Ribblestrop by Andy Mulligan
Twice through, three times. Some children were linking arms. And then, just as suddenly, it died. It was killed, as it were, by a thin, cracked voice, which somehow penetrated the din with two words, sung out high-pitched and long: “Excuse me . . .”
Every head turned. The smaller orphans moved toward older brothers.
“My, my, my, what a mess you people make. Good evening one and all, don’t stand up for me, please. Sit down.”
Lady Vyner had entered as silently as the headmaster.
“Lady Vyner.” His nervousness had returned. He stared, a little wild-eyed. “Ah, can I introduce you to the children? You haven’t met them all, despite—”
“I haven’t, but don’t bother now, it seems hardly worth it. The light is dying, and soon it will be dark. The sun goes down; the stars don’t always come out and children, well . . . they find other schools.”
“Light some candles,” said Professor Worthington.
Candles were produced and the hall was warm again. More than ever, there was a sense of an army encamped, and this was an army that now knew it was under siege. The gaunt creature in a nightgown and Wellington boots stood in its midst like a dangerous angel.
“Defeated . . . but he offers you a half holiday or whatever it was. Eleven goals to two, and the ashes of failure are no doubt thick and bitter in your mouths. Swallow them fast, there’s more where that lot came from. Aren’t you ready to give up, Headmaster?”
“Lady Vyner, is it me you want to see? If so, we can—”
“No, no: I was keen to see you all. Exploited orphans, arsonists, lunatics. Victims of the farce that is your school: good evening indeed. I’m not here to make speeches; I’m simply here for the rent. I was chatting to your deputy headmistress today, and she let it slip that . . . things were going badly. I feel I have to press for payment, having been burned in the past. End of the second month, you said; you’re now in breach of contract, and I have eviction papers ready. Crippen?”
“Could we settle this privately, Lady Vyner?”
“Crippen, I don’t think he’s got my rent. He may need to be flung out onto the steps. Caspar’s watching from the window, hopeful as ever.” The elderly servant had appeared behind her, panting. He held a fat document under his arm and leaned on a chair.
“I most certainly do have . . . some of the rent, Lady Vyner, but now isn’t the time to be transferring cash across the table.”
Lady Vyner brought her right hand up. Crippen staggered forward and passed his bundle into it: it was a thick, cream-colored thing that suggested seals, lawyers, and signatures. “A contract is a contract,” she cried. “I had this one checked and double-checked, I don’t make the same mistake twice. I also have your latest Health and Safety report attached—Miss Hazlitt was most helpful, pointing out just how many rules you’re breaking.” Lady Vyner smiled and shook her head, sadly. Then her voice rose to a crescendo: “If you don’t have the money, the contract’s clear: get out of my home!”
“Lady Vyner, please! I will have a significant proportion of your money by the end of term, trust me.”
“Trust you?” Lady Vyner laughed. It was the sound of knives sharpening.
“We’ve just finished our first soccer match!”
“Trust!” she cried. “It’s contracts I trust, and this one says, what? You’re out of time, you’re out of luck. No second chance without cash deposits, that’s what it says. And you owe me one hundred thousand pounds, Doctor! That is what you promised me, that’s what you signed up to deliver. And I don’t take checks, not from you. Not after your little stint in jail.”
All eyes traveled to the headmaster. He was on his feet still and he met his landlady’s icy stare. The silence grew intense.
“You have another three and a half hours, till midnight. And then I’ll call our friend the inspector and have you thrown out on your ear. He owes me several favors and does just about anything for a little baksheesh, as you probably know. Now where’s that lovely little girlie, the one in midfield?”
In the subsequent silence, it suddenly occurred to Millie that Lady Vyner was referring to her. She stood up. “Here.”
“And what’s your name, my dear?”
“Millie Roads.”
“Handsome. Pretty girl. Amazonian, I wouldn’t wonder, once she gets a bit of flesh on her bones. What are you doing here, child? Why on earth did you pick Ribblestrop Towers?”
