Return to Ribblestrop

  He started the engine. The windscreen wipers dislodged two great shovelfuls of snow onto the ground. In a short while, the truck came into view, its headlamps carving out tunnels of whirling snowflakes. The lights flashed and it slid behind them. Captain Routon hunted for first gear.

  ‘Maybe we should look for that Travellers’ Sleepeasy,’ said Doonan. ‘Try to get warm, perhaps . . .’

  ‘We’ll make it, sir!’ cried Routon.

  ‘I’m just thinking, it might be wise to hole up against the weather.’

  ‘We must press on. We’ve got to get those animals to safety and there’s a party tonight.’

  ‘Animals?’

  The school van nosed its way forward.

  It’s one tail-light was just visible to Flavio and he crept up as close as he dared. A smile had spread across his face and it was the first time he had smiled in several months. He nursed the truck forward, out of the lorry park and onto the road. There was scarcely another vehicle to be seen.

  The motorway was almost impassable and several pile-ups kept all the police cars in the region busy. This was lucky, as Flavio’s truck had been described by a number of witnesses. Had it been spotted and stopped, the driver would undoubtedly have been arrested and – with his chain of convictions – deported. If that had happened, the Ribblestrop circus would never have existed.

  Instead, the two vehicles crawled slowly west together and the children taught Flavio the school song.

  Chapter Eight

  Back at Ribblestrop, Lady Vyner heard the arrival from the south tower. She sat in her broken sofa and as the truck arrived, she put her head in her hands. Her grandson was working quietly at the corner table. They looked at each other as the engines revved and tyres mashed the gravel. The horn sounded long and hard, and they winced. Minutes later, the air was ripped to pieces by volleys of fireworks, the detonations ricocheting round the grounds.

  The old lady pressed her fingers in her ears, but still the school song rose upwards, shouted on and on to the accompaniment of sticks hammering dustbin lids.

  ‘They’re doing a procession,’ said Caspar, peering out of the window. ‘Such a load of babies.’

  Lady Vyner started to moan.

  ‘He’s still dressed as Father Christmas. The orphans are dancing – they’re still in those stupid elf-suits.’

  ‘Shut up, Caspar!’

  ‘Oh – they’re going back inside.’

  Moments later, the tower started to vibrate to the low thud of disco music. This lasted for two hours and then there was a precious silence. The old lady hobbled to the kitchen to make cocoa and the Christmas carols began. ‘Not again,’ she hissed.

  ‘Not again . . .’

  The children and their teachers were at last enjoying the party they had longed for. They sat in the hall under a roof they’d built with their own hands. A million fairy lights were strewn from the rafters and a nine-metre Christmas tree twinkled, laden with candles. Father Christmas had wept, openly, as he welcomed everyone home. Professor Worthington had waved her fairy wand and made wishes for every child, and the gifts had been distributed, rewrapped for the fun of it and distributed again. Just before midnight, Tomaz – who had made a brick oven in the giant fireplace – produced the biggest goose anyone had ever seen, sizzling amongst roasted vegetables. Now the children sat back, wrapped in duvets, surrounded by the debris of their celebrations. Nobody could dance another step. Nobody could take another mouthful, solid or liquid. Brother Doonan had been welcomed and a frost-bitten Father O’Hanrahan had been wheeled in briefly. Flavio had been introduced, but had left immediately to sort out the animals. There was only one thing left and an expectant hush had descended.

  ‘Well, boys,’ said the headmaster. He pulled off his beard and hat, and stood before his school. His eyes were shining. ‘Boys and Millie. What adventures we have had together . . . And here we again, facing new ones. Who knows what is about to happen this term . . .’

  ‘Sanchez, sir?’ said a young orphan.

  The headmaster raised a hand. ‘There were times last term when I said, “That’s enough, Headmaster! The Ribblestrop dream has died!” But it was you who relit the candle and took the candle to the torch. It was you who showed me that a true Ribblestropian never gives up, and never says, enough – indeed, that could be a second motto, couldn’t it? Never enough! We are ready, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ shouted everyone.

