A week had passed – and a week at Ribblestrop was like several months in most schools. No time to sleep! had been on the school-motto shortlist, and though it had been rejected, it contained an undeniable truth . . . there was never enough time.
Flavio had parked his truck by the crumbling outbuildings round the back of the school. A term of nature study was to be adapted to a term of zoology and circus skills, so most of the timetable was abandoned in favour of construction work and football practice. The warmest barn had been given to Violetta and the lorry-cab had been parked close to it, so Flavio could be next to her. The camel was given a small, roofless paddock as he seemed to enjoy the snow. Interestingly, the school donkeys had found him and now spent a lot of their time in the same paddock, nuzzling. The python had been coaxed back to his aquarium, which moved to the orphans’ dormitory in the east tower, along with the possibly-dead scorpion and the parrots. The parrots were not as ill as they had been pretending to be and soon perked up when Podma made a batch of rum truffles. This left the big cats and a crocodile, and Flavio kept them in the trailer for the time being. Heaters and lights were installed, and the orphans began welding up some grilles for a proper exercise yard.
Flavio was happier than he had been for years.
Captain Routon found him a fridge and the headmaster was more than happy to open an account with the local butcher. Fresh meat was delivered daily, so the immediate crisis was over.
Millie had a new home as well, since her dormitory-shed had been burned down the previous term. It was a small classroom and the desks had been stacked against one wall. The store-cupboard in the corner had been converted to a bathroom, and a large sign saying Girls Only had been pinned over the glass panels in the door. She was not sure whether to be furious or relieved that she was still the only female student, and she remained extremely confused by her new title. The Head Girl badge now gleamed in the lapel of her blazer, though she despised herself for putting it there. She told herself that she would see exactly what privileges the new role gave her and balance them against any possible duties. So far there seemed to be none of either, but it was early days.
A tuck shop and a bank had opened, which was truly exciting. These innovations had been promised for some time, and Ruskin in particular was delighted as he yearned to keep his cash safe. He had paid the food bill at the Traveller’s Sleepeasy; he had left the fifty pounds for the smashed burger van. He was so relieved to pass his remaining banknotes across the counter and know that it was, at last, in an account that Millie couldn’t raid.
Both bank and tuck shop were to be non-profit-making and were in the hands of the three youngest orphans, who were learning to count, and therefore very diligent. At present, the tuck shop only sold a small selection of sweets and the items that Tomaz and Captain Routon cooked – but expansion was planned. The three shopkeepers had a homemade abacus and a set of old ledgers. From the first day, they demonstrated extraordinary business sense. The displays were mouthwatering and there were all sorts of inventive sales tactics, from buy-one, take-one, to a complicated credit system with sliding scales of interest according to how much you bought. Every child in the school was issued with a cheque book and a credit card (all handmade in thick yellow-and-black paper). The orphans-in-charge made endless notes and the clicking of beads often went on till well after midnight.
However, the children were ambitious and there were many things that could not be handmade or fashioned from scrap.
The concept of a Ribblestrop Speech Day circus had spread like a fire, and big plans were instantly conceived. The children needed a tent; they needed a second generator and a lighting system. They needed sawdust, pulley-systems for the opening cages, trapezes, and harnesses. Everyone wanted to buy proper cable and wire, as Flavio had been talking of his tightrope-walking days. His cannon stories had been told and retold: clearly, pipes and explosives would be needed. Meanwhile, in the evenings, Oli, Ruskin, and Sam returned to their hobby and started to sketch Millie’s radio-controlled submarine – they were itching to get started. Everyone needed specialised equipment and the shopping list reached twenty pages.
One morning, Captain Routon strode into Doonan’s R.E. classroom, the lists in his hand. ‘Auction rooms,’ he said.
Doonan didn’t mind the interruption. He didn’t find class control easy, and always struggled to make himself heard over the children’s excitement. There was a large question on the blackboard: IS THERE A GOD? and it had provoked heated debate. Anjoli had ended up on the floor with Sanjay sitting on his chest, and most of the desks were on their sides, the children standing on them, cheering.
