Ribblestrop Forever!

  ‘You get crosses if you’re out of uniform,’ said Jacqueline. ‘Three crosses and you go to The Darkroom.’

  Mr Ian was caught off-guard again. ‘Oh, Jacqueline,’ he said, gently. ‘You’re going to give the wrong impression if you carry on like this. The Darkroom, I should say, is what we call . . . well, it’s a kind of small room—’

  ‘I remember it,’ said Miles.

  Mr Ian swung round and saw two unblinking blue eyes gazing at him. The boy’s arms were folded and he held a long knife.

  ‘I remember it well.’

  ‘It’s really not that dark,’ said Mr Ian. ‘Just a tradition, really—’

  ‘I don’t want to go there,’ said Scott, suddenly. ‘I haven’t taken my blazer off, sir. I’m wearing it!’

  ‘You’re not going there!’

  ‘I don’t want to!’

  ‘Look,’ said the headmaster in a decisive voice. ‘I can see that this gentleman’s come to see us for a reason, and it’s very rude of me not to find out what that is. So, here’s a plan. We’re going to have a private chat, and I want you children to give Jacqueline and Scott a tour of the camp. I’m putting you in charge, Sam – you’re the most sensible. Back here in half an hour. Asilah, can you get the donkey into its paddock? And Mr Ian . . . let’s go in here, the children will be fine, I promise you. No need to worry. We’re having a pig-roast later and you are welcome to join us if you’re able to change your plans.’ He took his guest by the arm and led him forward. ‘Ah, Captain Routon, in the nick of time, that’s lucky . . . This is Mr Ian of The Priory School. I have a feeling he’s got something up his sleeve and I’m dying to hear what it is.’

  Captain Routon was bare-chested, wearing a canvas cloak and army trousers. ‘How do you do, sir?’ he said, extending his hand.

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Ian, weakly. ‘Thank you. I wonder if—’

  ‘Step this way,’ said the headmaster. ‘Your pupils will be fine. We aren’t cannibals.’

  Mr Ian was staring after Jacqueline and Scott, who were surrounded by tribesmen. Even as he watched, they were moving away from him and their blazers were being peeled from their shoulders. He felt a hand on his arm again and he was ushered by two adults into a tall, thatched construction, the floor of which was strewn with reeds.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘So,’ said the headmaster. ‘How can we help?’

  Mr Ian could feel the phone in his pocket buzzing and he knew at once that it was Cuthbertson. He felt a pang of helpless fury – the man would be asking for a report, already. He knew the visit was today. He sat in the shadows, cursing his luck and wondering, for the hundredth time, if there was any way out.

  There wasn’t.

  ‘Well,’ he said, at last. ‘You’re right, I have come with a . . . proposal.’ He drank more water and remembered his manners. ‘A request, actually. I’m here to ask a favour and . . . well, if you gentlemen can help me out, I’d be in your debt forever. The whole school would be, actually.’

  ‘I’m intrigued,’ said the headmaster.

  Mr Ian looked him squarely in the eye and asked the question that Cuthbertson had told him to ask. They had rehearsed it together. ‘How seriously do you take outward bound?’

  ‘Very seriously.’

  ‘Oh good. So do we. It’s pretty much at the heart of The Priory’s curriculum.’

  ‘I wish we could say the same,’ said Captain Routon.

  The headmaster nodded. ‘We’ve often said that with the moors on our doorstep and all this land we should do a lot more outward bound than we actually do. Especially in the summer term.’

  Mr Ian felt encouraged. He was over the first hurdle. ‘Do you by any chance do the International Pioneers’ Award?’

  ‘No,’ said Captain Routon. ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘It’s quite a high-level programme,’ lied Mr Ian. ‘It replaced the, er, Queen’s Orienteering Medal about three years ago. The Royal Marines designed it, so it’s quite . . . arduous.’

  ‘I’m interested already,’ said the headmaster. ‘What’s it involve?’

  ‘Map reading. Survival. A bit of climbing. It’s a bit like the Tor Trail. Did you ever do that?’

  ‘I did,’ said Captain Routon. ‘Quite a few years ago. I was a marshall for that in Scotland with the paras. That’s when you have to climb at least three peaks and pick up coded information. One of the lads took a bullet in the shoulder – that’s how competitive it got.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Ian. ‘That’s . . . probably a bit more serious than the schools’ version, of course.’

