Ribblestrop (26 page)

Ruskin tried to protest, but his jaw was locked in distress.

Asilah stood up. “We practiced hard! Sam was . . . amazing!”

“Wait a minute,” said Miss Hazlitt into her phone. “Don't shout out, Asilah, you can see I'm talking . . .”

“We worked together,” cried Sanchez. “We always work together!”

“Yes!” said Israel. “So what you said is not fair.”

There were murmurs of support and one of the littlest orphans leaped to his feet. “Ha!” he shouted.

“I'll call you back, run it past my secretary.” Miss Hazlitt snapped the phone away, and let herself smile again. The light caught her glasses and she seemed to be examining the crowd through two luminous discs. “What you need,” she said, “is a new start, and that is just what I've been trying to give you. You chose Millie as a leader, and that was foolish. If ever there was a child driven by selfish desire—”

“No!” cried Anjoli, also leaping to his feet. “Millie is . . . our hero!”

“You're proud of yourself, are you, Millie? Where's your tie, by the way?”

“Holding Sam's leg together,” said Millie. “The one useful job it's ever done.”

“Yes, you're out of control,” said Miss Hazlitt, calmly. “You really are. These sugars and carbohydrates don't help, particularly when you're on medication. As for alcohol, well . . . it's a lethal combination and it's why my predictions are being thrown off course.
Swallow
your pills, boys—don't play with them!”

Once again, there was a little plastic dish by each orphan. Once again, it contained an assortment of pills and capsules. The orphans hoarded and traded them, but very rarely swallowed.

“What exactly are you predicting?” said Millie. “Nobody here understands what you're doing or what you want.”

Miss Hazlitt spoke loudly and firmly. “I'm here to sort the school out; that's what you were
told
, at the start of the term. We need to change our approach here. We need a new attitude to dress. We need to comb our hair, Anjoli!” There was a rising grumble, like a murmur of distant thunder. “You can protest and complain, you can resist and resent it—but I'm telling you, discipline binds a community. I'm sick to death of it, my notice has been up there in black and white for days.” She had to raise her voice to a shout. “A special feature on tidiness—with pictures! Look at you, Sanchez! Where's your blazer?”

“Okay, listen,” said Millie, standing. “I read the new rules. It's the third time since you got back—the third rule book you've given us. That's pretty much all you do, make up rules, change the old ones, and—I don't know—pretend to be some kind of doctor.”

“Children need regulation! They need to understand—”

“Walk on the right!” cried Sanjay. “Who knows which is right? I don't!”

“No running,” said Israel. “What if we are late?”

“Yes!”

“What if you are being chased?” whispered Eric. “What if a monster—”

“No hands in pockets,” said Millie. “That is so stupid. There's hardly any heating in the school and we don't have gloves. You're making up rules because you've got nothing better to do. Your lessons are boring, you pick on kids who can't fight back—like Sam!—and you seem to think you're in charge, when you're not!”

There was a burst of applause. Miss Hazlitt was changing color under her makeup.

“Look at you!” shouted Millie. “You take notes, you spy on us, you film us! What for?”

The woman's cell phone was squealing, but she ignored it. “Sit down, Millie! I
am
in charge here, I have special authorization—and it's about time you and a few other people understood that.” There was a tremor of fury breaking in her voice, and the voice dipped an octave. “You're the principal reason my life has been made so difficult! You should have been expelled weeks ago!”

“Expel me now if you want. You'll need that policeman though.”

Miss Hazlitt was standing up as well now, shouting over Millie. “I'm not surprised the high school ran rings round you. You're lazy and slack and you've been getting away with too much for too long. Leave the room, please, Millie, and pack your bags: I'm suspending you for gross rudeness.”

“I'm not going anywhere; you can leave if you want to.”

Every child burst into more sustained applause and Millie sat down. She helped herself to trifle.

Miss Hazlitt, sadly, had gone too far to back down.

“I'm suspending you, Millie. I won't say it again: go to your shed.” Her voice was deep, husky, and dangerous. “The headmaster has put me in charge of discipline, and you've had too many chances. Pack your bags.”

“Pack your own. I'm hungry.”

