Ribblestrop (8 page)

“Memory loss,” said Millie. “He should be in a hospital; he's going to die on us.”

“We need
help
,” said Sanchez. “Go and get the headmaster.”

Millie came forward and leaned over the injured boy. “You got hit,” she said, slowly and loudly. “You got your skull cracked, all on your first day.”

Sam yelped, his right hand clutching his head.

Millie put the cigarette between her lips and forced him down. “Don't touch your bandages, you twit!”

“Hey, be gentle! You're breathing smoke on him, Millie, leave him alone!”

Sanchez could stand it no more. He moved in swiftly and snatched Millie's wrists, yanking them away from Sam. Then he swung her away from the bed, toward the door. “Go and get the headmaster,” he said.

“Sanchez, I told you not to touch me—get your hands off!”

“We need help, and you need to leave him alone . . .”

“Get off me, Sanchez, I'm warning you!”

Her hands were behind her back, her arms twisted. She could feel Sanchez's strength, and her instinct took over. She tried to pull away, but Sanchez was in control. “I don't want you in here,” said Sanchez. He was moving her to the door. “He's sick, Millie! Please!”

Millie bent forward slightly, aware that Sanchez was close behind her. She clamped the cigarette firmly in her lips and smashed her head backward, hoping to crunch it into Sanchez's face. The next moment, she stamped with her right foot, aiming at the boy's ankle. Sanchez was fast, though, and he just avoided both blows. Now she was twisting, and she knew he couldn't hold her for long. He put his arms right round her, but Millie was all elbows and kicking feet and in a second she had one arm free. She grabbed the cigarette from her own lips and plunged it forward. Sanchez ducked clear, so she pushed it into his shoulder, burning
his shirt. He had to leap back, she'd caught the skin and he was gasping. He was better than she'd thought, though: he knew to come in under her arm, and she was in a headlock suddenly, bent backward and round. Then she was on the floor, the cigarette gone. She thrashed with her legs and got one good, heavy kick in somewhere: then she was pinned down hard, both arms wrenched up again behind her back. Sam was wailing and Sanchez was panting furiously; Millie could hardly breathe. She could hear Sanchez at her ear, muttering in Spanish. Then his arms were under her again, and she was lifted and steered toward the door. She bent and writhed, but his hands had her wrists, folding her over. She tried to spin round but Sanchez pushed hard and her head cracked into the open door: a white light dazed her. She kicked out, but was thrown.

Suddenly it was all over: she was in the passageway. The door slammed shut and a bolt clicked into place. She sat down heavily on the floor and waited for the world to stop spinning.

“Damn,” she said. Her nose was bleeding.

Downstairs, the headmaster was making a speech. He'd chosen the makeshift kitchen area in the central courtyard, as he considered it the heart of the school. This is where the children would eat, under the tarpaulins and the ruined roof. This is where the building would rise, and the grandeur of hall, chapel, and library would all be restored.

He wanted the children to smell the history.

In the olden days, fine tapestries had covered these walls. Whole pigs had been roasted in a giant fireplace, and minstrels had piped and tooted in a gallery. According to history books, chandeliers with a thousand lights had cast their glitter over rows of elegant lords, ladies, dukes, and duchesses—Henry the Something had visited, or promised to visit. Now, alas, it was mainly ash and soot.

It was eight o'clock, and the glorious sunlight had made way for a deep, purple nighttime. A handful of stars were out already.

Candles stood in bottles and jars. The children perched where they could: there were a few plastic picnic stools, some chairs from a classroom, and a deck chair. Three orphans balanced on a scaffolding plank, and two on the top of a stepladder. Dr. Norcross-Webb, in Wellington boots and the long black gown of authority, stood on a pile of wooden pallets. He raised his hand for silence. The children were warm, full, and happy.

“A vote of thanks, first of all, to our chef. Captain Routon: thank you.”

There was loud applause. The captain waved his spatula and took a bow.

