Ribblestrop (46 page)

The headmaster looked at the size of the check. It was enough to pay off every debt he had ever incurred. He could put down another term's rent in advance. He could furnish the school, pay for at least two more teachers,
and
throw a Christmas party. He sat quietly for a few seconds, looked at the eyes looking at him, and decided he had no more questions.

“Can I borrow your pen?”

The man's smile got broader. “We have a recording of this conversation,” he said. “And you have accepted the Crown's settlement. So that is your copy of my copy, and I think we're just about done. You will brief the children, won't you? Discourage anything lurid.”

*

Lessons had stopped, of course.

While the headmaster dealt with officialdom, the children got into the habit of visiting Tomaz, via Neptune. Needless to say, his house astonished everyone. He cooked huge meals and nobody ever wanted to leave. A small dormitory had to be excavated and furnished. It was the only way to accommodate so many guests, and the work took several days. By the time the children were aboveground again, the press and the police had gone.

Captain Routon returned after two weeks to a huge party. He was wheeled in, bandaged like a mummy. The children had pinned a black-and-gold banner to the mansion doors, which said, simply:
Welcome Home Our Hero
. It was an emotional reunion. They ate and drank and danced and sang, and when Caspar crept in wearing specially padded shorts and sat down to join them, nobody teased him.

Tomaz, in fact, now did most of the cooking. There was an emotional scene between him and the headmaster, but emotional scenes were happening several times a day. The boy was readmitted as a pupil, but with the special privilege of maintaining his own, private accommodation.

*

The return game with the high school was looming. When the big day arrived, the children were throbbing with excitement.

Captain Routon was wheeled to the headmaster's car. It was currently the only Ribblestrop vehicle.

The children changed in their dormitories. As they had no actual uniforms, it didn't take long. They threaded the black-and-gold tie of Ribblestrop through the belt loops of the gray
shorts. They pulled their gray socks nice and high so that the cardboard shin pads were secure, and they rolled their shirt-sleeves to the elbow. They had voted to forget lunch, because they were too excited. And anyway, they needed speed and adrenaline.

They set off early.

As the headmaster maneuvered his car carefully onto the drive, a rather smart people carrier approached the other way. Everyone was used to sightseers by now, so nobody cared; as the headmaster inched round it, the singing started. The man at the wheel of the people carrier, however, seemed to want a conversation. He was elderly and nervous, and he wore a large surgical collar. So did his passenger. He was trying to wind the window down and his hand fluttered anxiously at the headmaster. After some time he found the switch of the electric window.

“This is Ribblestrop Towers, isn't it?” he said.

“Yes, it is. How can I help?”

“I don't know if you can, but I
hope
you can. This is the
school
, isn't it? Ribblestrop?”

“Yes.”

“It's our first visit, you see. Our son attends this school, in the first year . . .”

“Dad!” yelled Sam.

Sam was curled up on the parcel shelf above the car trunk. He had his face pressed to the side window and, though it was steamy, he could just see out. He'd also heard that distinctive voice.

“It's my dad!” he shouted.

Mr. Tack didn't hear. “It's all a bit of a long story,” said the man. “We've been recuperating after a car accident and the last thing we wanted was to worry the boy. Thing is, though, we haven't seen him for a while, and just wondered . . .”

Sam had now crawled over Ruskin's head and the shoulders of four orphans. He managed to get his nose through the window over the headmaster's arm. “Dad!” he cried. “I'm here!”

“Hello, Sam!”

“You're just in time!”

“Time for what?”

“You're just in time for soccer. How did you know?”

“We thought we'd missed it . . .”

“Hello, darling!” said Mrs. Tack. She had leaned across her husband and she found her voice was wobbling. She couldn't see all of him, but it was definitely her Sam. She had promised herself all day that on no account would she cry or embarrass her son, but here he was and her eyes were swimming in tears, because he looked just the same. A rather unorthodox haircut, but fashions were forever changing. It was, however, the same little lad she'd waved off from Paddington Station all those weeks ago, and he was
radiant
with happiness.

“Mum, can you take the team?”