‘Auction rooms, Captain?’ he said.
The children looked up from the fight, silent and hopeful.
‘In town,’ he said. ‘I should have thought of it before. The second Thursday of each month, there’s a general-items auction. It’s where we got half our stuff to start the school – it’s a treasure trove! Whatever you need, you’ll find it in the auction. And what’s today?’ he cried.
‘Thursday!’ chorused the children.
‘And it starts at ten o’clock. So let’s look lively! Get those caps on!’
It was another bright, cold day and it had snowed again overnight. Every child was ready in five minutes. Ties were straightened, blazers were buttoned, and Brother Doonan led the way. For some reason, the youngest orphans had bonded immediately with him, and Doonan wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or embarrassed. They liked to hold his hands, and if fingers weren’t available, they’d hold his coat. When he’d spoken at the first-night party, they’d gasped at his accent and now tried to copy it.
His popularity had been sealed forever, however, on the second night. He had visited the east tower dormitory, home to the whole orphan clan. He’d offered to read a bedtime story and was greeted with hushed wonder. A huge armchair was found and he was wrapped in a blanket. Sanjay produced cocoa and Doonan read the beginning of The Snow Queen, since it was snowing heavily again and a mournful wind was snaking round the tower. He came back the next night and read on. Podma cooked sweets, the parrots clucked and muttered, and Eric gave him a pair of Himalayan-wool slippers. Even the python came close and sat on its coils as if listening.
Doonan returned on the third night to complete the tale, and – perhaps unwisely – Anjoli laced the young man’s cocoa with rum. It was meant as an honour and a treat, but Doonan wasn’t as used to it as the boys, so he was soon snoring, the story still unfinished. The orphans banked up their stove and carried the snoring Doonan over to it in his chair. Thus, the orphans’ dormitory became Doonan’s and the chair became his bed.
‘Single file!’ he called, as they prepared to set off that morning. The younger boys imitated him. ‘When we get to town, you let members of the public pass and you raise your caps. Hush now, please! There’ll be a house point for the politest boy and a sweet—’
The line galloped off over the snow. It took a good forty minutes to reach the school gates because there had to be so many ambushes and slides along the way. When they got to the road, they realised they’d be late for the ‘viewing time’ if they didn’t run, so Doonan led a brisk canter all the way to the high street.
The auction rooms did not disappoint.
They were a magical mixture of rubbish dump and fairy grotto. Farm equipment, furniture, old clothes, mysterious boxes. Cookers, picture-frames, rugs, roller-skates, fire-irons, walkie-talkies – and the glorious thing was you could pick it all up and play with it. In fact, there were elderly porters encouraging you to do just that. Sam and Oli found radio gear immediately, which was perfect for the hobby they were so longing to develop. Asilah was led out back to a job lot of old iron-railings. Beyond this was a pile of scout tents from a troop that had given up camping. It was as if the auctioneers had assembled all the stuff in the world you needed to excite schoolchildren and said, ‘Welcome, Ribblestrop Towers.’
‘Millie!’ said Captain Routon.
&
nbsp; Millie turned guiltily. She was in the middle of buttoning Anjoli into a clown suit, to go with a bald wig he’d found. An amateur dramatics company had closed down and was selling off its wardrobe. The captain was beckoning her.
‘You’ve got your head screwed on,’ he said, once she was next to him. ‘Come and look at this. Give me your advice . . .’
They walked with one of the porters to a storeroom just off the main hall. It was full of old bicycles.
‘They’ll need a bit of oil, some of them,’ said the porter. ‘But they’ll go for a song.’
‘They’re ancient,’ said Millie.
‘Would we ever use them?’ said the captain. ‘When I was a kid, we loved nothing more than a good old cycle ride! But youngsters today . . .’
‘No,’ said Millie. ‘They’re clapped out. No one’s going to ride things like that.’
She was interrupted by Anjoli. He had slunk in, under the captain’s arm, and he was gripping that arm with all his excited strength. His eyes were glittering and his mouth was open.
‘Please!’ he hissed. ‘Please buy them!’
