Return to Ribblestrop (3 page)

Ruskin got up and went to his friend. ‘Don’t worry, Sam, they always use stretchers these days. I think it’s for training – it doesn’t mean anyone’s badly
hurt.’

‘Dad has only just got well,’ said Sam. ‘They’ve just taken the cast off!’

‘Psst,’ said Millie. Oli snapped his eyes up to hers; they had been wandering crazily over to the windows, then to his hands. ‘Oli Ruskin.’

‘Hello,’ said Oli.

‘Did your brother tell you about the new system we have this term?’

Oli’s eyes fluttered. ‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘He told me some stuff.’

‘It’s a bit like the old days, at all those posh public schools. New boys are assigned to the more senior pupils, like me and Sanchez. They have to run errands. Shoe-cleaning,
toast-making, that kind of thing.’

Oli groped for a word.

‘How old are you again?’ said Millie.

‘Nine,’ said Oli. ‘And a half.’

‘Look. I don’t want you getting bullied. If you play your cards right, I’ll see you get put with me.’

Oli’s eyes filled with tears, but whether they were from fear or gratitude wasn’t clear.

‘Why are you coming to Ribblestrop?’ said Millie. ‘Didn’t your brother warn you what happens?’

‘Mmm, well. I was . . . Mmm.’

Millie tried to put on a kinder face. She sat a little lower in her chair and tried to meet the boy’s troubled eyes.

‘You see, my primary school was a bit useless,’ said Oli. ‘I was really just repeating work, treading water really, which was hardly challenging. So they put me up to the next
class but it wasn’t any better – it had rather a
worksheet
methodology and I wanted something more project-orientated, something more stretching. I did a trial day at the big
school, you know – the local boys’ comprehensive. I—’

‘Didn’t you like it?’

‘Mmm, all the boys. They were really quite rough and they were just doing things I’d done at home. I had a tutor, you see.’

‘Did they beat you up?’

‘I was only there for a morning. They said they would, though.’

‘I don’t think they’d have appreciated you. I think it was a wise call, coming here. I’ll make sure nobody touches you, Oli. But you will have to do a few jobs – is
that OK?’

Oli licked his lips nervously. His Adam’s apple bobbed and he looked around him, as if to check nobody could hear. He leaned forward in his seat. ‘You seem very decent,’ he
said. ‘Do you have any, mmm . . . hobbies?’

‘Hobbies?’ said Millie. ‘What, like stamp-collecting?’

Oli was nodding.

‘No,’ said Millie.

‘I do.’

‘I bet you do.’

‘We’ve got a really good hobby. Sam’s into it as well, so’s my brother. If you like . . .’ Again he looked around nervously and pulled a booklet out of a pocket.
‘For a job, I mean . . . I’ll show you how to make one of these. I’ve got loads of spares.’

‘What is it?’

Oli pushed the booklet across the table and Millie glanced quickly down tiny columns of small print, taking in complex-looking cross-section diagrams. Oli’s face had changed; it was now
eager. He stood up and leaned forward, his nose close to the page. He was breathing quickly. ‘Four-wheel-drives, radio-controlled. That’s just the chassis, showing how to mount the
clutch. Sam’s got a Land Rover. I’ve got an earth-mover, more of a drill really. It’s the sort of thing you use to make underground railways; it drills the soil and clears it. If
you like, I could make you the submarine.’

‘Could you do me a favour, Oli?’

The child nodded.

‘While I’m reading this, could you get me a saucer I can use as an ashtray?’ Millie had produced a cigarette. She was searching for her lighter. Oli gazed up at her, his tongue
just visible between his lips.

‘Your first errand,’ said Millie. ‘Go and get a saucer, and see what’s happened to my hot chocolate.’

‘OK.’

‘In fact, Oli?’

The boy turned, hands up at his chest.

‘Get the menu, will you? I want proper food.’

Oli trotted off. Outside a fire-engine manoeuvred past Father O’Hanrahan’s car and got the foam hoses ready. It said something for Oli’s new sense of responsibility that he
didn’t drift off to watch. He did everything Millie had asked, making sure she had salt and pepper cellars, a napkin, and even a towel for her dripping hair. Then he sat next to her and
explained exactly how her submarine would work.

Millie discovered that she was getting quite interested. She put down her fork and took the boy’s small, frail ear between her fingers.

Oli stopped talking and stared with big fascinated eyes.

‘You’re actually quite cute,’ she said. ‘I think we’re going to be friends.’

