It was true that the school bank and tuck shop had become remarkably complicated. The orphans that ran it had learned arithmetic with record-breaking speed. Now their arithmetic had mutated into interest calculations and profit projections. Eric’s younger brother had been at the helm – a sweet-faced boy of six by the name of Kenji, who’d spent two years of his life sweeping the floor of a bank in Western China. In between sweepings, he’d read financial news papers, and he now looked after all the children’s accounts as credit-controller. His team carried the tuck shop around, erecting it in corridors, classrooms – anywhere the children went. Right now they were selling homemade chocolates for a penny each or three for two, or five for three with a free gift and loyalty card for ten. The children ate them with the thick coffee that Podma was cooking.
‘How is it I have no money?’ moaned Ruskin. ‘The only one . . . Thirty pounds I put in!’
‘You have money but we moved it,’ said Kenji, softly.
‘I don’t understand!’
‘Look, Jake . . . your investment’s growing all the time,’ said another boy. This was Anjoli’s cousin – a tiny, black-eyed boy called Nikko. He flipped the beads on the abacus, his fingers a blur. ‘We got you, listen . . . twenty-eight per cent over ten days. That’s not bad! Same as everyone. You’re totally protected, Ruskin – your portfolio’s solid.’
‘But you can’t withdraw at the moment,’ said Kenji. ‘The dollar’s too strong – you’d be cutting your own throat.’
‘All I wanted was a chocolate. One chocolate!’
A ring of chocolates was quickly put around him.
‘All I was saying,’ said Nikko, clicking quickly, ‘is to put the purchase against someone else’s account, just for the time being – just till Hong Kong closes. It’s for the good of the school – we got a vineyard in Argentina going up like a rocket. We don’t need instability.’
‘If you really want to use your own credit,’ said Kenji, ‘we can authorise it, but it’s going to be three over base.’
‘Crazy,’ said someone.
‘Eat your chocolate, Ruskin,’ said Millie. ‘There’s no point arguing.’
‘I’ve lost everything,’ moaned Ruskin.
‘No, no, no!’ said Kenji, calmly. ‘Nobody’s lost money – we just moved your investment and, as everybody knows, it costs money to move money.’
His friends were nodding.
‘He’ll be better off in the end,’ said one. ‘You’ve got to take a few hits up front.’
‘When you sign up with the syndicate, your investment may go up – it may go down . . .’
Ruskin tried one more time. ‘Please tell them, Sam. I did not sign up with any syndicate!’
‘Jake, maybe you didn’t read the small print . . .’ said Sam. ‘I remember now, you’d lost your glasses – it was after supper.’
Kenji smiled sadly. ‘Everyone signed,’ he said. ‘Including you, Millie – and you’re a lot better off than you were. We’ve invested part of your capital in gemstones, making three hundred per cent in a fortnight.’
‘Not after the commissions,’ said Nikko. ‘Two seven zero, net.’
‘I don’t have any money,’ said Millie. ‘I never gave you any.’
‘Ah, but that’s why we used Ruskin’s!’ said Kenji. ‘We put his money into a communal pot and we struck lucky in the first week. The headmaster put in a fair sum as well – the numbers are pretty sweet!’
They were interrupted by dessert.
It was a Podma-Tomaz speciality – a dish they’d created together, with Captain Routon, for the New Year party, and were now repeating by popular demand. They had constructed a long platter of fresh fruit and chocolate, and sculpted it into the shape of a Viking longboat. The oars were gingersnaps and the figureheads at either end were dishes of meringue, loaded with cherries. It sat in a sea of neat brandy, which they now ceremonially set on fire.
Ruskin sat up and wiped his face. The blue flames blazed, illuminating nineteen eager children. The confection collapsed into a mess of molten chocolate and sweet, roasted fruit, and it was scooped into bowls. It was the closest most had come to paradise. When Tomaz appeared from the kitchens to sit down at last, he was cheered. The poor boy had been working all day: he looked exhausted, but happy. He sank into a chair and smiled.
‘How’s the ghost of Lord Vyner?’ Millie asked, a little later.
It was nearly midnight and they knew they ought to be leaving for their dormitories soon. Sanjay had wound up the gramophone and sweet, crackly jazz was playing. Boys lay on sofas and rugs, some chatting, others simply gazing at the flickering lights above them.
