Ribblestrop (21 page)

“I don't doubt that, but are you qualified to administer drugs like this?”

“It is part of my duty and yes, I am. Anjoli, get your hands off! I saw you take it and that was for whatshisname!” The cell phone was ringing, and Miss Hazlitt's temper was beginning to break. “Put it back where you found it and get to the back!”

*

Workmen arrived.

One of Miss Hazlitt's obsessions was punctuality, and she had bells and clocks installed over almost every door. The timetable had been rewritten, so lessons were no longer able to start and finish according to interest and enthusiasm. A long bell meant change of lesson; a short bell meant break time. The three quick rings meant stand by for end of break time, and two meant the lesson should have started. A continuous bell meant fire drill, but
continuous short rings meant emergency roll call. If you forgot which bell meant what, it was printed on the new bulletin board that had been hung in the main corridor: you passed it several times a day.

There were diagrams on how to wear your uniform smartly, and these were further illustrated by a life-sized model. He appeared one morning and was chained to the wall. He was child-sized, and he wore his uniform as neatly as a shop dummy, standing proud with both cap and briefcase and a little smile on his fiberglass face. He was an instant hit, partly because he had moving arms and legs and a rather feminine wig. It was Millie who christened him George, and the poor dummy suffered endless indignities. Someone stole the wig on the first day, so he suddenly aged sixty years. Hours later, his shorts were round his ankles and he was wearing makeup. The children would come downstairs and George would be doing push-ups or sucking his toes—his positions and activities got more and more bizarre. Of course, nobody was ever
caught
vandalizing George, but everyone knew it was Anjoli and Millie. Since the break-in to the headmaster's study, Millie had cultivated little Anjoli, recognizing in him a sense of humor as evil as her own. They'd formed a partnership and spent hours together planning their moves. They managed to deface notices, silence bells, and on one famous occasion glue Miss Hazlitt's hand to a thermometer.

In response to these outrages, more cameras appeared, including one in the main corridor ceiling. It revolved and zoomed, and the orphans liked to dance in front of it. New rules were created every day and appeared on the board as special bulletins in big black letters. For example, one morning you might be reminded that running inside school was forbidden. The next, you were told that someone had been seen walking on the left rather than the right of the corridor, causing congestion and confusion. Miss Hazlitt pinned the notices up and kept the camera trained upon them.

*

“It's all she does,” said Sanchez. It was ten thirty-five on a Thursday, which meant lesson three should have started five minutes ago. “She makes up new rules and then when someone breaks them, she makes up more to stop us breaking them!”

“I don't think there were any rules last term,” said Ruskin. “We seemed to get on all right.”

“What lesson is it now?” said Sam. Of all the children, Sam seemed to be the most confused. He had copied out the new timetable with great care, and Ruskin had helped him color-code it so he'd never be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was pasted into his personal copy of the rule book—every child had been issued with two copies—and it was always on hand in his blazer pocket. Sadly, Sam's vision was still obstinately black and white, and the paper had become such a confused mess of letters and numerals that he could no longer remember what was the top and what was the bottom.

“Manners,” said Anjoli. “Lesson three—manners!”

Sam was turning his book this way and that, squinting. “I thought it was reading . . .”

“We just had science,” said Sanjay. “So now it's manners—same every day, man. Practicing your handshake.”

“It's not called ‘manners,' ” said Millie, putting on a grating Miss Hazlitt voice. “Use the correct title, please! ‘Manners and civilization: an introduction to . . .' Oh no, it's Caspar—what are
you
doing here?”

“What?”

“I said what are you doing here, deaf-boy?”

“I can come to whatever lesson I like, leper-girl. There's nothing you can do about it. And by the way, you've still got my gun! I don't forget!”

Caspar's fists were clenched and his mouth had formed a venomous pout. Millie stepped forward, ready for action, when the classroom door was yanked open and Miss Hazlitt stood there, glowering. Children were still wandering down the corridor, despite the fact that the two short rings had rung.

“Late again!” she said. “Anjoli, your shirt is a disgrace and so is your hair! Sort yourself out! Podma! Are you Podma? Put your shoes on and get in line!”