“What do you mean? Take them where?”

“What happened to your neck?”

“Oh, Lord, that's a long story. You know me and your mum, if it's not one thing it's another. We had a bump on the motorway, and—”

“This is so lucky! Can you get us all in?”

“Where are we going?”

“Millie has directions. Millie—get in the front! Can we talk a bit later?”

Within seconds, the headmaster's car was abandoned, and the Tacks' vehicle was brimming with Ribblestrop players. Mr. Tack executed a nine-point turn on the drive, and it was full steam ahead for the high school sports center.

The High School for Boys was just outside the sleepy town of Ribblestrop. It had been built on an expanse of wasteland and, as you approached, it looked rather like a nuclear power station set in three acres of crumbling army barracks. A high wire fence surrounded it and a man on the gate waved them through, radioing ahead.

The Tacks had got lost, partly due to Millie's erratic directions, so it was lucky they'd set off so early. The Ribblestrop team rolled in just before kickoff.

Another security officer pointed out the road toward “recreational facilities,” and radioed ahead. The vehicles trundled round a bend and you could see the pitches laid out below.

The floodlights were on already, it being a dull afternoon. A vast crowd had gathered, surrounding the grass and turning it into an arena. Two thousand? Three thousand perhaps. You could hear their singing, but as the van appeared it rose into an ecstasy of whistling. The High School for Boys had invited the High School for Girls, and they were all corralled together behind high, chainlink fences. Teachers patrolled the touchline nervously as the whistling turned to a monstrous baying.

“Don't be intimidated,” said Ruskin.

“We are the better side,” said Millie.

An official with an Alsatian beckoned the Ribblestrop vehicles onto the pitch and advised the drivers where to park for a quick exit. The children piled out with their one soccer ball and spread out toward the farthest goal. The noise of the crowd made conversation difficult. The children kept their heads down, aware that green banners were being unfurled, and they were marooned in a
sea of green scarves and painted faces. The pitch was rock hard. A million cleats had worn it to brown dust. It was more suited to Christians and lions than to soccer.

“I want a clean game,” said Harry Cuthbertson. The two captains looked at him. “This is not to be a grudge match, all right?”

“Tails,” said Millie.

“Remember, Darren. We've got a man from Highbury coming down next term, that's the only reason we're keeping this fixture. Fitness training, this is.” He said to Millie, “This lad'll turn pro when he leaves us.”

“How's your brother?” said Millie.

“Good. He's looking forward to seeing you. Unfinished business, apparently.”

“Tell him I'll be waiting.”

“You know he's Deputy Chief Constable, do you? It was announced yesterday.”

“Yes, I heard,” said Millie. “What I really want to know is, who's more bent? You as a ref, or him as a copper?”

Harry Cuthbertson went so red and stiff he couldn't toss the coin. He gave kickoff to the high school and blew his whistle hard and long. Darren clipped the ball forward and there was a tumultuous roar from the crowd that seemed to lift the very dust; it was like playing in a gale. The Ribblestrop players stared at one another in fear. All around the ground, the metal fence was being picked up and shaken. It was the sound of chains rattling.

The high school were on the offensive fast, and their tactics hadn't changed. The boys weren't quick, but they were powerful and hard, and tackling them was always going to be dangerous. The Ribblestrop team were brave but skittish, and concentration in the din of howling was almost impossible. Everyone was remembering the cruel tackles of the last meeting, and it was clear that the first ten minutes were going to be the hardest.

The penalty, when it came, was outrageous. Cuthbertson was in the right place to see what happened, so his decision was
cynical and absurd. Henry had moved in firmly, as a high school player tried to break. Henry played the ball; the other lad went down in a theatrical stage dive, throwing his arms in the air and somersaulting twice. A hurricane of screams and whistles came from all sides, so intense that the referee's own whistle was inaudible. It was the ref's decisive pointing at the penalty spot that confirmed the unbelievable decision. The dive had taken place a good two meters outside the penalty area, but Cuthbertson yellow-carded Henry and simply walked through the scrum of protesting Ribblestrop players and planted the ball on the penalty spot.