  ‘I am so glad. You will be aware, of course, that we have been fortunate in acquiring a zoo within the last few hours. Our thanks must go to Sam, Oli, Millie, and Ruskin for that sensational piece of foresight. I am awarding each of them a house point, which is just one of the new initiatives this term. House points will be awarded for acts of care, courtesy and courage. Indeed, any act that develops Ribblestrop as a community will be eligible for a house point, for a community cannot—’

  ‘Time for the film, sir?’ said Captain Routon, quietly.

  ‘Yes! I just want to add, before the excitement of the video . . . that we will be holding Speech Day in a tent, at the end of this term. I have had a very quick consultation with my colleagues here and we feel that the term should climax in a circus.’

  There were immediate gasps.

  ‘A circus in which you will be the performers, of course. So I will be inviting all of your parents . . . I know that some of you don’t have parents, but that should not prevent you taking part and . . . receiving your prizes.’

  The orphans looked confused.

  Professor Worthington touched the headmaster’s arm. ‘Time for the film, Giles.’

  ‘Yes. So I want you to think about that and ask yourselves, ”What can I do for Speech Day?” Now I am going to hand over to our newly appointed Head Boy—’

  There was another, louder gasp of excitement.

  ‘No, no – not in the flesh. As I explained, Sanchez is in South America—’

  The excitement broke into disappointment.

  ‘I told you that! He has been delayed by family business – quiet, please. However, his friend Millie Roads – who travelled with him intrepidly through the mountains of Colombia – has brought a videotape, on which I believe he has recorded some wise words. Is that right, Millie?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Millie had sent her luggage ahead from the airport, but the one item she had not let out of her sight was the Sanchez video. She had helped him make it. She had been sworn to secrecy and not mentioned it to anyone except the headmaster. She produced it now, wrapped in tinsel and foil.

  ‘And Millie,’ said the headmaster. ‘I wonder if now is the time to announce to the school that just as we have a Head Boy, we also have a Head Girl.’

  Millie blinked. ‘What?’

  ‘Yes, we’ve done a lot of planning over the holidays, and as a staff, we went into this very carefully. You are Ribblestrop’s Head Girl.’

  Sam started to clap and very soon the applause was deafening.

  ‘But I’m the only girl,’ said Millie.

  ‘We think that you and Sanchez will provide the necessary leadership. We could think of no better role models.’ He stood to shake her hand and pressed a small enamel badge into her hand.

  ‘What am I supposed to do?’ said Millie. ‘I’m not sure about this—’

  ‘All ready to go,’ said Captain Routon, taking the parcel gently from her.

  ‘Let’s not waste time!’ cried the headmaster. ‘Sanchez cannot be with us for a little while yet. He is visiting his mother, who died recently, due to . . . circumstances beyond her control. However, I think you will agree when you see his message, that we have a very special term ahead of us. Thank you, Captain!’

  Captain Routon pressed the switches and the lights dimmed.

  The children huddled forward as a great white beam flashed upon the wall. A complicated set of lenses and bulbs meant that the image was projected huge, and the children were bolt upright, peering hopefully as white dissolved into a millio
n specks of black and grey. Suddenly, it was blue. And then, as if he was there in the room by magic, a face three metres high flickered into life. Andreas Emilio Sanchez was smiling at his friends, and the children burst as one into yet another volley of unstoppable cheering. The camera was close up and their friend looked radiant and healthy. Clear skin, shining eyes, oiled hair.

  He started to speak, but of course the words were lost amongst the howling of the waving children. Routon had to pause the movie and shout for quiet.

  ‘Hi,’ said Sanchez, at last. He was a softly-spoken boy and there was now a hush as the congregation listened. ‘I’m really sorry I’m late back, guys. I’m looking forward to seeing you again, obviously. Hi, Millie! Hi, Sam, Ruskin – hope your brother’s with you – and hi, Tomaz, and hi, Asilah, Israel, Sanjay, Anjoli, Henry, Podma, Eric . . .’

  He went through all the names.