“I got thrown out of my last school, miss. No one else would have me.”
Lady Vyner snorted. “Ask a good question, get a good answer. If it’s not too personal, why did your last school expel you?”
“I bombed it.”
Lady Vyner snorted again. “Excellent. Quite excellent—I have to say, unexpectedly, this is all putting me in a better humor. You bombed your school, I’m sure you had your reasons. When will you put this one to the same flaming torch? Once we’ve rebuilt it? I suppose there’s not much to bomb at the moment.”
“I don’t want to . . . burn this one, ma’am.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Millie was silent.
“Come on, don’t lie . . .”
Millie had no intention of lying; but she couldn’t think of the reason. The ghostly figure of Lady Vyner stood before her, almost transparent in what happened to be a spectacular moon gazing through the tarpaulins.
Millie said: “I’ve made some friends here.”
“Really? No other reason?”
“I’m having fun. Some of the time. I think it’s a good school.”
The sound that followed reminded Millie of an angry wasp when you’ve caught one in a glass. It rose, though, from a whine to the rasping of a hacksaw on sheet tin: it was Lady Vyner’s laughter, and it had moved up a register so it veered into sobbing.
“Oh, I do love the innocence of youth; I love to observe its brief life. Friendship, you said. She has discovered it, here in Ribblestrop, at the feet of our jailbird headmaster. Caught up in a confidence trick, little whatshername discovers the joys of loyalty. Oh my, there is a God and His divine sense of humor is twisted indeed! I’ll teach you a lesson, girlie: don’t rely on anyone. They’ll say ‘Here we are, working together . . .’ and they shoot you like a dog, in your own laboratory! In the back of the head!”
Lady Vyner sat down on a bench. She banged her fist on the table.
“Your headmaster owes me money, and I’m not moving till he pays me. Sell your worthless degree, sell it back to the crackpot college you bought it from. Write a prison diary, that can make a fortune these days. By midnight, Headmaster—cash payment, in full. That’s your deadline, so let’s wait for the clock to strike.”
The children stared, terrified. Dr. Norcross-Webb said, simply and quietly: “To bed, everybody. We have an exciting day tomorrow. A nice holiday.”
The hall emptied quickly.
Chapter Twenty-seven
“So he’s not even a real headmaster, Sanchez. You heard what she said.”
“I do not want to hear.”
“He has a police record, he’s done time in jail. We’ve got to go down to the cellars and see what he’s up to. Tonight.”
“No. You’re listening to a crazy woman.”
“Is she making it up? What if she isn’t? And why would she? It was noticeable that he didn’t say anything.”
“Keep it down, Millie!” hissed Ruskin. “Sam’s sleeping.”
They sat in the boys’ dormitory. Nobody even thought of going to bed. “Perhaps he has a little dignity,” said Sanchez. “People go to prison, that happens all over the world. My father spent time in prison: it does not mean you’re a crook. For me, he’s the headmaster. I like the school, and you said you do also. So where is the problem?”
“Problem one: he’s stealing the money. My fees are being paid, so how come he’s not paying his rent? Problem two: a boy disappeared last term and there are strange things happening in the cellars, so I think w
“Okay!”
“It’s not okay. Problem three is lying in that bed. In his first term, Sam has been mutilated. That’s hardly childcare at its finest, is it? Problem four—”
“I don’t want to hear about any more problems! And for another thing, your problem one is not a problem, I have all the money here. Okay? Under my bed.”
“What?”
“My father sent it. To the headmaster.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know. More than she wants.”
“Your school fees are under the bed? When did this happen?”
Sanchez looked embarrassed. “The first day, I just kept forgetting. I’ve hardly unpacked, all right! One minute we’re in a tunnel running from a train, the next it’s training for soccer. We have homework, I’m writing letters, I’m looking for your blasted map. I forgot the money, okay? Is it a problem for you?”
“Don’t you pay by check?”
“No. Always cash, it’s the way my father does business.”
