Ribblestrop (3 page)

“Your friend is very strange,” said the girl.

Ruskin had disappeared into the toilet. He was intending to give the shorts a scrub and then devise the clothes drier.

“I was warned this was a freaky school,” said the girl. “I guess I should be glad if he's the least freaky. What's his name?”

“Jacob Ruskin.”

“My name's Millie Roads. This is going to be my fifth school. Dad phoned the headmaster and told him the government would put a year's fees up front if they'd take me straightaway.”

“Oh.”

“How old are you? You look like a gnome.”

“I'm twelve.”

“You've got a black eye coming—are you a fighter? I had this friend called Katie who could beat up anyone. I was trying to persuade her to come to this Ribblestrop place, because she got kicked out of the last school, same as me. She did aikido and flattened our housemaster. Then we trashed the place. I think
you've got the skinniest legs I've ever seen.”

“I know.”

“I'm thirteen, by the way, so we won't be in the same class. Katie was amazing! She could make bombs from soap powder. We put lighter fuel on a pillow, okay? And the pillow had a label saying:
This pillow comes up to fire safety standards
, which was a joke. I said in court that the school should sue whoever makes its pillows, because it went up like a torch, and we'd put it in the laundry trolley with these bags of salt and soap powder. The laundry room was in the basement, just under the girls' common room, so in our opinion it was all an accident waiting to happen, and that's what the judge said. What did you get slung out for?”

“Slung out of what?”

Millie snarled with impatience. “Your last school! The school before Ribbledee-whatever it is. Why did you leave, if it isn't top secret?”

“I haven't been expelled from anywhere.”

Millie stared a moment, then shrugged. “I thought this dump only took kids who'd been slung out—there's this government scheme, isn't there? My dad was told it had bars on the windows, that's why he was sending me. Twenty-four-hour round-the-clock patrols and all that.”

“Ruskin said it was a normal school.”

“What's he going to know about normal? You think he's normal? Look—do you smoke, Sammy-boy? Silly question. I'm dying . . .”

The train was slowing to a stop. There was a clattering of doors and a few travelers made their way down the corridor.

“Reading,” said Millie. “Can you imagine living here?” She peered into the gray gloom beyond the station buildings.

“My uncle used to live in Swindon—”

“Set fire to the place, that's what I'd do. A lot of very grateful people. Katie went to jail, by the way. I was the accessory, which just means the best friend—I held the pillow, closed the door. Can I ask you something, Sam? Who cuts your hair?”

“My hair?”

“Is English your first language?”

Sam blinked. “My mother cuts my hair.”

“Yes, you look a bit like a boy in one of those very old films. Tell you what, when we get to school I'll get my razor and do you a real haircut. Have you visited this school? Have you seen it?”

“No,” said Sam. “I've seen pictures, but I haven't been there. Look.”

Sam felt around in the folds of his jacket. The school prospectus was in a deep pocket, bent in half. He set it on the table and smoothed it out. It was a comforting sight after all the snippets of information from Ruskin, let alone the dark hints from this terrifying new girl. Sam was reassured to see the same honey-colored buildings that had impressed his parents so much. And the crest, with a lion and a lamb. The photographer must have been lying in the gravel: the main building loomed up like a cliff, with a fabulous tower climbing up to blue sky. On the next page, in an inset photo, a blond boy sat curled on the lawn reading a book. You could almost hear the birdsong. The headmaster was smiling in another corner, looking totally normal and completely in charge: not a man to let someone down, or dream up an elaborate hoax. A man in a gown, with a wise smile.

“They never sent us one of them,” said Millie. “The government pays for me, something about investing in me now so they won't go bankrupt later on—that was my father's joke anyway, and everyone laughed a lot. Hey, fat boy—you're back . . .”

Ruskin was back. He wore a forlorn look, but the nickname Millie had invented stung him. He swiveled his head toward her.

“Would you be kind enough not to call me that? I'm not going to call you skinny girl or anything, so I think we could agree basic manners.”