  Captain Routon stopped the projector again, because some of the younger orphans were up against the screen, running their hands over Sanchez’s chin.

  Millie’s eyes were moist and she looked from her friend to the little badge in her hand and back again, deeply confused. When the film started again, the camera pulled back – and again, a hush fell. Sanchez was normally seen in his school clothes, like everyone else. It was a shock to see that he was wearing something very different, and as the children took in what his costume was, several mouths fell open.

  The room was silent.

  Sanchez was wearing football kit. He wore a striped football shirt and the stripes were black and gold. The shorts were black with a golden bar down each thigh. The socks were black with three golden bands. He even had black-and-gold wristbands. He shone like a young golden god.

  ‘Millie and I designed this kit,’ said Sanchez. ‘She promised she wouldn’t tell, so I hope she didn’t – well, I know she wouldn’t, because one thing I know is Millie doesn’t break a promise. So . . . I hope you like it. My father made a load of them, so . . .’ Sanchez looked off-camera and laughed at something. ‘We’re going to have a proper strip now, all of us. All different sizes, no problem, and the boots and the footballs . . . everything we need. It’s all in a box and I’m bringing it with me. In time for our first game!’

  The audience was in pain. To keep silent after announcements like these was physical torture, and there was groaning. Sam was on his feet.

  ‘More important than that . . . I need to introduce you to a friend of mine.’

  The shot changed to a panorama of a warm, sandy beach. The camera wobbled and then it zoomed in on Sanchez again. He was still in his football kit, limping towards the camera with a football under his arm.

  ‘There’re a lot of kids in Colombia who don’t have much,’ he said. ‘You know what I mean – don’t have anything, is what I mean. Street kids and that – so if you’re a girl or a boy, all you dream about is making it big. Football is a big business out here. Everyone knows the story: if you get seen – if you get selected – you can be the richest boy in Colombia.’ The camera was closing in on Sanchez’s face. ‘There’re boys on this beach, which is where I live, who play football with me. They’re the best footballers I ever saw. And there’s one guy . . .’

  The screen went black.

  Many of the children were standing now, with clenched fists. They knew by instinct that something even more special was about to happen. Sam was rigid.

  The screen lit up again, muddy yellow this time. It was hard to work out what you were supposed to focus on: it looked like the sand. The camera moved and a bent Coke can came into view. The camera drew back and there was a small, brown foot. A girl’s voice – Millie’s voice – said, quietly, ‘OK, dimwit, go.’

  The foot got under the can and with a flick of the toes rolled it up to shin height. With the instep, the can was passed up onto the knee, where it bounced three times. The camera drew back further, and Sam saw a long-haired boy of eight or nine years. He was wearing tatty shorts and nothing else. He was concentrating only on the can: it went from knee to knee, to foot to head to shoulder to knee. The kid spun round and caught it with his heel, knocked it up to his shoulder again, fed it back to the head and knocked it higher and higher, jumping now to get the can two, then three metres, up off his head. He brought it down to his knee, raised it up and suddenly – just as you’d got used to the momentum – he flung himself on the ground, slashing in an overhead kick. The can came at you like a missile, your hands flew to your face. It struck the camera lens and the film jarred for a moment. Then it was back on the boy’s feet and this time he was dribbling a football. Sam wiped his eyes quickly: this was ball-control as he’d dreamed of it.

  The boy’s feet leaped and hopped, blurred in the air, and the football zig-zagged as if it was alive. Alive, but on a wire, it scribbled in the air, those feet conducting it upwards and sideways. It was gone; it was there; it was still; it was snatched away in a blur of brown legs. Sanchez was trying to tackle the boy, but stood no chance. There was laughter, there was wrestling, but still the magic feet kept the ball and kept it moving.

  ‘No . . .’ breathed Sam. He had to close his eyes: the light was too bright. He was in the lion’s mouth again.

  Sanchez returned and by this time the whole audience was pressing close to the screen in stunned silence. Sanchez was sitting on a wall and the footballing boy was sitting next to him. Both wore the bright, wasp colours of the new Ribblestrop kit. The little footballer looked self-conscious, smiling at his toes, peeping at the camera.