“Oh.” Millie stared at Sanchez. She said, quietly: “I’m glad you still have faith in him. But listen to me: you can get as cross as you like, but you’re not going to shut me up or make me feel bad about saying what needs to be said. I saw a laboratory. I saw something like a dentist’s chair and they are getting very scared about what we know. We have a map; we found the access point. I think we should go down and see what they did to Tomaz.”
“Oh my God, all I want to do is sleep! Tomaz went home!”
“You’re getting angry because you know something’s wrong. You know as well as I do, Tomaz never got home!”
“Nobody knows that!”
“We should be doing something about it, but you’re too scared! We have an incompetent headmaster, an insane deputy headmistress, a so-called head of science who thinks we have batteries in our heads—”
“Shhhh!”
The door opened. “Sanchez?”
“Headmaster. Sir.”
Sanchez leaped to his feet, almost to attention. Millie rose as well.
“I’m sorry, my dears, I can sense I’m interrupting. I wanted to check up on Sam . . .”
“Sorry, sir, of course. Please come in, you are very welcome, sir.”
“Little chap’s on my mind, I can’t settle.”
“Sir.”
“Did I interrupt something important?”
“Certainly not, sir. Will you have a glass of water? Refreshment?”
“No, no, no. There was another matter, too, Sanchez. Millie as well, but that can wait. How is the little chap, any improvement?”
“He was speaking in his sleep, sir.”
“Really? He may have fever again.”
“No, sir—I could not hear his words, but they were quiet. He’s not running a temperature.”
At that moment, Sam rolled over and let out a groan.
Millie said: “Shouldn’t we get a real doctor? He might be dying.”
“Yes. I think maybe you’re right, Millie. The time has come to end this, hasn’t it?”
“To end what, sir?” said Sanchez.
“I think we have to face the facts. This is the end of the road. I’ve just been looking at the eviction papers, there’s no room for appeal. I promised, you see, and—”
“No . . .” said Sam.
“Promises must be kept. And Miss Hazlitt has asked for my resignation.”
Sam’s voice was faint. It was a groan of pain. His eyes were closed and his face twitched. As they stared, the eyelids opened. “Where are you, Ruskin?”
“What did he say?” said Ruskin.
Sanchez sat beside Sam. “I think he wants you. Sir, I have something for you, I managed to forget it.”
The headmaster pulled up a second chair and sat on Sam’s left. “Ruskin’s right here, Sam. Right beside you—do you want to talk to him?”
“No!” The boy’s voice was stronger. “Into the center. I can’t do all the work. Millie, play the wing, stay out of the way and I can push it to you. You can cross, you can cross! Oh, go on! Anjoli!”
“Sir, he’s out on the pitch, sir.”
“I think you’re right, Sanchez. He’s reliving the game. His breathing’s better as well. Routon took out the tube—he said he’d come round.”
Sam’s eyes closed again. “To me, to me. I can’t pass, there’s no one to pass to. Okay, all right, but don’t blame me—on the left, he’s through, it’s up to Tack. Oh! Incredible play, he’s out on his own . . .”
“He’s going to score, sir!”
“Astonishing, where did he learn to do that?” Sam’s voice had deepened; he spoke confidently. The voice was a TV commentator’s: “The crowd are on their feet now, they rise as one: it’s Tack. All the way! The opposition doesn’t know what to do, they didn’t expect humiliation like this. Oh! Oh! On he goes, this is poetry—through the legs, over the shoulder, this is soccer, the goalie’s dithering . . . Yes! Yes! Ah!”
Sam sat up in bed, bolt upright.
“He’s delirious,” said Millie.
His eyes were wide, his arms were flung open wide. “Three-nil!” he shouted. “Hat trick! Yes!”
“Sam!” shouted Sanchez. He held him gently, by the shoulders.
“What?”
“The game’s over.”
“What? Where am I? Oh. Am I late? My cap . . .”
