‘Sure.’
‘I think he’s a cretin. Look at him.’
CHAPTER SIX
A tall, friendly-looking teacher had emerged from the school’s main door, and was moving briskly towards the boys with his arm upraised. He wore a brown jacket, and though he had bushy hair over either ear, the top of his head shone pink and bald. He was smiling broadly, and calling: ‘Richard Westlake! . . . Richard?’
Everyone was watching now, for the man seemed both anxious and excited. He dodged his way up the crowded path until he stood before the new arrivals.
He spoke quietly then. ‘What a p-pleasure it is . . . to have you back.’
He put out his hand, and Richard and Rikki shook it. He had a curious, honking voice that seemed to come from his nose as much as his mouth. He also had the unfortunate habit of spitting, especially when he stuttered. He had weak eyes, and he dabbed his mouth with a handkerchief.
‘You have been away too long,’ he said. ‘We n-n-need you. Both of you. You’re Rikki, I . . .’ He swallowed. ‘I presume?’ He leaned back and smiled again. ‘If you’re feeling n-nervous, my boy, just try to relax. These chaps will look after you – and if they don’t, I – I will.’
He laughed apprehensively and wiped his mouth again. Mark and Eric had taken their own handkerchiefs out, and were wiping their faces. It was clearly a running joke, but Mr Barlow appeared not to notice.
‘T-two minutes to the b-bell, so let’s go in. Has Jeff told you about the football? I hope so. Come on, all of you – we’ve got a little sur-surprise for you. And you can t-tuck your shirt in now, Eric – school’s starting.’ He put his hand on Eric’s shoulder. ‘We run a tight ship here, or try to. Bit of a b-bore, but there you have it. Keeps everyone’s minds off the important things – t-tie as well, please, Eric. Sort it out . . .’
Mr Barlow led the boys into the school and along the corridor. It wasn’t long before they were in the classroom Richard remembered so well, and as he stepped inside, his classmates started clapping. A banner was unfurled: ‘Welcome Back Richard and Rikki!’ it said, and there were whistles and cheers from all around the room. A huge cake appeared on a tray, and a trolley of little snacks and drinks was wheeled through the bright furniture.
Richard turned red, and when he glanced at Rikki he saw that he too was pink and grinning, gazing around at a room bulging with artwork. Children came forward and introductions were made. The food was distributed as the chattering rose to shouting and laughter. Soon the carpet was covered in crumbs, and Mr Barlow called upon different children to explain the different things they’d been learning. When it came to clean-up he had to shout to make himself heard.
It had been the perfect start: the ice was broken, and the class was ready to work.
‘Some s-start!’ said Rikki, as everyone took their seats.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Hell of a p-party, huh? We’re f-f-famous.’
‘Shall we sit down?’ They were standing at their locker. Richard swung the door open, and reached inside for his books.
‘Oh my,’ said Rikki, stopping him. ‘What’s all this about?’
‘Our stuff. What’s wrong?’
‘You run a “t-tight ship” yourself. We did the decorations, did we?’
‘Yes.’
‘We should be proud. My word, what a little treasure-house . . .’
The lockers stood against the back wall, and the children were encouraged to keep them tidy, private and personal. Most of the class stuck favourite pictures around the inside walls. Some used them for toys and valuables as well as books, for they were secured by individual padlocks. Richard’s was next to Jeff’s, and they’d decorated them together. Jeff loved cars, but Richard had covered his with fighter-jets – the jets he’d loved since he’d first heard about them, and felt the engines throbbing through his dreams. He’d suspended his favourite from a nylon thread, and it was both diving and turning.
He’d made it with his grandad, of course, and their fingers had pressed the pieces together, then painted them carefully – pale green for the fuselage, and deep blue for the nose cone. The little pilots were protected under a clear canopy. They wore green, with brown webbing, and the tiny crash helmets were picked out in red. You could make out the eyes over the breathing apparatus, and they hung there – frozen – diving out of the sun.