The hammer came down.
The auctioneer got tired of saying, ‘Gone to the gentleman in the black-and-gold blazer!’ The wonderful thing was that none of the general public seemed to want anything that the Ribblestrop children wanted. The bikes, for example – all twelve of them – went for three pounds, and that was only because a deaf farmer wiped his eye at a crucial moment.
At the end of the morning’s work, the children were drunk with happiness and shopping. The stuff would be delivered, later – it would take several trucks – but it was obvious that they’d cycle home.
Asilah did the sorting and soon the flotilla sailed out into the high street. Most riders were unsteady. Israel, for example, had never ridden, and as he had his brother on the crossbar and his cousin on his back, progress was bound to be slow.
The traffic stopped. It had no choice and the spectacle was so extraordinary the entire town seemed to seize up. The children did their best to raise their caps, which caused several pile-ups. They rang their bells almost constantly.
As they sailed back past the police station, Henry was last in line, on a bike that looked like a toy beneath him. They turned left at the lights, down a gentle slope – a flock of birds tinkling towards the snowy fields.
Behind them, a car braked sharply, the driver leaning on the horn. It was a bright red Porsche and it was itching to get past. The children moved over and it accelerated off in a burst of snowy gravel. Only Tomaz recognised the grinning face that peered out of its passenger window. He saw the hand waving and he promptly fell off his bike. He recognised the eyes, but he knew that it had to be a hallucination. The eyes had shone and a hand had pushed back long, floating hair. Tomaz lay in the snow, blinking with wonder, as the boy got the window down. He was leaning out of it, waving harder and shouting – and it looked just like his old friend! It was the image of ex-Ribblestrop pupil and expelled arsonist, Miles Seyton-Shandy – the same hair, the same voice . . .
It couldn’t be true! Tomaz lay in the snow knowing that it could not be true. The school would never agree to re-admit Miles – no school would ever take him – because . . .
Because Miles was insane.
Chapter Twelve
In the south tower, Lady Vyner was putting on her coat.
‘You delivered my letter?’ she said to her grandson.
‘Yes.’
‘You gave it to the headmaster? In person?’
‘Yes, Gran.’
‘No reply, of course,’ she muttered. ‘No manners. No discipline.’
‘They’re too busy playing with the animals. This place is a zoo!’
‘Totally, completely illegal – it breaks every rule and he will pay for it. He’s late with the rent again and he thinks I don’t know why. It’s because he’s spending every penny on a circus! Every clause in his contract, broken in a week! What’s that noise?’
Caspar went to the window. ‘Bicycle bells,’ he said, with a sneer. ‘And there’s a posh car down there too.’
‘I’ll give him bicycle bells. I’m seeing my lawyers next Thursday – he won’t have a leg to stand on! The worst school in the world . . .’
‘So why have I got to go to it?’
Caspar was also wearing a black-and-gold blazer.
‘Because we can’t afford anything better, Caspar!’ She stared at him, rigid with dislike. ‘How many more times? You don’t pay fees, so you might as well get some crumbs of an education. Instead of sitting there all day getting more stupid!’ The old lady shuffled over to her shoes and kicked her feet into them.
Moments later, Lady Vyner clumped off down the stairs. She’d booked an interview at two o’clock and it was her habit to be utterly punctual. She had two solicitor’s letters in her hand. The first listed a week’s worth of complaints; the second was an aggressive threat of instant prosecution and it had a big, red seal on the envelope.
Turning the final curve of the staircase, she emerged slightly dizzy into a connecting corridor. The light was dim and there was ice on the windows; she put her hands deep in her pockets and struggled on in the gloom. Somewhere off to the right, she became aware of running feet. In fact, they were pounding, getting louder and louder, and a shrill shriek was gathering force and volume. The bicycle bells were getting nearer too and she snarled with irritation. Cycling inside the building! It was just the kind of nonsense she hated most. So – bracing herself and getting ready to grab whatever child was hurtling towards her – she stepped round the corner, right hand upraised.
