Wicked! (129 page)

‘In this invention,’ said Boffin pompously, ‘I’m combining iron oxide and aluminium in order to weld railway tracks together.’

‘You must patent it and sell it to British Rail,’ gushed Trafford, pushing Painswick’s hat to the back of his head, ‘and our royal train will rattle more safely over it.’

‘Boffin is so pants,’ muttered Dora as Boffin carried on mixing, gazing round to see he had everyone’s attention.

‘Buck up, Boffin,’ said Biffo curtly, ‘we’re ten seconds behind schedule.’

‘Would anyone thus have hurried Archimedes?’ reproached Poppet.

‘Such procedures must not be rushed,’ agreed Alex.

Next moment the Zone of Chemical Investigative Science was rocked by a mighty explosion that showered the floor with glass as the windows blew in and bottles and containers of chemicals flew off the shelves and everyone was blown six feet across the room.

‘It’s a bomb, it’s a bomb.’

‘Clear the building,’ yelled Biffo as, amid shouting, screaming and sobbing, people fell over themselves to escape.

Paris, however, had only one thought. Grabbing Dora, he pulled her under the nearest table, shielding her with his body. As black smoke engulfed the room to a crescendo of choking and coughing, he became aware of delicious softness.

‘Get out of here, everyone out!’ bellowed Biffo.

Paris stayed put and, as the smoke cleared, he looked down and saw Dora, blond eyelashes mascaraed with soot, face blackened, but her eyes still duck-egg blue, widening as they gazed up at him. In them and in her sweet, pink, trembling mouth he saw no fear, only love.

Oblivious of the chaos around them, with a feeling of utter rightness and coming home, he dropped his head and kissed her, feeling her breastbone rise as she gasped in wonder, her mouth opening and her tongue creeping out tentatively to meet his. Paris put his hands on either side of her sooty face, stroking back her hair, smiling slowly, joyfully: ‘It’s happened,’ he whispered, ‘at last I can love you,’ and he kissed her again.

‘And I love you.’ Dora choked slightly. ‘I always have.’

‘Paris Alvaston,’ thundered Joan, whose red tie had been blown off, ‘come out from under that table at once. You’re unaccounted for outside. Watch out for broken glass. Who’s that with you? Dora Belvedon, I might have guessed. What do you think you’re doing?’

‘Covering the visit for the school mag,’ said Dora faintly.

Scrabbling up, pulling Dora to her feet, Paris brushed soot and glass off her blue jersey and pleated skirt as reverently as if he’d unearthed a hitherto unread play by Euripides. Unaware of everyone sobbing and shouting around them, he looked down at her in wonder:

‘You and I were the chemical reaction that triggered off that explosion.’

‘We were?’ stammered Dora.

‘What just happened to us could have blasted a man on to Venus, or broken the light barrier, or proved that God needn’t exist because we do. Not even the universe began with a bigger bang, oh, darling Dora,’ and he buried his lips in hers a second time.

‘Paris!’ thundered Joan.

‘I cannot understand what happened,’ Boffin’s voice curled petulantly through the smoke. ‘Perhaps too much aluminium?’

‘What were you trying to achieve?’ asked an ashen protection officer.

‘A revolution in railway safety. It’ll work next time. Ouch!’ Boffin gave a furious squawk as Lando emptied a fire bucket into his face.

‘You’re an asshole, Boffin.’

‘Thank God no one’s been hurt.’ Joan Johnson was comforting a shaken Poppet, who quavered that everyone was going to need counselling.

‘Except those two,’ giggled Bianca and everyone turned to see Dora, both feet off the ground in excitement, locked in Paris’s arms.

133

The sight of Paris in a clinch with Dora proved the last straw for Stancombe, who’d just rolled up and taken stock of his ransacked emporium.

‘You’ve got less than twenty-four hours to repair this building,’ he howled at Teddy Murray. ‘You can work all through the night. I want every man in Larkshire on the job.’

Such was his determination that even Graffi’s father Dafydd was dragged out of the Ghost and Castle to help. Fortunately the damage was mostly confined to the one chemistry zone, which would need the windows mended, the walls replastered and repainted and all the flasks and containers replaced and refilled.