“Please look at the lists on the notice board, as washing up rotas start tonight. Note also who is on cooking duty tomorrow. Here at Ribblestrop, all burdens are shared. Every chore is a learning opportunity and tomorrow night I will be teaching the art of the vegetarian lasagna. Be aware, please, that we have an early start—lessons begin first thing, with practical geography. Let's hope for a dry day as you will be exploring and charting the grounds with our expedition leader. Our chef will transform himself and lead you on a ramble.”

The headmaster turned over his notes and moved nearer to a candle.

“Science lessons, yes . . . Science lessons will be underway in the very near future. We await the arrival of two new teachers, one of whom has already made her name in learned journals around the world. Professor Worthington is to be in charge of science; she is currently gathering electrical equipment in Scandinavia and hopes to be with us directly.”

Captain Routon raised a finger. “Might be worth mentioning the Brethren, sir.”

“Yes, indeed: the Brethren. What about them?”

“The vow, sir.”

“Good thinking. Children! We are privileged in having among us a small group of extremely devout monks, and they live in what was the old chapel and cloister, half a mile from here.”

“Underground, actually, sir. They moved.”

“I thought . . . Oh. Very well, it makes no odds. The thing to remember is that if you do see them, don't get scared. A ‘Good morning' will suffice, though please do not press them for a response as they have undertaken a vow of silence. I won't mention the cellars and tunnels, because they are strictly out of bounds, and locked—we did lock them, didn't we, Routon? Can't read my own writing here.”

“The laboratory, sir?”

“I wonder if I should mention that? Yes, I think you ought to know. Every old house has its history, children, so you must understand that Lady Vyner has had various tenants, apart from our good selves. That includes, well . . . how would you describe those particular tenants, Routon?”

“It's out of bounds, sir—that's all I'd say.”

“Oh yes, absolutely, but I'm thinking it might be worth
alerting
the children to their presence. It's what we call a
research facility
, dating back to, ooh . . . Second World War and earlier. They ignored my letters, I'm afraid—I was hoping to fix up a tour, but they like to keep themselves to themselves. It's none of our business why, and the last thing we want is aimless wandering or exploring. In fact, our new deputy has ordered some
no entry
signs, which are up in my room. And that, very neatly, brings me to the last item: Miss Hazlitt, who is actually on her way even now. I'm a little surprised she's not here already, some delay most likely. I ought to say just a few words about Miss Hazlitt because we are very lucky indeed to have her. She's going to be a very important member of this community and brings with her a wealth of experience and new ideas. She
had
retired, but agreed, after the events of last term—”

“Do you think it's time for rum ration, sir? While you're talking?”

“Rum ration? Oh, yes . . .”

One boy was snoozing—a high-pitched snore buzzed from a roll of plastic. And most of the orphans had glazed eyes.

“Just the one peg, sir?”

“No more than one. I should just say, boys, that rum is a tradition at the finest schools, and as the heating system here is . . . primitive, well—a tot of rum keeps out the chill. Captain Scott served it on his way south, and it certainly kept me going in the Himalayas even after we lost the tents. Where was I? Miss Hazlitt, yes.
On her way.
So! We'll sing the school song, which means I am required to teach it to you. I wrote it myself, last night. It is a
work in progress
, so to speak—so . . . stand up, everybody!”

The headmaster reached into the gloom by his feet and picked up an accordion. Its leather straps were awkward, and the stage he stood upon rocked a little if he moved too quickly.

“Anjoli . . . is that your name?”

One of the orphans smiled and jumped to his feet, shaking himself awake. Spiky hair refused to sit still under his cap. He smoothed his tie and stood rigidly to attention.

“Could you dish out that pile of papers, Anjoli? Watch out for the mud, it's a bit slippy. Now, the tune may be familiar . . . You'll soon pick it up. The only problem . . .” The headmaster tried to extend the accordion bellows; they groaned open lopsidedly. A rather mournful note blurted over the children. The sleeping orphan was laid on the oven; everybody else stood up straight. “Can you sing that? Together . . . ?”