Richard picked the model up with trembling fingers, feeling Rikki’s breath on his cheek. It had been dusted, for Jeff and Aparna had a spare key. The de Havilland Sea Venom, with a top speed of five hundred knots, folding wings and a tail-hook. Pinned behind it was the most precious thing of all.
‘Remember that?’ said Richard.
‘Oh my,’ said Rikki.
It was a regimental badge. Two wings were embroidered in gentle blues, a fine silver thread picking out the detail. They had once adorned his grandfather’s regimental jacket, and Richard had received them at the age of ten, as a special birthday gift. When he stared at them now, the tears came back to his eyes, and he heard engines howl.
His parents didn’t know he’d brought them to school, and they would have been furious – they were irreplaceable and old and too, too special. He felt the weave between finger and thumb, then gripped them in his fist. They had been earned by a pilot who had once flown high above the world, and had, in later years, waited at the gate – it was just one of his trophies for courage and skill, and Richard had seen them in the old photos, too, stitched on the old man’s tunic. He’d put the photos close to his nose and gaze . . .
‘There! There, Danda! – just there.’
‘Right again.’
‘There!’
‘And you can’t fly without them,’ his grandad had said. Then he’d handed them over.
Richard had fought for the words, and found only two: ‘Thank you.’ They were inadequate for such treasure.
‘Look after them.’
‘I will.’
Rikki laughed, and Richard was jolted to earth. Most children were in their seats, organizing books and papers.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Danda. What kind of word is that?’
‘It’s what we called him.’
‘Did we? Baby days, boy. I’d forgotten all about it.’
The two-year-old Richard had found ‘gr’ such a difficult sound, so ‘Danda’ had stuck. Now it seemed sloppy and foolish, and Richard blushed at the memory. He closed the locker door.
‘Hey,’ said Rikki. ‘Doctor Warren’s seen us. He was looking through the window, just a second ago – staring.’
‘So what?’
‘He saw what we were doing. He can’t keep away.’
Richard looked towards the classroom door, but there was no sign of anyone. ‘What’s it matter?’
‘He saw your eyes, I bet. We don’t give him anything, all right, Richard?’
‘I don’t understand you. I don’t know—’
‘We don’t give out secrets, that’s what I’m saying.’
‘We don’t have any.’
‘Don’t we, Danda?’
‘Shut up. No.’
Rikki looked at him. ‘So, what do you want to do now? Is it time for more fun?’
‘It’s English. We sit down, I guess. Mr Barlow’s waiting.’
‘Story time, is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can feel it coming back. Shall we write a little story, Ritchie – like the other boys and girls?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just a normal one, huh? Not sad, or sick, or lost. Just nice. Normal. And if Doc Warren reads it, he’ll get nothing—’
‘Rikki . . . you’ve got to relax.’
‘I’m about to.’
They took out their pencil case, and their English book, and went back to their table. Richard slipped the wings into his pocket, and saw that Jeff was staring at him.
‘You OK?’
‘Fine,’ said Richard. ‘I was explaining things to Rikki.’
‘I don?
??t understand anything,’ said Rikki brightly. ‘This is all so wonderful and new, and I feel so lucky to be here. When’s the finger-painting? Oh, and there’s Aparna! Hey, guys! I’ve missed her more than anyone.’
Tuesday mornings always involved a complicated writing exercise. The whole class was getting ready for exams, so everyone needed the practice. Before long, there was silence in the classroom, and every child was concentrating on the sheets Mr Barlow had prepared. Mr Barlow was a good enough teacher to know that the rest of the morning should be tightly controlled. He wanted a totally normal day, so that Rikki could relax into a firm but gentle discipline. When he glanced up at the boy, he saw that both Richard and Rikki were working hard, with their tongues protruding slightly through their teeth. Aparna was opposite, and Mark to the left. Jeff was close, on the right, and Salome had her back to them, sitting next to Eric. He let his eyes rest on child after child: Laura, Eleanor, Kasia, Sophie, Charles . . . twenty-seven children, working in silence.
He saw Dr Warren pause in the doorway again, with the headmaster.