  ‘This is Imagio,’ said Sanchez, putting his arm round the boy.

  Imagio grinned and said, ‘Hul-lo,’ shyly.

  ‘And this is the surprise. I hope it’s OK if I say it? My father phoned our headmaster a little time ago, OK? He asked if Imagio could come to the school, ‘cause he doesn’t go to school out here.’

  ‘Yes,’ whispered the children.

  ‘And we were told, yes. So . . . we got Imagio a blazer. And he’s been having English lessons and he’s really good – aren’t you?’

  Imagio had covered his face with his hands.

  ‘So we want you guys to be good and train hard. I mean, we are the best school, so that’s not a problem. But we are going to have the best football team as well in the whole country!’

  The children couldn’t contain themselves any more: Anjoli was yelling and jumping up and down; Israel was simply screaming, ‘Yes! Yes!’ over and over again.

  As if he knew, Sanchez spoke up. His voice was loud, his gaze firm: ‘A few days, OK? I know we got a lot on, with nature study and stuff. But, Captain – you keep two places for us, yes? This term is gonna be . . .’ The noise was deafening. ‘The best!’ were his final words, but nobody heard them. Imagio waved self-consciously and then, as if he could stand the formality no longer, he put a hand over his friend’s mouth and threw himself backwards off the wall. Sanchez disappeared in a flurry of legs.

  The movie finished.

  ‘By remarkable coincidence,’ said the headmaster, once he’d got silence, ‘the High School coach telephoned me this afternoon.’ He unfolded a paper carefully and cleared his throat. ‘First game of the season. Tuesday, three weeks hence, at eleven o’clock in the morning. Here at Ribblestrop.’

  ‘Quiet . . .’ said Routon.

  ‘We have a lot to do this term! Boys! Listen! Stay where you are!’

  There was no stopping them, though. Every child moved as one and the headmaster found that he was no longer standing on the podium. He was in a forest of hands, and those hands were lifting him higher and carrying him. The school song rose again, the voices soaring. No choir could have matched that passion. It was a wonder the roof stayed on. There were harmonies. There were soaring descants. Every voice was trumpeting:

  ‘Ribblestrop, Ribblestrop, precious unto me;

  This is what I dream about and where . . .

  I want . . .

  To be . . .’

  The new term had started.

  Chapter Nine
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  Ribblestrop’s Inspector of Police, Percy Cuthbertson, had recently been promoted. According to the official report, he had shown exceptional courage in an undercover situation. He had saved the day and been sung as a hero. A number of important people – for reasons far too complicated to go into here – had worked together to protect him from the suggestion that he was, in fact, corrupt, dangerous, and motivated only by personal greed. He was now the county’s Deputy Chief Constable. He had been given a new uniform, with bright buttons and extra-large epaulettes, and he had a fine office on the ninth floor of city headquarters. He had his own coffee machine, his own sofa, and mint-edition copies of Policeman’s Weekly. He had a personal assistant in a sub-office outside who didn’t mind calling him Deputy Chief Constable every time she spoke.

  When you consider these triumphs, you might assume that D.C.C. Cuthbertson’s interest in Ribblestrop Towers would now be at an end. You might have thought that it would hold only painful and embarrassing memories, and that he’d avoid the place.

  You’d have been wrong.

  D.C.C. Cuthbertson had, for a long time, known things about the school that he hoped would make him wealthy. He’d been researching its secrets for more than a year, noting the rumours and filing reports. If Ribblestrop Towers was the honey-pot, then D.C.C. Cuthbertson was the desperate, dangerous wasp that would never stop circling it. Soon, he hoped to make another move.

  It was unfortunate that the officer had so little to do, and that his new title was simply a way of keeping him idle. He had time to imagine all kinds of revenge for the humiliations he’d received, and he would sometimes sit at his desk smiling at the wall for ten or twelve minutes at a time. He’d refused to give up his old office at Ribblestrop Police Station, insisting that one day he might need it again. As he was the only one with keys, there wasn’t much his underlings could do.