“Miss, are we going to do door-opening?” said Ruskin. “The reason I ask is that I had an idea last night that might make it easier for Henry—”

“Be quiet and line up. The first rule of manners is that we don't shout out—how many times must I say that?”

“That's rule forty-one, miss,” said Sam, who had memorized the rule book.

Miss Hazlitt had been true to her word and despite her other responsibilities, she had insisted on teaching the ten thirty lesson every day. She took this particular slot because she believed it was when the children's concentration was at its peak. After all, manners and social conduct were fundamental to the discipline she longed for.

She gave the lessons all her energy. She patroled the line now, immaculate in her darkest funeral suit, the collar of her blouse high round the neck. She licked her thin lips and the children gradually stood to attention, their hands by their sides.

“Good,” she said, dabbing at her brow. “I want everyone standing quietly behind their desks; I don't want a whisper. Lead in, Sanchez.”

The children filed in and there was a tremor of excitement. Standing in the middle of the room was an artificial door in a free-standing frame. This meant that, just as Ruskin had anticipated, the class was revising door-opening, a process few had grasped to Miss Hazlitt's satisfaction. Everyone enjoyed science with Professor Worthington—you never knew what would happen or how many times you'd be electrocuted. The headmaster's lessons in reading and writing were also popular, particularly since he had taken to teaching punctuation through dance. Captain Routon's classes in roof-building were adored, and often overran as the children wrestled with timber and tools. But Miss Hazlitt's lessons in manners and civilization were like no others, and the children had come to
live for these midmorning encounters. They had an atmosphere that was little short of thrilling. Even little Caspar had noticed it and made the effort to get out of bed in time.

Why were they so popular? The reason was very simple. The war between Millie, Anjoli, and Miss Hazlitt used this classroom as the principal battleground. The duo had devised a strategy for wrecking each and every class, and that strategy seemed so innocent that it was always successful. With the help of all the others, they simply bombarded the teacher with questions. The enthusiasm was like an ever-rising wave, and before ten minutes had gone by Miss Hazlitt found that she was being interrupted in the middle of every sentence and sometimes before she could speak. The requests were so earnest: “Why?” “What for?” “How?” “When?” They came from every side of the room, and often she wouldn't see the questioner in time and would spin round to identify him. As she spun, someone else was calling out. Periodically the cell phone would ring, distracting her further. How could you teach when so many people needed your attention? How could you teach when you still weren't sure of the names?

Today was Thursday and all Miss Hazlitt wanted to do was revise. Last time she had used the door to the classroom, and this had been a mistake because children had repeatedly wandered through it and away. This time she had the model, knocked up by Captain Routon. She would be able to keep her eye on everyone. She would start with a demonstration, then move to role-play in pairs. She would work in some basic conversation, and the homework would be to write a simple door-opening playscript.

“Listen carefully,” said Miss Hazlitt.

“Miss?” said Millie. Her hand was straining. “What are we going to do today?”

“Do we need our notebooks?” said Anjoli. “I got a pen.”

“Shh!” said Ruskin. “Miss, do you want the blackboard cleaned while you're—”

“Quiet!” yelled Miss Hazlitt, and everyone saw her dentures slip. She was gasping already. One day, the teeth would fall—everybody knew that—and every child was hoping it would be in response to his question.

“Miss?” said Sanjay.

“No! Be quiet and listen. I will explain everything . . .” The cell phone rang, but she ignored it. She had their attention; they were staring at her with eager eyes. Miss Hazlitt licked her lips and mopped her brow again. “The opening of the door for the guest touring the school,” she said. “We practiced last week, so I am hoping that you'll all remember the basics.”

“Miss?”

“There will be a time, soon, when guests
are
touring the school. Prospective parents. Inspectors, perhaps, who—”

“Excuse me, miss?”

“. . . want to see our school at its best!” she shouted. “Visitors from overseas, keen to see how polite we are!
That
is why our appearance is so important—will you please sit down, Anjoli!”

“I can't find my ruler, miss, Asilah took my ruler—”

“Sit!”