  ‘Our kids don’t get enough competition.’

  ‘Don’t they?’

  Routon shook his head. ‘Soft as butter, half of them.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘We go for a co-operative approach,’ said the headmaster. ‘As Routon says, it means some of our boys can be a bit a little retiring.’

  Mr Ian nodded. ‘Well, the Pioneers’ Award is a pretty tough programme and it does mean spending a few days out on the moor. Living . . . without the supervision of adults, in wild isolation.’

  ‘And I take it you do this at The Priory?’ said the headmaster.

  ‘We most certainly do.’

  ‘Is it popular?’

  Mr Ian nodded again, more fiercely. He was going to go through with it. Cuthbertson’s plan was about to be unveiled. A boy had appeared in the shadows with a cup of something and he took it gratefully. The Ribblestrop teachers were staring at him, keen to hear more. ‘It’s gone down an absolute storm,’ he said. ‘These outward-bound activities, they really help separate the weak from the strong – and it looks so good on a child’s resumé. It helps us too, because we can find out who the cry-babies are and crack the whip a bit.’ He paused. ‘In a protective and supportive way, of course.’

  ‘So what has this to do with us?’ said Captain Routon, clapping his hands. ‘What’s brought you all the way to Ribblestrop?’

  Mr Ian smiled. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Now we’re at the crunch.’ He sighed and sipped his drink – it had a taste like ammonia and his gums instantly smarted. ‘I’d better lay my cards on the table and be completely honest. We need a partner school for our next outing. We hoped it would be you.’

  ‘Excellent!’ said the headmaster.

  ‘Yes. We had a bit of a set back last term with an outbreak of mumps, which put us behind schedule. We have to go out again, in the next couple of weeks—’

  ‘My word,’ said the headmaster. ‘As soon as that?’

  ‘Yes. We want to take advantage of the good weather.’

  ‘I can see that makes sense,’ said Routon.

  ‘We also have exams looming,’ said Mr Ian. ‘So we haven’t much time to sit around.’

  The headmaster sat forward. ‘Exams, eh?’ he said. ‘That’s something else I’m trying to get started. What kind of exams do you do?’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘We want difficult ones. Soon as possible.’

  ‘We do the scholarship tests, of course. Profile A and B. Most boys take the Common Standard and Extension papers and everyone has Creativity Checks. We do the Cambridge Numeracy Programme in early June and our top set does the Oxford High-Flyers. Later in June it’s Mods and Consolidation Tests. And we finish with Career Profiling, so every child knows what it’s aiming for.’

  Mr Ian sipped his drink again. The phone buzzed in his jacket and he ignored it. Captain Routon was looking at the headmaster, who was nodding thoughtfully.

  ‘I’m keen,’ he said. ‘I love the sound of this award and I think our lot would jump at the chance to get out on the moor. I don’t want to tread on Doctor Ellie’s toes, that’s the only drawback. This history project’s been inspired by her and she’s the one steering it.’

  Mr Ian stared. ‘Doctor Ellie, the . . . Not the elderly lady who photographs stones?’

  ‘You’ve heard of her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’s a marvel, isn’t she? She
gave the most splendid lecture last night on natural poisons. There’s a very potent lichen that grows near here. You wet it in urine apparently, add boiling water, and it becomes quite deadly.’

  ‘That’s . . . extraordinary.’

  ‘One mouthful’s enough.’

  ‘Can we combine the two projects, sir?’ said Captain Routon.

  ‘Ah,’ said the headmaster. ‘Lateral thinking. I find Routon often sees a way forward when lesser men see obstacles. What are you thinking?’

  Captain Routon put his fingertips together. ‘If the Pioneers’ Award is Royal Marines,’ he said, ‘it’s going to be top-dollar. Tough but fair. No better training for the would-be warrior. So why don’t we combine it with the flare paths and go off on a proper adventure? This is a gift horse, sir. We should not be looking in its mouth.’

  The headmaster was nodding. ‘I think it’s a yes,’ he said. ‘We’ll run the idea past Doctor Ellie and, if she’s as happy as we are, we can get things moving at once.’

  The three men walked back out into the sunlight to find the camp almost deserted. A few boys were tending to the pig-roast and Doonan was peeling potatoes. Miles was tending one of the fires. He got to his feet when he saw Mr Ian and smiled his friendliest smile.