The blood rushed to Oli’s face and in three seconds he was scarlet.

Back at Ribblestrop Towers, it was still Christmas.

Father Christmas himself was sitting on a desk. Opposite him stood a large snowman and on the sofa, looking anxiously through thick glasses, sat an elderly fairy. The school hadn’t had a
Christmas party at the end of the winter term; it hadn’t seemed appropriate as the police were still in the grounds recovering the body-parts of the deputy headmistress. The headmaster,
Captain Routon and Professor Worthington had therefore been keen to start the new term in celebration and style – hence the fancy dress.

Downstairs, the orphans were waiting, dressed as elves. The feast was laid, and there were gifts, jellies, and crackers plus an enormous gingerbread model of the school. There was to be a disco
and finally a film.

The headmaster put the telephone back into its cradle.

‘Bad news,’ he said.

‘What’s happened?’ said the captain.

‘There’s been a car accident and they’re all stuck in Somerset. They won’t be down till tomorrow.’

‘Anybody hurt, Giles?’ said the fairy.

‘No, thankfully – everyone’s fine. I didn’t quite understand the details; there was a lot of background noise. But it would seem that the Tack parents are in Casualty,
just being checked over. They’re with those two . . . religious people.’

‘What about the children?’

‘They seem to be right as rain. They’ve been installed in one of those Sleepeasys for the night, and they’re hoping we can send a vehicle tomorrow morning.’

‘Easy enough, sir. I can take the van.’

‘It’s not really roadworthy, is it, Routon?’

‘There’s a few jobs left to do, but it gets from A to B. I’ll leave first thing.’

‘We’d better tell everyone downstairs. Drat it, I had so hoped to get off to a good start. The orphans were disappointed enough about Sanchez’s late arrival . . .’

‘We can have the party tomorrow, Giles – it’s hardly the end of the world.’

‘Jellies won’t keep, sir.’

‘We’ll eat the jellies and show the film. Poor kids! They’ll be going out of their minds with boredom waiting at a motorway service station. You know, I had a feeling something
was wrong.’

‘Go!’ shrieked Oli. ‘Straight!’

‘I can’t control it!’

‘Pull the throttle and get the drill
down
. . . you’ve missed it!’

Oli Ruskin had climbed up onto the television, which was bolted to a high bracket in the corner of the Special Deluxe Supersize Family Room. From there he could supervise operations. The room
was ideal: minimal furniture, all easy to move, and a smooth industrial carpet.

Millie sat on its far corner; she had the radio console in her hands and was doing her best to control the digger-vehicle. It had a mind of its own, but she was learning, and laughing with
excitement.

‘Reverse!’ yelled Oli. ‘Go left, go left!’

‘I can’t find reverse!’

There were three radio-controlled vehicles in operation, each one about fifty centimetres long. Ruskin Senior had a truck; Sam had a Land Rover. Ruskin Junior had a strange armadillo-like
vehicle, with twelve small wheels and a sharp, rotating snout. The task was to get each vehicle through the obstacle course that they’d built from the Sleepeasy furniture. Oli had devised a
series of penalties and rewards, and was in charge of the clock. The obstacles were mattresses, blankets, and a telephone cable stretched between bed-legs. It was the telephone wire that Millie was
finding tricky; she had to find a point at which the snout of her drill could get under it. She was losing valuable seconds and Sam’s time had been good.

The windows were all open, but the room still stank of engine oil and smoke. Ruskin Senior was in charge of refuelling, for the little motors ran down ridiculously quickly. Larger fuel tanks
were on order, but Oli was worried they’d need complicated pumps.

‘Rotate it!’ cried Oli. ‘Rotate it!’

‘Damn,’ said Millie. She rammed the toy forward and this time got the drill-head spinning. It severed the telephone cord and took a chunk out of a chair leg.

‘Good!’ shouted Ruskin.

‘Yes, but she loses five for cutting,’ said Oli. He scribbled a mark on the wall beside him.

Millie pressed the steering lever and, amazingly, the vehicle obeyed her and started up the mattress-mountain. Its wheels caught on the sheet and soon it was up to the apex – it nearly
toppled over but righted itself – and started down the steepest part of the slope. They’d propped two mattresses together over a low armchair, and it was a difficult thing to negotiate.
All the toys had four-wheel drives and magi-grip tyres; Oli had put a little extra weight on the chassis of his vehicle, to keep the centre of gravity low. Despite Millie’s clumsy control,
she was making good time now.