“Miss?” said Millie, with intensity. “I'm curious: when you open the door, would you actually
talk
to the guest, or would you pause, in order—”

“I will explain if you'll let me explain!” cried Miss Hazlitt. Her hands had turned to fists, and she could feel the sweat all over her scalp. The children could see it too, glinting on her forehead; they knew that soon the makeup would be running. “It is very, very simple and once we've practiced it I shall put diagrams on the board, so just wait. I need a volunteer . . .”

The class erupted into a fever of leaping boys and straining hands. Why she chose Anjoli she would never know. Perhaps it was simply that he leaped the highest, or maybe he was simply at the front of the class before she could stop him.
She
played the guest;
he
played the pupil. She walked toward the door. Anjoli, positioned some distance away, prepared to open it. He
was in a fever of excitement and anticipation, and it was obvious that things were going to go wrong. He bounded to the door, laughing; he yanked it almost from its hinges, giggling. Standing to attention, he could not resist saluting, and his “Good morning!” was yelled as if he were welcoming troops.

“No!” hissed Miss Hazlitt. Her face was getting gray under the makeup and she could feel tears of frustration pricking her eyes. “We went through this last time. You don't run. You don't shout. Shirt, Anjoli—will you please . . .” Her cell phone bleeped again, and she pressed her fingers to her eyes. “Show him, Sanchez—it really isn't that hard.”

“Miss?” said Henry. He had been formulating his question for several minutes. “When Anjoli opened the door—”

“Put your hand up, Henry.
Please
put your hand up.”

“Should he have moved behind the guest or in front?” shouted Millie. “I'm sure last time you said—”

“I go in front,” said Anjoli. “She said, go in front!”

“But is it ever right to open the door from the left side? You know, if you didn't have time to get into the right position?”

“No, I don't—”

“Yes, I go from the right!”

“Which is the right? Which is right?”

“I think a lot of this is instinctive, according to distance,” cried Ruskin over the baying of orphans. “If I was on the left, I would probably stay on the left. Likewise, if—”

“Again, miss!” shouted Anjoli. He spun on one foot, leaped in the air, and slammed the door closed with both hands.

There was a cry of both fury and agony. Miss Hazlitt fell against the doorframe, clutching her hand. Anjoli had not seen that she had been leaning on the woodwork, and he had dealt her a heavy blow across the knuckles. The woman sank to her knees.

“Bull's-eye,” said Millie.

“That's the . . .” Miss Hazlitt could barely speak. “Oh, what have you done?”

Sanchez stood at her shoulder wondering what he should do,
or who he should call. Asilah had his arms round Anjoli, who was standing in shock, his hands over his mouth.

“That's my right hand . . . You don't know what you've done!”

“Is it broken, miss?” said Ruskin. “Can you move your fingers?”

“Oh no. No. End of the . . .”

“Shall I get Captain Routon?”

“Leave me alone,” whispered Miss Hazlitt. She made no attempt to stand. “It's not broken.” She took the dentures from her mouth and the children looked with dismay at how old and sick she suddenly looked. “End of today's . . . lesson,” she said.

Miss Hazlitt was not seen for the next fortnight. While her hand wasn't broken, she had to visit London for what the headmaster called
specialist physiotherapy
, and for a few precious days a more relaxed atmosphere pervaded the corridors. George the model was put in a deck chair with three empty rum bottles and a cigarette, and the bells were silenced. Best of all, a letter arrived from the local council, announcing that planning permission for the new roof had been approved, and an impromptu party went on for most of the weekend.

The children were thrilled to discover they would be doing all the construction work, and that the roofing classes were therefore doubled. Professor Worthington teamed up with Captain Routon, and they led them together. Math now took on an urgent aspect as the children calculated quantities of slate, nails, lead, timber, insulation, and felt. They had to consider the different timber sections and practice the different joints that would be necessary. Everyone worked on scale models and studied the trigonometry involved. They worked in the tower of science late into the night; Professor Worthington would start the generators and plumes of sparks illuminated the children's exercise books, burning tiny holes in their shirts as they slaved over their calculations.