  ‘Hello again, Mr Ian. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, I’m . . . The sun seems rather bright. I might need to sit down.’

  ‘How was your coffee? We’re experimenting with some herbal infusions.’

  Mr Ian tried to smile, but his facial muscles were paralysed. His cup was half empty and the ground was spinning.

  ‘I wonder what’s happened to your two?’ said Captain Routon. ‘We said half an hour, so we can’t really expect them back just yet. Do you know where they went, Miles?’

  ‘Tree House Two, I think, sir.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ said the headmaster. ‘It’s the prettiest. How’s your head for heights, Ian? You’re looking pale.’

  ‘I’m fine! Lead on, please . . .’

  He managed to get his legs moving. Before he knew it, he was climbing, rung after rung, and he recalled a nightmare he’d had once in the middle of a terrible fever. He’d been trying to climb out of hell as demons and devils poked at him and laughed. When he got onto the tree house platform he couldn’t bear to look around him, for the wind had risen and his stomach was heaving more wildly than ever. He could still taste the strange brew but now there was a stink of coconut in his nostrils because – unbelievably – a boy was crouched over a small fire cooking some kind of sweet sludge. Other children were eating it with their fingers. There were savages down on their haunches, playing a game, and when he was drawn forward he saw, with another awful rise of nausea, that gambling was in progress. They were betting on the progress of slugs and caterpillars, and the cheering was cacophonous. Worst of all, he could see the blurred figures of his own pupils, Jacqueline and Scott – the boy’s shirt was torn and the tail was filthy from where he’d been sitting on it. They were tie-less and dishevelled and had long feathers behind their ears . . . He could stand it no more and only just managed to get to the tree house window before he vomited copiously into the leaves. He sank to his knees.

  Yet again, the phone in his pocket was ringing. He wanted to hurl it over the treetops, but he didn’t dare. Cuthbertson had to be obeyed and he had to get down and out and back to The Priory. The first part of the mission was a success, surely. He comforted himself with that thought as he wiped his eyes and mouth. He might, possibly, have got what he wanted. They might have swallowed the bait. If he could hang on to that positive fact, he might just get back to order and sanity.

  ‘Would you like to spend the night here?’ said someone behind him.

  He swung round and saw Millie staring at him. Asilah was close by.

  ‘Your kids are human,’ she said. ‘Even if you’re not.’

  ‘No,’ he whispered.

  ‘They don’t want to leave. It’s the first time they’ve ever had fun.’

  ‘We’re leaving now,’ said Mr Ian, quietly.

  ‘But we’ll see you again,’ said Anjoli.

  Mr Ian glared. ‘When we get back to school,’ he said, ‘we’ll disinfect ourselves, head to foot. You stink of corruption, the lot of you!’

  ‘Can we guide you to your car?’ said Millie. ‘We want to hear more about The Darkroom and what you did to Miles.’

  ‘Sounds like you had a jolly time,’ said Asilah. ‘What did you hit him with, Mr Ian?’

  ‘He got nothing he didn’t deserve. He got what you deserve – all of you. A good old-fashioned, uninterrupted thrashing.’

  Millie stared. ‘You believe in pain, don’t you?’ she said. ‘I wonder how much you can take?’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The donkeys didn’t improve.

  The orphans tried carrots and sticks. Then they tried sharp sticks. They heated the sticks in the fire and put chilli pepper on the tips. But the animals just bared their teeth and endured. They would not pull the chariots.

  Luckily, Israel had a reasonable relationship with the camel and she was reversed into the harness. The arguments raged about historical authenticity with some children saying that camels were a relatively recent invention. Eric and Podma had done their research, however. They had spent two hours in the library van and argued that, as the lost tribe of Ribblemoor had come by the silk route, they would have undoubtedly brought such a beast. When the camel herself proved willing and strong, her critics fell silent. Everyone piled on and there was a certain grace to her hip-swaying, Egyptian roll. They trundled out of camp, singing lustily. Oli and Sam had translated the school song into Latin and, though the tune was more awkward now, the words sounded heroic:

  ‘Ribblestrop, Ribblestrop, nobis super omnia

  – amaaaa-ta!

  Deliciae somni puerisque academia – (ooh la!) cara!’