Half an hour later, there was a gentle hum of friendly conversation. He noticed Rikki consult his neighbour, and Richard borrowed a pencil sharpener. When they got to the part of the exercise that involved illustration, and colours, everyone shared pens happily. The sun had come out and was pouring in through high windows.
Five minutes before break time Mr Barlow was working one-to-one with Eric. A loud voice called over the general chatter.
‘Excuse me? C-can I be excused, please?’
Eric grinned. It was Rikki.
Mr Barlow looked up to find that the boy was staring right at him. Richard looked slightly surprised, and Jeff looked anxious.
‘Um, yes, Rikki – of course,’ said Mr Barlow. ‘It’s actually n-normal to put your hand up. Then I’ll ask you what you want.’
‘Put my hand up what?’
‘Up,’ said Richard. ‘Like this.’ He raised his hand.
‘Oh, I see,’ said Rikki. ‘Oh right, that’s a kind of signal to attract attention, is it? I get it. What happens if the t-teacher doesn’t see?’
‘I think I usually do see,’ said Mr Barlow. ‘I t-try to keep my eyes peeled.’
‘Yeah?’
‘How can I help?’
‘Can I use the bathroom, please?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘So I didn’t need to ask?’
‘It’s usual to ask.’
‘Ah.’
Richard and Rikki got noisily to their feet.
‘Though, actually,’ said Mr Barlow, ‘it’s only about five minutes to break. Are you sh-sure you—’
‘I really need to go,’ said Rikki. ‘I don’t want to embarrass myself on my first day, so that’s why I asked. If I stay in here I might flood the place. That’s what I want to avoid.’
‘Of course. Off you go, then – no problem.’
The class watched as Richard and Rikki made for the door.
‘You don’t have to be rude to him,’ said Richard, as they stood at the urinal.
‘How was I rude, Ritchie?’
‘You know how. And don’t call me Ritchie—’
‘That guy’s an idiot – how come you don’t see that? Is he in league with Warren?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘He treats us like we’re six. Bra-low? Who made that up?’
‘I don’t know, and it’s not particularly funny.’
‘Why is it some teachers are so dumb? He doesn’t even notice it.’
‘I know he’s a bit . . . strange. But he’s really nice. He runs the end-of-term residential trip—’
‘Which is what?’
‘The residential? We all go off on a kind of holiday. The whole class, at the end of term.’
‘I’m not really a social person, Richard.’
‘It’s the last thing we do. It’s what everyone looks forward to, and it’s a way of saying goodbye.’
Rikki laughed. ‘I’ll say that now, if you want. How can you say Bralow’s nice? He’s gobbing on your face the whole time.’
Richard bit his lip. ‘He doesn’t gob,’ he said quietly. ‘The guys make a big thing of it, but it’s not as bad as that. He had a stroke about two years ago, and he’s got a muscle problem.’
‘He should have retired. He’s a health hazard – and he doesn’t get my sympathy just because he’s ill. Weak people get no sympathy because they’re weak. And who’s the fat kid, by the way? Did you see her putting away that cake? Our cake.’
‘How was that our cake? The class made it.’
‘Bra-low made it, to give it to us. That’s what kills me! You give someone a gift and then hand it round like it’s yours. Eleanor, that’s her name, isn’t it? She needs exercise. You’d think her parents would do something.’
‘Bodies change, Rikki. What’s the problem?’
‘People should stay fit. She’s fat because she’s lazy, and it’s people like us that pick up the bills. She’s obscene.’
Richard decided to change the subject. He stepped down from the urinal. ‘What do you think of Eric and Mark? I’d forgotten how much fun they can be.’
‘Yeah, I don’t know about those two yet. The jury’s out.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Jury’s out, Richard. It’s the terminology of a law court, meaning “I am reserving judgement”. Mark’s a bore.’
‘He’s not.’
‘Eric’s cool – I like him. Mark’s just plain ratty, isn’t he? What’s wrong with his hair?’
‘Nothing’s wrong with his hair, Rikki. Honestly, you’re so critical—’
‘You think his mother does it?’
‘Does what?’
‘Gives him a haircut?’
‘I don’t know. Probably – our mother cuts my hair, so it’s very likely.’