Had Miss Hazlitt experienced similar showdowns? She must have done, but possibly not with someone as single-minded as Millie. If the headmaster had been there, he could have intervened.
Professor Worthington was too involved to speak. She was feeling the electricity in the room and wondering again how it could be harnessed. It was too late to dash for her anometer, so she simply stared. Her eyes leaped from adult to child, her chin in her hands: the voltages were critical and she could see the connections.

“Stand up,” cried Miss Hazlitt.

“No!” shouted Anjoli. There was a sudden crash of cutlery as the boy smashed his knife on the table, this time deliberately.

Miss Hazlitt swung round and stared at him. Sanchez had his blazer in his hands. He threw it gently into the mud at his feet and pulled the front of his shirt out. Israel, one of the smallest orphans, lifted up a spoon and slammed it onto his plate. Sanjay had a knife in one hand, a fork in the other: he raised them slowly, staring through wild eyes. A number of children did the same, and—
slam!
—Anjoli led the beat. The noise made the trestles shake.

“I will count to three,” hissed Miss Hazlitt. “One. I'm warning
all
of you!”

The last word was obliterated in another crunch of steel on wood. Anjoli pulled off his shirt and leaped onto a table. He jumped in the air and slammed both feet hard on the timber. A rhythm developed immediately, getting faster.

Miss Hazlitt tried to speak, but the volume was increasing and there were cries now. She was shouting at Anjoli, then at Millie. She was turning, struggling to balance. Anjoli leaped across to the sink area and picked up the slop bucket. Someone whistled in a shrill, common way and she spun round hunting for the culprit. She turned again, and saw that Millie had a forkful of custard with cream, poised like a catapult. She pointed a long finger, but whatever she said was lost in the din.

Millie was smiling. Anjoli was smiling too, staring at Millie. The smiles suggested pure, vengeful joy. It was wrong, they both knew that. It was insulting, and it was a waste of good food. But the deputy headmistress's blouse had frills, and the deep V of her jacket made her chest the most attractive target. From above, Anjoli could see the tight curls of gray hair and a forest of pins.

“Two!” yelled Miss Hazlitt.

Millie flicked, and a line of gunk sprayed over the deputy headmistress's chest all the way up to her cheek. Anjoli upended the bucket and the deputy headmistress was drenched. A cheer went up, and the hammering of feet and cutlery became a roll of thunder.

Only then did Miss Hazlitt realize just how terrible was the danger. Something hit her back: a bread roll. Podma had a handful of rice in his hand. He threw it hard and the spray caught the woman's cheek, even as she ducked. Ruskin was standing, a slice of zucchini at the ready, which he skimmed like a stone so that it glanced off a shoulder. That seemed to be the signal: every child grabbed whatever was available.

Miss Hazlitt backed away in a hail of food, splattering and smearing on her head and clothes. Custard, jelly, cream, sauce, and vegetables: the children hurled it at her. She slipped, and it was Professor Worthington who caught her wrist.

A bench went over. A table was lifted. Anjoli and four of his brothers were building a defensive shelter, barricading the door. A fifth lifted a tray of fried tomatoes and started to fling them, one by one. There was water from jugs and handfuls of mud.

Miss Hazlitt and Professor Worthington were both clambering through the debris, hunting for the exit.

The rain of food and drink continued, plates smashing, cutlery flying. Asilah had moved back to the sink and had the hosepipe out—he was refilling the jugs. In seconds, it seemed, every child was soaked and the cheering had become howls of ecstasy. Miss Hazlitt was cowering under a table as Professor Worthington cleared an escape route.

The children danced among the remains of supper, trampling blazers and ties, then wrestling in the mud. In their ecstasy, they didn't even notice their teachers' flight.

In the west tower, the headmaster sat with Sam.

The child's skin was clammy. They'd rigged up two electric fires but the dormitory still felt cold.

Captain Routon stood with a thermos flask. The bedside table was covered in dressings, gauzes, and ointment tubes. Sam's breathing was even, but fast. The fan fed him oxygen, but it was as if he couldn't breathe deeply enough.

“He's in a bad way,” said the headmaster.

“I think he's stable though, sir,” said the captain.

“What if it's concussion, Routon? Internal bleeding.”