Boffin inevitably received an earful from Stancombe:

‘Of all the fucking stupid, criminal things to do!’

To Boffin’s fury, even Alex agreed with the royal household protection team and the local police that even if the building were declared safe in the morning, the Queen would open and tour the emporium and speak to the students but witness absolutely no experiments.

‘Dad will not be pleased,’ said Boffin ominously.

Despite unearthing splendid skulduggery at S and C Services, Cosmo and the rest of the Lower Sixth, returning from work experience, were gutted to have missed the fun. Cosmo was further irritated to find the ladder outside his room had yet again been removed by the protection officers. How could he ever escape to pleasure Mrs Walton? Replacing it, he leant a Randal Stancombe board across the bottom rung.

Although heavy frost was forecast, the lawn behind the Mansion, on which stood General Bagley and Denmark, was shielded from an icy north wind howling down the Long Walk by the vast, if temporarily damaged, bulk of the Science Emporium. Although the General was oblivious to cold, the pupils lugging four hundred chairs for the not so Great nor Good through the dusk and placing them under a blue striped awning were grateful for the shelter.

‘Ha, ha, ha, my mother’s twenty-two rows back, next to Rod Hyde,’ crowed Dora, examining the seating plan. ‘She will go ballistic.’

The pupils dispersed wearily to supper and prep, but Dora lingered and was discovered by Alex Bruce hosing down General Bagley and Denmark and chatting to security men and their dogs.

‘So many pigeons have dumped on the poor old boy,’ explained Dora, aiming the hose at the General’s bristling moustache, ‘we must wash it off. After all, he is our founder.’

Not for much longer, thought Alex, then ordered Dora to buck up and get back to Boudicca.

The moment he’d bustled off to urge on the frantic activity in the Zone of Chemical Investigative Science, a lurking Paris emerged from the shadows carrying gin and tonic in two paper cups. Balancing them on Denmark’s quarters, he stood back to admire the big horse, gleaming like jet, in the lights from the emporium.

‘Looks much better. Sure you’re warm enough? I like winter, you can see so many more stars now the leaves have gone.’ Running his hand in wonder over her little, cold face: ‘“and thou art fairer than the evening’s air Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars”.’

‘Oh Paris,’ said Dora, gruff with embarrassment and delight, ‘that is so poetic.’

‘Marlowe said it first,’ Paris admitted; then, in bewilderment: ‘I just feel a great Niagara of love has been released from inside me.’

‘How heavenly is that?’ Dropping the hose, Dora wriggled into his arms. ‘How did it happen?’ she asked, gasping for breath a minute later. ‘I wanted it for so long.’

‘I suddenly remembered you giving me the peacock feather. Bad things happened in the past, which made me bad at loving and at letting people get close.’

‘Not any more.’ Dora hugged him so tightly, he groaned. ‘I’m here for you now,’ and she kissed him again.

It was only when the abandoned hose started snaking around, soaking their legs, that she looked down and squeaked in excitement, ‘I’ve got a brilliant plan.’

As Graffi’s father Dafydd wandered past with a tool kit, she called out that they needed his help. Dafydd was only too happy. The entire workforce, he said, was on the verge of going on strike because Little Dulcie wasn’t presenting the bouquet.

Much later, having downed two bottles of red to calm his nerves after the explosion, Biffo Rudge thought he’d seen a ghost, then realized it was Dora Belvedon astride Denmark, training a hose on the General’s hat.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ he bellowed.

‘I miss my pony so much’ – Dora pretended to cry – ‘Mr Bruce kindly allowed me to spruce up Denmark and the General. I’m just washing behind the General’s ears.’

‘Horse must have Arab blood’ – Biffo patted Denmark – ‘with those curved ears and wide eyes and that lovely dish face. Bagley was a good fellow too, not your usual military bonehead.’

‘Isn’t it tragic Mr and Mrs Bruce want to melt him down?’ said Dora innocently.

‘First I’ve heard of it,’ exploded Biffo. ‘Talk about the old order being ripped away.’

‘Our founder flounders,’ sighed Dora, ‘and after he gave us our lovely school. But if he looks nice and clean tomorrow, more people will want to keep him. I’ve only got a bit more pigeon crap to get off, Mr Rudge, and then I’ll race back to Boudicca.’