“Basic manners? I'm just trying to be friendly.”

“Sam, there's been an accident.”

Ruskin looked exhausted. He wormed into the chair opposite Millie. “It's back to Plan B.”

“What Plan B?” said Millie. “What happened to Plan A?”

“Sam, I'm going to get some shorts for you from the baggage car, but I won't be able to until we get to our station. Apparently, they don't allow access to the freight during transit, or something like that. But I can run down to the baggage car and pretend—”

“What happened to Plan A?” said Millie, again.

Sam said: “Where are my shorts?”

“I was holding them out of the window.” Ruskin looked pained. “I had attached the tie. I think my mistake was choosing the very small window—I was using the one in the toilet, which doesn't allow you the space you really need.”

“Oh my . . .” said Millie.

“Did you drop them?” said Sam, quietly.

“Yes, and unfortunately it wasn't the platform side, or one could have just nipped out and picked them up. I chose the other side so as not to draw unwanted attention.”

“So your little friend's shorts are down on the tracks?” said Millie.

“They are down on the tracks,” confirmed Ruskin.

“So jump down and get them.”

“I can't.”

“Why not? You drop the boy's shorts out of a window and you're not going to jump down and get them? What sort of a friend are you?”

“You misunderstand me—the doors on that side of the train are locked.”

“Jump out the window. You can't leave his shorts on the track.”

“I think they went on the electric rail. I really wouldn't like to try to retrieve them—and in any case, there's a hefty fine if you trespass on the railway.”

“This boy has his first day at a new school and he's arriving half naked! Come on, Sam, let's sort this out.”

Sam had sunk into his blazer. He felt the blood draining from his face, neck, and even his chest. He felt thin and weightless but
surprisingly calm, as if all this had been foretold in a half-remembered dream. “Sam, get up!”

Millie's hand yanked him to his feet and Ruskin rose to stand out of their way, protesting. “We're about to leave the station, Sam—I feel awful about this, but is there anything we can do, really?”

“Yes, there is!”

As Millie spoke, the train humped forward: that movement that says:
Sorry, everybody—your last chance to get off has just gone
 . . . She hauled Sam into the corridor and wrestled with the window, then leaned out and twisted at the door handle. Rails and sleepers were now rumbling past and, as Sam stared, the station was giving way to a large car park.

“It's all right, Millie—”

“The door's locked. Stop the damn train, it's an emergency!”

“I think Plan B is quite workable, you know,” said Ruskin. “It's foolproof, really.”

But Millie had one of those brains that gets fixed obsessively on the one idea. No doctor so far had been able to help. She marched back into the carriage and had the presence of mind to pick up her coat and bag. Then she reached up and pulled the emergency lever, holding firmly to the handrail as the train went into an instant spasm of emergency braking. Twenty-five miles an hour, if that—they hadn't been going so very fast, but there was still plenty of dramatic lurching and screeching. Interestingly, the elderly thin woman with the awkward luggage was on her feet at that moment, rooting around in the overhead rack. She was still jabbering into a cell phone, which her chin crushed to her shoulder. But her agitation was increasing, and she was trying to drag the briefcase down from above while keeping the handbag open on her seat. She was already off balance, so the abrupt halt of the train sent her crashing to the floor, jarring her shoulder as she fell. This injury meant she didn't report the disappearance of her purse, with its collection of credit cards, for a full two hours. She was forced to visit Reading General Hospital,
and was separated from her luggage. All this meant substantial delay to the train and was how the new deputy headmistress of Ribblestrop Towers was prevented from taking up her new post for a further six days.

Of course, Millie, Ruskin, and Sam were unaware of this. They stood at the door and, as the locks sprung open, Millie heaved it open. The ground was a long way down, but she leaped nimbly onto the rails and stood staring up at a bewildered Sam.

“Hurry up!” she shouted. So Sam leaped too.