“There's nothing a hospital can do that we haven't done.”

“Unless his pulse starts going down again . . . We just can't risk it, Routon! We can't play God with this little fellow, and in any case, his parents should know. I should call them this minute.”

“If they see him like this, sir, I dread to think—”

“I know, dammit, I know. And I'm a hopeless coward. We've got Miss Hazlitt watching every move and taking notes. Have you seen her report on Health and Safety?”

“No, she doesn't talk to me.”

“It was on my desk late last night. She wants me out, Routon! We had the most terrible row after that incident with Sam, and she said as much.”

“She's all bluff, sir, I've met pen pushers before.”

“You're wrong, Routon. I wish you were right, but she's got
government authority: she wants the school! It was the one thing I never imagined when I agreed to her wretched contract. When she sees Sam like this, she'll bring that wretched policeman back and file her report. We're up to our ears in debt, no way of paying Lady Vyner—”

“You've got to hold to your nerve, sir! Trust me. Look at the boy—is it so much worse than his first day? He's got another scar up top, stitches in his leg. He'll come through this, and look! He's smiling in his sleep!”

“He might not wake up. He might be smiling like that for years to come!”

“No, no, no—he's cleaned up nicely. His pulse is good. Sleep is all he needs, you've got to trust me on this one. I saw just the same thing in Sri Lanka after a grenade attack.”

“What's he smiling
about
?”

The captain had done the stitches, with the same purple twine he'd used weeks ago after the teapot attack. The blanket was rolled up to Sam's chin. The smile, if anything, was getting wider.

“I'll stay with him,” said the captain. “Soon as the shock passes, his breathing will slow and I'll whip the tube out. Heart of a lion, this one. Look at those eyes . . .” The captain lifted Sam's lids: first the left, then the right. “Don't call his parents yet.”

“Very well. But stay with him, Routon. I think I ought to be downstairs, I'm worried something's wrong. I feel it in my bones: something's dreadfully wrong. I just don't know what that woman wants!”

“She wants to be important, sir—I've seen it a hundred times. Now your place is with the troops. They need you.”

“Call me if anything happens, yes?”

“It's our bleakest hour. We must hold our nerve.”

*

Down in the dining hall, the children were having the debrief they needed. The floor was a mess of mud and food and the children themselves were drenched and dripping, as if they'd been hauled through a stew. But the mood was joyous.

“Where we went wrong,” shouted Sanchez, fighting over the noise of Asilah and Eric, “where we went wrong was defense!”

“Rubbish!”

“The defense was good!”

“The defense was you, Sanchez—the best goalie . . .”

“We didn't use Henry,” said Ruskin. “That was our big mistake.”

“When we play again,” said Millie, “we have to work out the attack strategy. Sam was brilliant, but he needs more support. We need Anjoli farther forward.”

“Henry should be forward!” yelled Israel. “Henry is the secret weapon!”

There was cheering and Henry stood, bewildered and beaming.

“But that's what I said, weeks ago!” said Ruskin. “Sam and I were reading this—listen!” He was holding up a piece of newspaper, which was turning to pulp in his hand. “It's all about tactics and there's some seriously good information here, listen!”

Anjoli leaped back onto a table. “Let's face it,” he shouted. “They were dirty, filthy pigs and Sanchez smashed one!”

The hall rang with cheering and clapping.

Sanchez joined Anjoli, riding the noise. He put his arms round the boy and shouted: “Train harder—that's what we have to do! And put Henry here.” Henry was wheeled into the center of the hall. Sanchez and Anjoli jumped down and hauled the benches into goalpost formation. “If I'm in goal, okay, I need him eight meters out.”

“He's a fullback,” said Millie. “That's what he is. Asilah, back left; Israel, right.”

“Where's a ball?” shouted Ruskin. “Let's practice.”

The ball was found and Sanchez kicked it into play. Nobody heard the headmaster enter the room. The door was already open and he appeared suddenly, through a plastic sheet. He looked around the devastated room in astonishment and was about to call out, when something held him back. He watched for a full five minutes as a whole series of tactical maneuvers were worked
out and practiced. He watched the ball passed back and forth; he saw the attacks tried and adapted, the quarrels rising and falling into high fives and handshakes.