‘Oh, keep it steady . . .’ shouted Oli. He was living every half-metre of progress, his hands twitching at imaginary controls. The engine noise was unbearable: high-pitched and
wasp-like. It sawed at the ear relentlessly, the clutch of the little vehicle burning as it teetered down the slope. There were pizza cartons scattered round the room. The boys had torn up the
polystyrene bases, and Sam had used the pieces to lay out a curving road as part of the floor-level steering test. Millie approached it now, in full control.

‘Slow down,’ whispered Oli. ‘Try and get the nose
up
.’

Ruskin walked along with the little car, intent on its progress. His own vehicle had taken eleven minutes to complete the course; Millie was on a very promising eight so far. She turned into the
first straight and missed the curve. Reverse, try again. She oversteered. Black smoke was leaking from the engine and she couldn’t work out how to close off the drill. This was a problem as
the razor-sharp edge was cutting into the carpet, sending wool-threads spinning – the friction was counting against her.

Nobody heard the hammering on the door.

Millie was stuck and the seconds were ticking by. Oli and Sam were cheering. The finishing post was a pillowcase dangling over a coffee table, and it was going to be very close. The drill was
devouring the carpet, the nylon threads melting and smouldering. Millie tried to reverse again.

‘Go!’ shrieked Oli. ‘You can cut through it!’

Ruskin was jumping up and down: ‘She’s stuck, she’s stuck!’ But Millie found reverse and somehow disentangled the drill. She went for the home stretch fast, missing the
pillow and curving wildly. This time the drill slammed into the skirting-board, and the boys cheered louder, knowing she was losing more points. Sam leaped onto the mattresses, did a backward flip
from the table; he punched the air, confident that he had the best time. He bounced to his feet and ran to Oli: the child was doing complicated sums on the wall, subtracting and adding points.

‘Sixty-two!’ he cried.

‘Never!’

‘Sixty-two, so Jake’s seventy-nine points and you’re eighty-one.’

‘Yes! I’ll go again,’ said Sam.

‘Hang on, I haven’t even been!’ said Oli. ‘Millie just had my go. I haven’t been!’ He went to rescue his toy, which had split the wood and was now drilling
through breeze-block. He was about to shut down the motor, when the bedroom door was thrown open and a man in pyjamas stood there, gaping. By his side stood the Sleepeasy receptionist.

‘What the hell . . .’ said the man. Millie and the boys stared at him.

The receptionist was a lady of middle-age: smart, stout, and carefully permed. She held a pass-key in her hand and her mouth was a little black hole of disbelief. She’d been on duty when
the road accident had happened. She had been calm and efficient, and dealt with the worried Mrs Tack, agreeing to keep an eye on things. Sam in particular had reminded her of her own little boy,
ten years ago. She’d meant to pop up and put an ear to the door earlier on, but there’d been a booking mix-up and some builders had arrived unexpectedly, needing accommodation. Then a
big, foreign man had insisted on paying cash with a kilo of coins. The credit-card machine had gone down immediately after that, which led to the computer freezing. It was another guest who’d
alerted her to the indescribable noises coming from the family room. Her eyes took in the smoke, the debris, the upside-down, flung-about furniture: her mouth opened wider as it hunted for an
appropriate word. She looked at the children themselves. They had looked so smart, trooping in after the ambulances and fire-engines had departed. Now they stood there, tie-less and blazer-less
– the sweet one had dirt over his face and his shirt had been used as a cleaning rag, the tails covered in what looked like oil . . .

The man in pyjamas said, ‘I’ve never seen anything like this.’

‘Were we keeping you awake?’ shouted Ruskin, over the noise of Oli’s digger. ‘That was the last race. I’m ever so sorry.’

‘Was not!’ said Oli.

‘Oli, you gave your go to Millie!’

‘I didn’t!’

The receptionist clutched the door frame. She was making small sounds, rather like a puppy. Just as she thought she had the right phrase, she noticed a new detail of the devastation. At last the
fuel ran out and the engine stopped.

‘We’ll tidy up,’ said Sam. ‘It looks worse than it is, but honestly, we’ve been doing this at home all over Christmas.’

‘We always clear up,’ cried Ruskin. ‘I say, are you alright?’

The receptionist was hyperventilating. She had seen the black gash in the peacock-blue carpet. Now she saw black smoke rising from the skirting-board.