Tomaz closed his eyes. ‘He’s good.’
‘You know, Miles said he saw him again.’
‘Really? He’s been here all day, Millie – not Miles, I mean the ghost. Miles could have had a long chat – I just wanted to get on and cook.’
‘Seriously? You’ve been with a ghost, all day?’
‘This is his home, I told you that. He’s always around at the moment. And I tell you, there’s something weird going on. I thought I heard digging noises earlier and voices.’
‘The monks, maybe?’
‘No, they leave me alone. There’s other people, but I don’t know who. We had to open up the entrance to get Henry in – we need to shut it right down, tonight if possible. And there’s something else.’
‘What?’
‘Did Miles tell you? He says he’s lost Sanchez’s gun.’
‘That’s completely impossible. He’s lying.’
‘He says he put it back in the hiding place and now it’s gone. Do you think we ought to tell Sanchez?’
‘Miles is a complete liar—’
‘He shouldn’t have that gun. He’s still scary.’
‘Tom, this is just his way of getting attention. Like not being here tonight, he wants everyone to talk about him. He’s cracked!’
Tomaz sipped his wine. ‘He might not tell the truth all the time, Millie. But he saved my life.’
‘When?’
‘I told you. He’s a lot braver than most of us and Sanchez knows that. You saw him at football—’
‘Oh, come on, you heard him on the tower! He’s a nutcase!’
‘No. Don’t say things behind his back – he’s my friend.’
They were interrupted by a tinkling sound. Asilah was rattling a spoon in a glass and the grotto fell silent. The boy stood straight and tall – flushed and happy. He had pulled on his blazer and buttoned it.
‘I want to make a little speech,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to be a bore, ‘cause I know we get a lot of speeches, but . . . My friend Tomaz, down there, has cooked about the best meal I’ve ever eaten in my life. He made this place, and he invites us to it, and he does all the cooking, and I think he’s one of the best people in the world!’
There was a storm of cheering and applause.
‘I want to say that we’re glad to have Imagio too. And Imagio doesn’t want me to talk about this, but I think everyone needs to know . . . Imagio, don’t go! Get him!’
Imagio had made a leap from his chair, but Anjoli and Sanjay were too quick for him. They held the squirming boy by his arms and pinned him down on a rug.
‘We know he’s the best footballer in the world,’ continued Asilah. ‘We all saw that.’
There were murmurs of support. Imagio lay back, with his eyes closed.
‘And we know he saved us from defeat. But the thing is, something happened. I think we all ought to know about it, because it’s good news. Sad news, but—’
‘What’s happened?’ cried Sam, impatiently. ‘Get on with it!’
Asilah stopped. He delved into his pocket and brought out a piece of grey paper. It had various official-looking stamps and he opened it carefully.
‘Sorry – I’ll just say it. Stand up, Imagio – come on.’
Anjoli and Sanjay hauled him to his feet and Imagio stood staring at his shoes.
‘They’
ve offered him an immediate contract,’ said Asilah. ‘It’s fantastic news, but it means . . .’
‘Who’s offered?’ said Millie. ‘When?’
‘The old guy,’ said Sanchez, proudly. ‘The talent-scout who came down to watch that guy, Darren.’
‘This telegram arrived this morning,’ said Asilah. ‘And Imagio’s not too sure, but . . . well. It’s big money. They want him in London. Formal offer. They want him immediately. He’s gonna be a professional footballer.’
There was a silence as the enormity of the news crept over each child. Many remembered the video they’d watched, of a street boy in tatty shorts, dancing with a Coke can. Some could even recall Sanchez’s words, ‘so all you dream about . . . the richest boy in Colombia . . .’
Imagio sat up. He didn’t know where to look, though. He was smiling, but nervously. Grey shirt, black-and-gold tie. He looked so different already: he’d been turned into a Ribblestrop schoolboy and was soon to be stolen away again. Anjoli had his arm round him.
‘He can’t go,’ said Millie. ‘He’s only just got here!’
Imagio said something softly in Spanish.
‘He’s going to be a pro,’ said an awestruck Sam. ‘He’ll play for Arsenal maybe. Chelsea!’
‘He’ll play for Colombia,’ said Sanchez. ‘I guarantee that.’