It was surprising how loud fourteen voices could be when they all pitched in as one. They all hit roughly the same note, though Henry was a very deep bass in comparison to some of the shrill eight-year-olds. The headmaster was encouraged.

“First line, after me . . . Don't be shy! Ready?

Ribblestrop, Ribblestrop, precious unto me;

This is what I dream about and where I want to be.

The words may change, but this is the first draft. One, two . . .”

The accordion bleated again and the choir sang, peering at the song sheets, which were faint in the gloom. Perhaps the tune was indeed familiar? Whatever the case, the couplet was roared as if at a soccer match; it was more of a chant than a song.

“Very good!” shouted the headmaster. “Stop! Stop. Now: there's only two more lines at present. More to come, so let's try what we have . . . Listen please:

Early in the morning, finally at night,

Ribblestrop, I'll die for thee, carrying the light.

Or possibly,
fighting the good fight
, we'll see which one fits best. Can we try it together—ready?”

Before he had finished, someone tried to sing. There was laughter, and a small orphan clutched both hands over his mouth and
danced with delight. He was pulled back by the oldest. The headmaster whined out the note again and the choir piled into the last two lines. Without being asked, they swung back to the start and sang it through again.

“My word, that really is excellent. No more verses yet, so feel free to submit ideas. Shall we just try the chorus? Captain, we may need a little more rum, I see some children have finished—we'll need a tot for the toast. You must wait for the toast, children. After three. One, two . . . sorry.” The accordion was collapsing again and the headmaster had to hoist it up with his knee. It gave an injured gurgle, then its one, plaintive note. “Ready? Three times through. One and two and one-two-three!”

Three times came and went: the song had a momentum of its own, and by the time Captain Routon had refilled the glasses, the verse had been sung a full fifteen times, the word “Ribblestrop” howled like a war cry.

“Oh my dears,” said the headmaster. He had tears in his eyes. The pallets had toppled him into the mud, and he stood ankle-deep. “Sing like that,” he said, “and the world is ours. I have been waiting so long for this day. We stand together as a school—enough at last for a soccer team! Enough to build a dream.”

It was almost dark. Candlelight was reflected in every child's eye.

“This is our first evening,” said the headmaster. He spoke quietly now, because the children had come closer. “So we will drink to our school and to our hopes. Just a small sip, children: alcohol is a dangerous, addictive drug, but it will help us mark this important moment. Nelson dished it out at sea and it kept spirits high in the trenches.”

They raised their glasses and pursed their lips.

“Never look at our school and say, ‘Why?' Look to your dreams, and say, ‘Why not?' To Ribblestrop Towers!”

“Ribblestrop Towers,” said the children.

“We are a family now. A band of brothers. Look around you and look up.”

Every head looked up.

“Can you see through the plastic sheeting? Can you see through to the stars?”

“Big,” said an orphan, softly.

“Can we raise this roof again and make our school strong?”

“Yes!” again rippled through the children. A gust of wind lifted one of the tarpaulins, exposing a whole shovelful of peppery white constellations.

“Then let us drink to hope and vision . . . You are the arrows, children. A teacher simply holds the bow. How high will you soar? Ruskin, what's the matter, boy?”

Ruskin had let out a mournful sob and was sitting on a stool, his head in his hands.

“Sam, sir. I'm just thinking how he's missing this.”

“He's in capable hands, lad, there's no need to worry . . .”

“It's his first day, though. He's missed the song.”

“We'll go to him. Where's Sanchez? Ah, perfectly timed, right on cue!”

Sanchez had appeared through one of the tarpaulins, a relieved smile lighting up his face.

“Sam's better, sir, so much better! He was calling out for his father . . .”

“And Millie's nursing him, presumably? Pulling together, you see . . .”

“No, sir—he was calling for his father, but then he heard the singing. Didn't she come down here?”

“He heard the song, Ruskin, and was revived!”

“Yes, but I told him to rest, sir.”

“It's the restorative power of music, boys. We will go to him and we will embrace him. We need medals, Routon—warrior hero of Ribblestrop, courage under fire.”