‘That’s gonna stop. She’s not coming near me. She brings scissors near me there’s going to be a bloodbath. We have to break out, Richard – you’re so traditional! Eric’s interesting. But Mark’s got some kind of growth problem. Or it could just be a genetic condition: bad hair, bad genes. Bad genes, bad trousers – you see his trousers? You can see all his ankles. Why don’t kids do something about what they look like? He talks through his nose, as well, and his eyes . . .’
‘He had an operation on his eyes.’
‘They look like they’re going to burst out of his head.’
‘And what do we look like?’
‘Huh? Normal.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘I’m normal.’
‘I’m not.’
‘You will be.’
‘Look,’ said Richard. ‘I like school, and I like my friends. I’m not going to be put off anyone by you. Let’s just get back to class, and I’m not going to ask you what you think about Jeff . . .’
‘Why go back? You heard what the Bra-man said. It’s b-b-break time.’
‘Yes, but the bell hasn’t rung.’
Rikki snorted. ‘Come on, Richard. Live dangerously, can’t you? Where did you put the snacks? We need a sugar buzz, and then I want to see more weirdos.’
‘The snacks are back in the classroom. That’s why we’ve got to go back.’
‘OK, Richard – I’m following orders, wing commander. Permission for takeoff!’
‘Shut up.’
‘Permission for landing, sir! What’s the altitude?’
‘Shut up, Rikki!’
‘I’m joking, all right? And I am following you, again . . .’
CHAPTER SEVEN
They emerged from the toilets to find that the younger children from Years Three and Four were already in the corridor.
‘You said the bell hadn’t gone,’ said Rikki. ‘What’s with all the riff-raff?’
‘They let the younger children out two minutes early. Just to avoid a big rush.’
‘I knew that. Wow.’
‘Hi, Richard!’ said a little girl.
 
; ‘Hi, Maisie.’
‘Little kids,’ said Rikki. ‘Don’t you hate them?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Hey, Richard!’ said a boy, running past.
‘They’re all looking at us,’ said Rikki. ‘With their sneaky-freaky eyes.’
The children were making their way towards the playground, passing Rikki on both sides. Many of them looked up, fascinated. Many of them smiled and waved, because they knew Richard from his bus-supervision duties.
‘They’re thinking how weird you look,’ said Rikki. ‘Stop staring at us!’
‘Just smile,’ said Richard. ‘They’re bound to look. Hi, Mitch!’
‘Hi, Richard – you OK?’
‘Hi, Shoko! – be nice, Rikki. Relax.’
‘You think they’re looking at me? I think they’re looking at that mummy’s-boy haircut of yours. What’s wrong with that one? – now, look at that! – he is sinister.’
‘That’s Salome’s brother. Hi, Rolo!’
‘Salome. Sure . . .’
Richard smiled. ‘He’s a nice boy. We help him.’
‘Hey!’ shouted Rikki. ‘What’s with the cap?’
‘Leave it,’ hissed Richard. ‘You know Rolo! He’s really friendly.’
‘Oi!’ shouted Rikki, more loudly. ‘What are you looking at, pixie-boy? What’s the issue?’
‘Pardon?’ said Rolo quietly. He had reached the door, but he turned and gazed with solemn eyes, surprised by Rikki’s aggression. The child was small for his age, and he stood still, with one hand on the door handle. Other children pushed past, and scattered in the playground.
‘You look lost,’ said Rikki. ‘You handicapped?’
‘It’s playtime,’ said Rolo. ‘I’m going out to play – hi, Richard.’
‘Good to see you, Rolo,’ said Richard. ‘You OK?’
‘I’m OK. I can’t remember the name of your . . . I can’t remember your name.’
‘My name’s Rikki. What’s yours?’
‘Richard just told you. Rolo. My sister’s in your class.’
‘What’s with the hat, Rolo? You a goblin?’
‘Rikki . . .’
‘Shut up,’ hissed Rikki. He turned back to the child, who stood blinking and puzzled. ‘Nobody else is wearing a hat, Rolo – I’m just curious. You look like a gnome.’