“Is this wise?” said Ruskin, from the doorway. But then, at the other end of the carriage, he caught sight of the train conductor, looking more horrified than any adult he'd ever seen: he was clearly getting ready to scream. Clutching his precious bag and model, Jacob Ruskin launched himself out of the train, headbutting Sam hard on the other side of his temple as he landed. The three children then staggered and stepped carefully over the tracks, making their way to scrubland.

They reached it not a moment too soon.

They hadn't heard the train zooming in from the other direction and they certainly hadn't seen it. The delayed 10:21, a through train from Bristol to London Paddington, was on the very track they'd stepped across, and the driver only saw three blurs of black and gold. The train missed the skinniest by ten centimeters. And the passengers in the now-to-be-seriously-delayed stationary train—the 11:14 to Penzance—were so horrified by the accident they thought they'd witnessed, there were several screams. For a full hour most people assumed the three children had been atomized. Because of this misunderstanding, nobody gave chase.

“Follow me,” said Millie.

“My shorts are back there,” said Sam.

“I don't think we can wait around. I think we need a new plan, a Plan C.”

“I think we need—” said Ruskin.

“And
I
am in charge of Plan C, Mr. Ruskin—is that your name?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Leave this one to me. We've got shopping to do and I want it done fast. You have not done well, Mr. Ruskin. It is only fair to let others have a chance.”

Millie was several paces ahead, her head rotating this way and that as she tried to get her bearings. They stepped over more rails up onto a sloping platform. In a moment they were out onto the main street, close to the station entrance. Millie hailed a taxi and the driver was so surprised he stopped. The children climbed in and the driver was still so surprised he drove on, ignoring the protests from those waiting at the taxi rank some fifty meters on.

“In fact, fat boy,” said Millie, settling into her seat, “you have done so badly it may make the papers. You have stranded us in a filthy town. I used to come here on a Friday and it was grim. I didn't think it could get much grimmer, but—credit where credit's due—it's hit rock bottom. Just look at it.”

“Where are we?” said Sam.

“
Reading
. Read the signs.”

“I would,” said Sam. “But I don't really read too well. That's another reason my parents went for Ribblestrop Towers.”

“Are you dyslexic?” said Ruskin.

“Very,” said Sam.

“You know, I was the most dyslexic boy in my region. One teacher told me my brain needed to be totally rewired. I'm dyspraxic too, and something else.”

“Millie, where are we going?” said Sam.

“This is a hole when it comes to nightlife,” said the girl. “But when it comes to clothes shops, and little bits of tat—it does quite well. Selfridges, please,” she said to the taxi driver. The driver muttered about one-way systems and red zones, so Millie leaned in again. “Look,” she said, “we've had a difficult morning. As close as you can, as fast as you can—it's a very big store and the word ‘Selfridges' is written right on the front. You can find it.”

Then she closed the glass screen on the still-muttering driver.

*

Ruskin had cash. He grumbled a little, because he'd been looking forward to opening a new account in the Ribblestrop Bank (one of Dr. Norcross-Webb's promised innovations for the new term). But he did feel responsible and the taxi driver looked quite threatening. The children hurried through a shopping center that seemed to think it was a greenhouse, rode an escalator while Sam tried to keep his blazer wrapped tight round his knees—and before long they were in the boys' wear department. A very tall lady with very bright lipstick did her very best to help: shorts were no problem at all, and Sam almost cried with relief to be decent again. A new tie was more of a problem, but a local school had something similar. Again, Sam rejoiced in threading it round his collar and straightening the ends. It normalized him. He tucked his shirt in firmly and felt the trauma dropping away like unwanted skin.

“You don't do caps?” he said.

They didn't do caps. This time Millie paid, with a credit card, and three reasonably normal-looking students rode the escalator down.

“Coo,” said Ruskin. “I wish my parents would give me a credit card. I didn't even realize you could get them till you were eighteen.”

“They're useful things,” said Millie. “Now, do you boys want to amuse yourselves for an hour? There's a few things I need before my sentence starts. Why don't we meet here, by the sweetie machines?”