In the visitors' box, which was a small concrete bunker halfway down one side of the pitch, Mr. Tack was aghast. Captain Routon—whose face was red anyway due to the blistering—had turned a frightening plum color.

Sanchez bounced on the goal line.

The high school captain backed off for the kick. He had a smug smile on his misshapen face, which turned into a glare as he prepared to run. Sanchez didn't see the ball as it smashed into the top lefthand corner of his goal. He didn't even move.

The crowd noise turned into a jet engine during takeoff. One of the metal fence panels was breached, and there was a brief pitch invasion before a handful of hardy teachers linked arms and filled the gap. As Ribblestrop kicked off, it was as if the ground had tilted and they were playing uphill in a tornado.

Five minutes later, Millie was tackled from behind several seconds after she'd passed the ball. Her shoe was torn off in the assault, and she spent five minutes on her back. Her sock was soaked red, but no foul was given.

Just before halftime Asilah was sent off because the ball hit his arm: handball. Sanjay, Sam, and Israel all had black eyes from off-the-ball encounters; Vijay had been hit by something—he hadn't seen the missile, but his forehead was cut. Anjoli's shirt was in shreds. The Ribblestrop tempers were bursting; the crowd was baying with glee.

*

“You can see his tactics,” said Captain Routon at halftime. His voice was hoarse with rage. “I gave him the benefit of the doubt last time, but this is outrageous!”

Ruskin said, “I'm going to write a letter. This will not go unchallenged.”

Millie had her head in her hands. She said, “The thing is, they're so useless! Every move they make is so blindingly obvious, we're ten times more skillful.”

“It's still one-nil,” said Asilah, bitterly.

“What can we do?” said Sanchez. “Shall we push Henry forward?”

“No, he's much better in defense.”

“We've lost Asilah, though! We've got to do something.”

“Can I say something?” said Mr. Tack.

Everyone looked at Sam's father.

“Certainly,” said Routon.

Mr. Tack and his wife were sitting in a couple of canvas chairs. They had ham sandwiches and a flask of tea, all of which was being passed among the starving Ribblestrop team, as no refreshments had been offered.

“I don't want to intrude,” he said, “and I certainly don't want to pretend I have any special skill in this area. But I've seen Sam play a fair bit, and that little chap—what's your name, son?”

“Anjoli,” said everyone.

“He and Sam are working together like a dream.”

“That's true,” said Routon. Anjoli grinned.

“If I were you,” continued Mr. Tack, “I'd change your attack and do the unexpected. Sam has a rather stylish touch with his head, and I have a feeling it's a secret weapon. The last things those lads are expecting is aerial bombardment—you've been keeping it so low. What's your name, my dear?”

“Millie,” said everyone.

“You have a
superb
touch when it comes to passing. Instead of trying to get too far forward, I'd push it out to either Sam or
Anjoli. Let them play the wings a bit more. Then, depending on who's clear, if you feed it to Sam, he'll cross to Anjoli. If you get it to Anjoli—”

“I cross to Sam,” said Anjoli.

“Try it,” said Millie. “I'm happy.”

“But you'll have to make space, boys. Then it's hard crosses. Treat them like shots and get them in the goalmouth. Oh, and—last thing—remember to keep them high. Both you boys can jump, so keep the ball
high
. Their fullbacks are as slow as old tanks.”

*

The Ribblestrop team trotted out with a new sense of purpose. Unfortunately, so did the high school. They wanted three-nil. Darren wanted his hat trick because it was quite true, a spotter from Arsenal had accepted an invitation for a fixture next term and would be looking at his score sheet.

After five minutes, the whole crowd started to sing, “Easy! Easy!” Encouraged, the high school forwards hacked into the defense. Henry caught an elbow in the throat and was brought down hard and dirtily five minutes later, stud marks up his calf. He was dazed and bloody, but no fouls were given. They were getting through to Sanchez too: the shots were piling in and the boy rolled and dived, punching the ball clear again and again. The ball seemed permanently in the Ribblestrop half; it was corner after corner.