“Sam, you’re in bed,” said Ruskin. “You’ve been hurt again.”
“The game finished hours ago,” said Sanchez. “You’ve been unconscious, man. Do you recognize me?”
“Of course I do. Did we win?”
“No, we lost.”
“Oh. Was it my fault?”
“For goodness’ sake, Sam,” said Millie. She sat down on the next bed. “Get a grip. You were the hero, all right? You were scoring number two and their gorilla of a goalie kicked your head in. You were stretchered off and we went down eleven-two.”
“When’s the next game?”
“The next game! Sam, look at yourself! Look at your leg!”
“Why?”
Sanchez put a hand on Sam’s arm. The headmaster stood up and moved back, simply watching. There was a movement in the doorway—the orphans had come, unable to sleep themselves. They pressed silently into the room.
“Sam,” said Sanchez. “I think you are in for a big shock, yes? When the goalkeeper came at you, he messed up your leg, pretty bad.”
“Oh.”
Sam lifted the sheets and peered down at his legs. “Where?”
“You lost a lot of blood, man.”
Sam pulled the sheet off completely: his left leg was swathed in bandages. He moved his hands down his thigh, to his knee. He moved the joint; he flexed his toes.
“It’s not broken.”
“Keep it still,” said Asilah. The room was now full of children. Every orphan was carrying a sweet, as tribute to Sam.
“My dad says you can always tell a break,” said Ruskin. “You can’t move anything.”
Millie said, “You lost about ten pints of blood. You’ve been in a coma.”
“Oh no.” Sam laid back on the pillow. He closed his eyes and seemed to go pale. “Oh no, just imagine. He did me with his cleats?”
“Yes.”
“Ruskin! Millie!”
“It’s all right,” said Sanchez. “You’re okay. We’re here.”
“Oh thank you!”
“What?”
“It’s my left leg, isn’t it? Oh thank Heaven! I lead with my right: if he’d done me on the right leg, I might never shoot again. You see, Millie? It’s just like my dad says. I’m so lucky. I’m so lucky . . .”
And with that the boy’s eyes closed and he fell fast asleep and snored.
“He was raving,” said Millie. “He’s off his head.”
There was suddenly the loud blowing of a nose. “I’ll leave you to it now, children,” said the headmaster. “I’m afraid the school must close . .
He made for the door, slightly unsteadily. Anjoli opened the door for him and saluted.
“Oh, sir,” said Sanchez.
“Yes?”
“Sir, I am very sorry. I have something for you that I should have given you weeks ago. From my father, sir.” Sanchez stood and moved to his own bed. Then he was bending low, leaning in under it. He had to lie down full length, and even then stretch. After some time, he re-emerged, clutching a shoebox. “I don’t know why I forgot, sir: my father will be angry. He said make sure this is given straightaway, but with all the things that happened . . . I forgot.”
Dr. Norcross-Webb took the box. You could see him caught between excitement and fear. You could almost read his thoughts: What if this is some well-meant gift? . . . A handful of cigars, perhaps. A Colombian doll in national dress . . . It was heavy. He didn’t dare open it.
“No problem at all, Sanchez. Thank you.”
“Aren’t you going to open it?” said Ruskin.
“No, no . . . I’ll look at it tomorrow.”
“It’s just some money, sir,” said Sanchez. “My father says not to use the bank, I don’t know why. Oh, but sir.”
“What?”
“Sorry, I think I left my gun inside. Can I just . . .”
Sanchez lifted the box lid gently and reached in. He took out a handgun and, as he did so, the headmaster glimpsed whole bricks of banknotes, tightly packed. The notes were fifties, and even the swiftest glance confirmed that this was more than enough for the rent, the new roof, and other projects besides.
Sanchez replaced the lid. “I think it’s everything for the year,” he said. “And he told me to say thank you very much.” Then he tossed the gun onto his duvet and smiled. “Good night, sir.”
The headmaster stood rigid, unable to move. Very slowly—as if needing support—he put out his hand.