She was just in time to be knocked, reeling, into an oil painting. Lady Vyner saw a blur of grey shirt spin and zoom off. It seemed to flip and was all hands and feet, zipping down the corridor. The picture she’d dislodged came away from the wall and she was pressed to the floor under its weight.
The boy – half child, half jet – careered onwards, engines roaring. Then the bicycle bells tinkled past unseen.
The headmaster heard the howl as well and a small shock of memory jarred his bones. He stood up, putting a half-eaten cup-cake down on a plate. He removed his glasses as the shriek got louder. Then the door was flung open and he was looking into the wild eyes of the wildest boy he’d ever known.
Miles braked and skidded. He hovered. He panted for breath then stretched out his arms. His face transformed into a delighted smile and the engine-screech reached a new level of happiness.
The headmaster backed away in fear, hands upraised, and Miles leaped forward. He bear-hugged the headmaster, harder and tighter than ever before.
‘Sir,’ he was shouting. ‘Sir! I’m back!’
‘Miles!’ cried the headmaster. ‘No!’
He was crushed against the wall and the window. The frame was rusty and the catch broken – in a moment he was being forced out over the sill.
‘Sir, thank you, sir – thank you! You are the best!’
‘No, Miles! Please!’ The headmaster felt a rush of cold air. He got an arm free and grabbed at the masonry, and a lump of stone came away in his hand. ‘Please!’ His feet weren’t on the floor.
‘You are my best friend! I am so, so different! You won’t believe it!’
‘Miles! I’m falling! Help me!’
The headmaster tried to break the boy’s grip, but Miles was strong as twisted wire. He hugged his old teacher and it was only by a superhuman effort that the elderly man managed to wrench himself back to safety. He fell against his desk and the lamp buckled under him in a tinkle of broken glass.
‘I thought you’d kicked me out,’ said Miles, tearfully. ‘I thought I was sacked!’
The headmaster couldn’t speak. Broken glasses dropped out of his pocket. He was shaking, trying to breathe. He managed to get to the other side of the desk, but Miles followed him round.
‘No second chance,’ cried Miles. ‘That’s what you said, and Mum was just crying and crying . . . but then we got your letter,
like you changed your mind at the last minute, and by that time we were out of the country . . .’ Miles had him by the hand and was shaking it. ‘It got forwarded to her office and when we read it! Wow! We just burst into tears, both of us!’
‘Miles—’
The boy pushed back his hair and clutched a pair of torn shirt-cuffs together, as if at prayer. ‘Mother said the first thing I had to do was write to you and say sorry – but then we got stuck on this island, so she said the first thing I had to do, to say, I mean, was I am so sorry!’
‘Sit down, Miles – please. Let’s have a—’
‘Do you forgive me? I got you a present.’
The headmaster was breathing hard. Miles was fumbling in his shorts’ pocket, and after a moment of searching, withdrew, amongst sweet-wrappers and tiny toy soldiers, an apple-sized lump, in tissue paper.
‘It’s a shrunken head,’ he said. ‘From the island we were on; they were selling them and they are totally real. I put it in our maid’s bed, on the pillow, wearing this little T-shirt, and she went completely crazy, but I know you love stuff like this, so . . .’ He unwrapped it and put it on the desk. ‘Mum and I call him Gilbert.’
The headmaster managed to get back into his chair and sat staring. The little head looked as amazed as he did – it had to be some kind of nut or fruit, it couldn’t be human. He tore his eyes away and looked at Miles. The boy was grinning, eagerly, and the headmaster – through the trauma of the embrace – was filled with an aching tenderness.
The child wore the regulation grey shirt, but it was three sizes too big and torn already, the collar round his ears. Two buttons at most were done up – the rest were missing; the tie was loose, the sleeves flapped, and the cuffs were gnawed and frayed. Miles drew the shirt around him like a shawl and peered from under a fringe of hair that was desperately in need of combing and cutting. In his chair he was a coiled spring – the energy was flammable, rising in waves . . .
‘I’ve changed,’ said Miles, softly. ‘I am a different person now – and I’ve got a shrink in London too.’