her cheeks were ghostly pale and striking because of sharp cheekbones. “But it can't be. I suppose it isn't. What I mean is, it used to be a boys' school. Can we sit down?”

“Here? Why?”

Ruskin started to slide into the seat, forcing the girl to remove her feet.

“We were on our way to the baggage car.”

“Oh no.” The girl was sitting forward. “Your friend's wet himself.” She was pointing rudely at Sam's soaking shorts.

“No,” said Sam. “There was an accident.”

“What do you mean, it's a boys' school? No one said to me it was a boys' school, I was told it was for girls. Look, you—if you untuck your shirt, no one will see. Look at the state of you! Seriously, what is that?”

“Tea,” said Sam.

“Mainly hot water,” said Ruskin. “Look, shall I go down to the baggage car and get the spares?”

“You'll have to take them off,” said the girl. “You can't sit in soaking-wet shorts, you'll get shrivelled. No one'll see, we'll dry them out of the window.”

“I can't really do that,” said Sam.

“I had to do this once with a scarf when someone was sick—I had to wash it in the loo and then we tied it to the door handle between Bristol and Tiverton. It's a warm day, you'll be fine.”

Ruskin nodded and smiled: “You know, that's not a bad plan, Sam. Because I'm not sure they'll let us in the baggage car and even if they do, my shorts won't fit you. This is all my fault, you know.”

“Then you can dry them,” said the girl. “What's your name? Sam?”

“Yes.”

“Take them off and give them to your friend. Come on, nobody can see.” The girl was standing up, taking control. Her hand was thrust out and the train was slowing.

Sam feared disaster was on its way. After all, he'd lost a cap, he'd been bruised and scalded. The day had more bad luck in store, that was for certain. But he was one of those boys who found it hard to resist strong-minded people for fear of being
thought rude. He struggled out of his shorts, pulling his shirttails down to his knees.

“Give us your tie as well. Then we can tie the shorts to the door just in case fat boy lets them go—a little safety device.”

This husky-voiced confident girl: Sam just couldn't disobey. He took off his tie, feeling as if the world was conspiring to steal his whole uniform. At least he had the blazer—and that was the item his parents had saved for hardest. There was only one store in London where you could get them, and they'd only had an unclaimed special order in stock—a blazer, it seemed, that had been made for a small bear. “He'll grow into it,” said the bored salesman, who'd realized straightaway that the Tack family was virtually penniless. The other option had been buying a small dinner jacket and stitching gold ribbons onto it. Sam's mother was keen but her son had managed, politely, to make his opinion known, and they'd come home with the overcoat model. It was quite useful now, to wrap himself up in. He curled into the seat and watched the approach of Reading.