  They waved their spears and stamped to the beat, and they came, after some time and some grass nibbling, along the old Ribblestrop High Street.

  They had high hopes of the great museum, for Doctor Ellie had often spoken of it. Ruskin had described his trip to a museum in London, years ago, and had mesmerised his audience with tales of wonder. He explained that he’d seen only a fraction of the exhibits, for the halls were too vast to see everything in one day. There had been a space rocket that really flew and a full-size battleship. There were two raptors fighting a whale and a room full of mummies in bandages that sat up and spoke. He recalled the last dodo, flapping in a cage, and a real volcano that erupted over your toes.

  It was inevitable that the Ribblestrop Museum would be a disappointment in comparison. When they pulled up outside the address they’d been given, the grey façade was an instant let-down. It stood next to Spare Ribb – a kebab shop that had closed soon after opening, due to its undisguised foreignness.

  ‘It’s a house,’ said Anjoli. ‘Just a normal little house.’

  ‘That’s not quite true,’ said Doonan, who was wearing a dressing gown and pith helmet. ‘It’s a converted house. A very old one, apparently.’

  ‘It’s so tiny,’ said Podma.

  ‘It’s closed, as well,’ said Sanjay, looking at a scrap of paper taped to the window. ‘It doesn’t open till nine.’

  The children had been up with the dawn as usual, so they were very, very early. This had been lucky from a traffic point of view, as the handful of cars they’d passed were distinctly unnerved by the slow-motion chariot – there had been two near-collisions. Doonan suggested they stayed put and waited – so Miles went off with Henry to get refreshments. Dave’s Diner was nearby, open for bargain breakfasts, so he used the last of Mr Ian’s cash to buy bacon butties. By the time they were finished – and Doonan had collected all the rubbish – they could see Doctor Ellie.

  She was walking briskly along the pavement with an extremely pretty young woman, and they were in such deep conversation that they didn’t notice the chariot and camel until they came alo
ngside it.

  ‘You made it!’ gasped the librarian. ‘You got the thing working and you’re all in one piece! Look at the costumes, Vicky! Aren’t they wonderful?’

  There were a few shy thank yous, because for the first time in a while, the Ribblestrop pupils were rather lost for words. Some were even blushing under the intense gaze of Doctor Ellie’s companion, whose jaw had dropped wide open.

  ‘I’ve told you all about this young lady,’ said Doctor Ellie, nudging her forward. ‘It gives me great pleasure to introduce her in person. Our curator, our inspirational leader – and very personal friend – carrying a torch in the darkness! I present, Vicky Stockinger.’

  Vicky blinked and smiled. Several orphans blushed more deeply and wished they were wearing shirts. Vicky’s smile was the prettiest thing some of the boys had ever seen.

  ‘I’m hardly any of those things!’ she said. ‘But I’m so pleased to meet you – I’ve heard all about you and I’m so glad you’re here. You’re so punctual, too!’ She was searching the pockets of her dungarees. Her long hair was tied back into two bunches and she wore a striped sweater that blazed with every colour of the rainbow. Her mouth settled naturally into a grin and her eyes were the luminous blue of bright skies. She produced a key with a cry of triumph.

  ‘Here we are! I thought I’d left it at home. Now, I hope you’re not expecting very much . . .’

  ‘They’re expecting everything,’ said Doctor Ellie.

  ‘It’s a very small collection and it’s so dusty. The ceiling collapsed last week and we’re still in chaos. Now, if you’ve got questions, I can’t promise to answer them, but I will try.’ She laughed. ‘I’m not an expert on anything, whatever Ellie says. You’re very welcome, that’s the main thing – and I have to say I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for since I saw your circus.’ She smiled at Anjoli. ‘I recognise you!’ she said.

  ‘Me?’ said Anjoli.

  ‘Oh yes. You were so fearless! ’

  The children leapt down from the chariot and filed in through the doorway. Vicky was chattering all the time and, if she was surprised by how close some of the boys were pressing, she didn’t say anything. ‘Now I know you’re doing this project on the Caillitri,’ she cried, ‘so I have mugged up on them. Oh, and I’ve been hearing all about the tree houses! So . . . let me just get the lights on. Ah, now this is one of my favourite items! Can you see? Stand back a little . . . Oh, the light’s gone out. Can you jiggle that switch, one of you?’