Fortunately, Alex Bruce was distracted during the evening by a crisis. The protection teams refused to allow in any more chemicals before the Queen’s visit, so all the glass vessels being replaced in the Zone of Chemical Investigative Science had to be filled up with coloured water, by which time it was nearly ten o’clock.

‘No longer Dirty Denmark,’ said Dora, finally handing the hosepipe back to Dafydd. ‘Do you want me to roll it up?’

‘No, you get home, lovely. We’ll be working all night. Shame Hengist’s left, he wanted all the Larks kids to collect their GCSE certificates from the Queen, then bloody Bruce killed the idea. Chantal Peck had already bought her hat and been practising her curtsey all round the estate.’

‘That’s really sad,’ said Dora. ‘How’s Graffi?’

‘Triffic. He and Rupert are thick as thieves. Rupert’s tickled pink with his muriel and I’m getting some triffic winners.’

Over in his minimalist living room, soon to be abandoned for the vast splendour of Head House, Alex was yet again going through his speech with Vicky Fairchild. The explosion in the emporium had removed his eyebrows so he could no longer raise them quizzically to make a point.

‘Just a little more warmth in the words “Your Majesty”,’ cooed Vicky. ‘I know how shy you are, Alex, but let the caring persona shine through.’

Upstairs, Poppet slept soundly. Tomorrow’s outfit, a crimson, yellow and green bandanna and a warm wool ketchup-red smock, was already folded on a chair. Little Cranberry Germaine was yelling her head off, but let Alex deal.

Alex plugged Cranberry on to Poppet’s left breast and reflected that if tomorrow went well, he’d be voted head by the governors on Friday and could have mistresses like Hengist. He’d always admired Vicky Fairchild.

Sally Brett-Taylor turned over a sodden pillow. Tomorrow, so no one would be embarrassed and because she couldn’t bear to look at the butchered school gardens, she’d make herself scarce. She must also pull herself together and find somewhere to live. In the old days, Elaine had slept, often on her back, on the chaise longue at the bottom of the bed. Now she kept vigil in the hall, painful for her bony legs and elbows, always facing the front door, pining, not eating, hoping Hengist would walk in. How do you explain to a dog that Master has gone to kennels?

Sally was pleased to learn from Patience, on the Bagley bush telegraph, that Paris and Dora had finally got it together and yet she was sad. Paris had comforted her during the bleakest time of her life. Like the Marschallin, she must let him go with both hands.

Post-Mrs Walton, Cosmo crept back into Bagley very happy. Work experience had been equally rewarding. He had found the initials BP in Ashton’s diary for tomorrow night, after the Queen’s visit. Amber, at work experience at the
Gazette
, had found BP on the same date in Col Peters’s diary. Dora had found it in Mr Fussy’s.

Cosmo had also discovered, when a card arrived in a mauve envelope from the egregious Crispin Thomas, that it was Ashton’s birthday tomorrow. Cosmo had therefore arranged for Dame Hermione, when she serenaded the Queen, to slip in a ‘Happy Birthday to Ashton’.

Cosmo, who went every which way to gain what he wanted, even promising Ashton a blow job for his birthday, had introduced Lubemir into S and C’s offices as a comely bit of rough trade.

Tomorrow, he and Ashton would spend all morning at Bagley, he to conduct his mother and the school orchestra, Ashton to be presented to the Queen. This would leave the office unguarded for Lubemir, who had already unearthed the shadow of an email from Alex to Ashton on 6 October: ‘HB-T resigned. BR ours.’

What the hell was BR? Was it a typo for BC or BP? After a lot of thought, Cosmo decided it must be Badger’s Retreat, so Stancombe could chop down Hengist’s beloved trees, which had since been daubed with red plague spots, and, with Russell fiddling planning permission, slap desirable residences with a view all over the area.

Lubemir had also dug up so much shit on the bringing down of Janna and BC was looking increasingly like Birthday Club and BP like Birthday Party.

Russell had a planning office in County Hall and Milly Walton, working as a clerk in another department, had found a BP in his diary for tomorrow night. A good day’s work.

On his way back to his cell, Cosmo called Milly’s mother: