Ribblestrop

  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.

  Looking back at the game, the felling of Henry was the turning point. The high school players were so thrilled to see the Ribblestrop giant on his back that they relaxed. Even the defenders came forward, confident that the opposition defense was broken.

  The ball fell in no-man’s-land, and Millie won possession with a neat little sliding maneuver. She then tricked the ball to Ruskin, who tripped over it, so it fell nicely for Podma. He had the one technique: the forward pass, which he’d been working on every day for the fortnight. He found Sam, who was through before the defenders were aware of the attack. Anjoli was on his left, so he punted the ball right and leaped the lethal swinging foot that tried to chop him down. He steamed elegantly forward and once again the ball seemed to hang in the air asking to be smashed. He booted it as hard as he could and high, just as his father had advised. Anjoli was there in the goalmouth; he leaped like a salmon and reached twice his own height, a blur of ragged shirt and flying hair. His head snapped at the ball and swatted it down. The goalie was beaten and the crowd was stunned into silence.

  One-one.

  It was even again. The silence on the pitch was like deafness. Darren looked bewildered but the Ribblestrop players simply trotted back to position, as if they wanted only to press on. Of course, the high school boys reacted. Of course, they were enraged. But the Ribblestrop boys were well versed in dealing with that, and with an even score they were inspired. For the first time they were able to ignore the screaming, jeering crowd. The noise seemed not to matter. There was a new determination, razor sharp. All the passing practice had paid off. They kept the ball moving and, as the high school tired and slowed, Ribblestrop got faster and more dangerous. Yes, they missed Asilah, for Millie could not complete the elegant triangles he’d been part of, she just couldn’t run as fast. But the tactic suggested in the interval was a good one, and the high school boys seemed too stupid to anticipate. She kept on moving the ball up to Sam or Anjoli, and it kept getting through.

  With ten minutes to go, they had their chance. This time it was Henry sweeping up to Ruskin. Ruskin lunged bravely for his heaviest kick of the game: the ball bounced through his legs and fell perfectly for Millie. Ruskin shrieked for the return pass and ran forward, arms waving. Millie saw him but tweaked it out to Anjoli, who was way over on the left. He danced it round a defender and brought it inside. Sam’s father was shouting, “Shoot!” The headmaster was roaring. Professor Worthington and Mrs. Tack were in each other’s arms, and Captain Routon was out of his wheelchair, his bandages unfurling. Ruskin made for the six-yard box, still calling and calling . . .

  Was it a shot or a cross?

  It was probably both. Anjoli took Mr. Tack’s advice again and smacked the ball hard and high, just like a shot. Sam, like an arrow from a bow, simply flew: he was a mixture of javelin and cat, and he headed the ball hard. Physics took over. The ball slammed into the goalkeeper’s elbows and it ricocheted hard to the ground. A defender swept it away in a half volley, brutally hard, and the ball caught the still-running Ruskin—two meters from the goal—full in the face. His spectacles disintegrated, but the ball rebounded straight and unstoppable into the top lefthand corner of the net.

  Two-one.

  Ruskin knelt in the mud, utterly bewildered. He was carried off the pitch shoulder high, laid in the recovery position by the Ribblestrop teachers, and quickly subbed. Onto the pitch ran Tomaz, representing his school for the first time. Ribblestrop wanted three, and the high school needed the equalizer. The next goal would be crucial and there was no time to look after the injured.

  It all started with Sanchez.

  He kicked longer and deeper; Vijay crossed to Millie. Millie was desperate to score and saw at once her opening. She so didn’t want to pass. Anjoli had scored and so had Ruskin: it was her right. She feigned a shot and the goalie went left. A high school defender got to the goal line, closing down the angle. It was almost impossible. Almost, but there was some slim chance, if she could drive it into the top corner—a voice in her head was screaming, shoot!

  Weeks ago, she would have shot. But this time, she passed.

  It was a skillful little flick and it found Anjoli, who took it like a pro. He flipped it sideways and booted it hard and high; there was Sam, rising by the far post
, a bald torpedo of a boy climbing higher and higher, way above the bar. He connected. He nodded it down and the high school was beaten. The goal net swished again, and it was three-one to Ribblestrop.

  “They’ve done it,” whispered the headmaster. The man was on his knees. Professor Worthington had her arms round him, and they were both crying. Harry Cuthbertson blew the final whistle five minutes early and the high school team walked shell-shocked from the field. Their supporters were openmouthed and speechless. The Ribblestrop players were equally dazed.

  The head of high school security had been alerted, and he reversed the Tacks’ people carrier right up to the center line. As the children climbed in, Captain Routon touched every child’s head; he couldn’t shake hands because of the pain. He was crying too, and he could only squeak their names. As if to mark the miracle, there was a roll of biblical thunder, like the applause of a god—and a breeze washed over everyone.

  Professor Worthington saw the first distant crackle of lightning and went rigid.

  “Headmaster,” she said.

  “Yes, my dear?”

  The blood had drained from her face. “Where’s the car? The storm’s early. I need to get back, quickly.”

  The vehicles rolled out of the high school as the clouds rolled in.

  III

  Mr. and Mrs. Tack took Sam off for a cream tea in a local village, saying they’d return him later that evening. They would stay in a hotel for the night and take him and Ruskin home tomorrow. Nobody had noticed that tomorrow really was the last day of term.

  Millie and Sanchez ducked out of school supper. They left the hall quietly.

  “You’ve got blood on your face,” said Millie.

  It was late afternoon and the clouds were solid black. Thunder muttered all around the park.

  “I know.”

  “Why don’t you wash it off? Is it your badge of glory?”

  “Shut up, Millie.”

  They walked in silence.

  Sanchez said: “They’re sending a car for me in the morning. Heathrow Airport. I’ve got to be there at three.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s all over, isn’t it? Time to go home. I’d hardly realized it was . . . that time. Christmas.”

  “Shall we go and see Neptune?”

  They sauntered over the lawn together and watched the thunderclouds. As they got to the lake, the first raindrops fell like bullets.

  “I’ve been burned,” said Millie. “I’ve been frozen. I’ve been chased, I’ve been tied up and battered. They still can’t get me.”

  “Maybe you’re immortal.”

  “If I’ve got nine lives, I must have used about . . .”

  “Nine,” they said together. And they laughed.

  “Next time I’ll be mashed,” said Millie. “If there is a next time. The high school ref said I’d better watch my back next term.”

  “Where will you be?” said Sanchez.

  “Me? I’ll be here. Where d’you think?”

  There was a flash over the lake and an immediate peal of thunder. Sanchez smiled. “I thought you hated it,” he said. “I thought you were going back to London.”

  “There are worse places,” said Millie. “You’ve got to go somewhere.”

  “True.”

  Millie said, “How long are the holidays? When are we going to meet next?”

  “Four weeks. We have until the middle of January. I need a break! It’s going to be so sunny, it’s a perfect summer in Colombia. I was telling Tomaz—I wanted him to come, but he still hasn’t got a passport. We were going to take a tent, just me and him. Take a stove, some steaks—we have a ranch so we get the best meat, and the horses are beautiful. It’s wild country, Millie. You can ride all day and see maybe just a few Indians, right up into the snowline. He really wanted to see it.”

  They were quiet for a moment. There was another bolt of lightning, and they saw this one fall: a neat fork, off in the woods. Neptune appeared in a mist of rain, so they sheltered under his shoulder.

  Millie said: “What was the scariest part, for you, looking back?”

  “When we saw that doll in the chair.”

  The lightning came again and lit the lake up as a dish of silver. The thunderclap seemed to burst from the woods all around.

  “Are you scared now?”

  “Now? No. I’ve been in some storms. The worst storm I ever saw was in Colombia—”

  “I was scared in the wood, Sanchez. I was scared when Tomaz got me, I thought he was going to kill me. I was so scared looking for Anjoli. Creeping in, when just the candles were lit. Hearing her voice.”

  “That woman was bad news. That man.”

  “I was really scared when they were getting ready to drill him, but that was like a dream. That was the strangest part.” She licked her lips. “I’m scared now.”

  “Why? Lightning strikes trees or buildings. There’s no way it’ll touch us.”

  “I’m not scared of that. I’m just scared.”

  Sanchez sighed: “I don’t get you. You’re about to have a holiday. Everything’s fine, you should be happy! You’re not scared of thunder, are you?”

  Millie turned. She looked at the boy and said, quietly: “Sanchez, what is wrong with you?”

  “What?”

  “Why are you so dim?”

  “Sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “No. You don’t. You never do.”

  They stood in silence for a moment. Millie sighed. “So go on. Tell me more about Colombia.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Oh, everything. How sunny it’s going to be. How you and Tomaz are going to eat plums and go swimming in fresh, cool rivers and—”

  “But we’re not. He hasn’t got a passport, so he can’t travel.”

  Millie shook her head. “Forget it,” she said.

  “What?”

  “What!”

  “What’s wrong? Forget what?”

  “You are such a swine!”

  “I’m not, I don’t—”

  “Where do you think I’ll be for Christmas?”

  Sanchez frowned. “I don’t know.”

  “Of course you don’t,” said Millie. “You haven’t asked, have you? You have never asked me about my family, my home, or my life. You don’t know anything about me.”

  “No, I suppose it’s not my business . . .”

  “You just asked me if I was even coming back here. For all you know, this could be the last time we see each other.”

  “Well, yes. But—”

  “And you don’t give a damn. You just asked me, ‘Where are you going next term?’ You don’t care!”

  “Of course I do.”

  “You don’t. You don’t care!”

  “But, Millie, you just said you are coming back. So am I!”

  “Okay, listen: I don’t know where I’m going for Christmas. My father’s in Germany, all right? My mother’s away somewhere, I don’t even know where. I got a message from my dad saying to check into a hotel until he gets back.”

  “Oh.”

  They were silent again. Millie said quietly, “I’ve got a passport. I’d like to come to Colombia with you. I was hoping you would ask.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t . . . think. I thought you’d have plans.” He was silent for a moment, and then he said, softly and formally: “Millie. My father and I would be delighted if you were able to change your plans and maybe join us for Christmas, at our home. I can get a ticket at the airport. We could fly together.”

  For the first time in a long time, Millie couldn’t speak. Finally, she managed to whisper. “I’ll have to check,” she said. “But I think that would be very nice.” She said something else as well, but her words were obliterated by a roll of thunder so loud the very earth seemed to tremble.

  IV

  Professor Worthington had not been popular when she demanded that everyone meet in the tower of science. The children were tired and they wanted to curl up in thei
r dormitories and watch the storm. There was a Christmas party at eight and they wanted to rest their aching limbs before it. But they trooped up the winding stairs, obedient as ever.

  When they reached the lab, the first thing they saw was a fine mesh of wire stretched over the ceiling, as if for some elaborate network of cable cars. It had grown since their last lesson. From sockets in the wall thick red cables looped and curled; crocodile clips pegged them to the mesh. There were coils of copper wire dangling from hooks, threaded through beards of silver wool. Electricity had been restored to the school, of course, since the cutting of the main cables. It looked as if the professor had demanded that a rather larger supply be installed.

  “I thought we all deserved a treat,” she said. Her voice was trembling.

  “Sanchez isn’t here,” said Anjoli.

  “Nor’s Millie,” said Ruskin.

  Sam burst in through the door, his shirttails trailing from the soccer match, his cap firmly, proudly, on his head. “I’m sorry, miss, my parents took me—”

  “I know, Sam. No problem.”

  “Wow! What are we doing?”

  “I thought we all deserved a treat. Shoes off, everybody.” There was a buzz of uncertainty. “Put them to one side. Yes, I know his feet smell, Israel, you’ll just have to put up with it . . . Asilah, press that blue button, would you? Just above the rheostat.”

  “Miss, it’s raining! Don’t!”

  “What’s the problem with a little bit of rain?”

  Asilah pressed the switch and the roof of the tower started to fold away, leaf by leaf. Fat raindrops bounced on the floor and furniture, and a crash of thunder made the glass rattle. It was cold.

  “This happens very rarely, it might be one big anticlimax. I don’t want anyone getting their hopes up.”

  Ruskin said: “Should we be taking notes?”

  “I promised a demonstration . . .” She pressed another switch and the hydraulic probe lifted from its box and started to extend. The children hadn’t seen it since that day, weeks ago, when they’d helped build the lab. It nosed up now into the pelting rain, as if to meet the thunderclouds. A gust of wind sent the downpour spiraling over desks and onto the floor. In seconds the children were soaked, their gray shirts clinging to their skins, their hair plastered back.