The applause started again. Sam was on his feet, his eyes moist. It had dawned on him that he had experienced a privilege he would never have again. He had played with a superstar. The child standing opposite was a genius and that had been instantly recognised. Sam started to sing and, before the first line was done, the whole school had taken up the tune. Imagio was set on his feet, and he stood there, in a tangle of hair that hid his eyes, his hands over his nose and mouth. Three times through they sang it, and everyone rose up, one by one, to honour him.
‘Ribblestrop, Ribblestrop, precious unto me;
This is what I dream about and where I want to be.
Early in the morning, finally at night,
Ribblestrop I’ll die for thee, carrying the light.’
Father O’Hanrahan heard the song. He was lost – more lost than he had ever been, clambering in the terrible circles of the labyrinth. The song came drifting from a fissure in the rock above his head. His hands were damp with sweat and blood, and his cassock was covered in sand. The tunnels ran up and down, round and round. Some were blocked, others simply looped back to his starting point, and the poor man was exhausted.
‘Ribblestrop, Ribblestrop, precious unto me!’
He leaned against the wall and a sob escaped his lips. From the same rock, he thought he caught a sweet smell, thick and sugary like burnt fruit . . .
He sank to his knees and hauled out his radio. ‘Cuthbertson,’ he whispered. He wasn’t even sure what button to press, he was so tired. ‘Come in, Cuthbertson.’
He could hear people clapping and cheering.
‘Please answer! I’m so close. I’m so close!’
Chapter Twenty-four
The next morning, the temperature dropped still lower.
It meant that working in the classrooms was almost impossible, for there was no heating system. This meant no R.E., no art class and no handwriting practice. Routon simply lit a bonfire and upped the intensity of the circus-construction. Flavio organised braziers and the tent-stitching continued.
Professor Worthington lit all the gas-burners in the Tower of Science and refused to cancel nature study. She got the headmaster to help her with a large vat of hot chocolate and the lab slowly warmed up.
She looked down from her window and saw the boys capering towards the building. The snow was thick again and they never seemed to tire of it.
‘We must get into a proper routine,’ she said to the headmaster. ‘The term is slipping away.’
‘I agree, Clarissa,’ he said. ‘But one has to be spontaneous. They’ve nearly finished the marquee, you know. I thought we could start the speeches inside, with a little demonstration of gymnastics—’
‘I’m sure we could!’ said Professor Worthington, with a touch of bitterness. ‘I get a demonstration every day – Anjoli can do three trapeze-somersaults before Eric catches him by the ankles. He was showing off yesterday.’
‘Where?’
‘Here. He’s a menace.’
‘But . . . there’s no trapeze.’
‘From the rafters, Giles – above your head! This is what I mean: I’m all for spontaneity, as you call it, but some of the boys lose all self-discipline. If Anjoli had fallen, he would have broken precious equipment, not to mention these beautiful models.’
‘Yes, I’ve been wondering what they are.’ He peered again at the cardboard and plastic. ‘What are they meant to be?’
‘The arches are pelvic bones.’
‘Pelvic bones?’
‘They constructed the pelvis first, before putting in the uterus. We’ve used plasticene for the muscles—’
‘And rubber bands, my word . . .’
‘The uterine sac was Sanjay’s work, and the umbilical cord. See that tube there? Turn the pump on and you get the blood supply, all the way to the infant. That vessel there is the placenta.’
‘Well, well.’
‘That child could be a surgeon. I tell you, he’s got the most delicate fingers I’ve ever seen and a complete understanding of musculature. I’ve offered him evening classes.’
‘Sanjay’s . . . eleven, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, and his dissection is quite superb. I tell you who else has impressed me and that’s Imagio – another little medic in the making. You’ve got to put your foot down about this wretched football nonsense: we can’t let him go.’
‘What exactly are you dissecting?’
‘Rats at the moment. We’re infested again, luckily, and the orphans are a dab hand at catching them. They use the scorpion.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They use the scorpion to sting them and we can get them onto the slab with their hearts still beating. By the way, Doonan fainted the other day.’
‘When? Why?’
‘It was Sanjay again. His rat was pregnant and he was separating out the foetuses – so we’d all gathered round. I don’t think young Doonan’s a very worldly young man . . .’
‘But what was he doing here?’
‘Oh, he always joins the science classes. He’s had no education, you know. It’s criminal what some schools get away with. Do you want to start pouring the drinks? I can hear Miles.’
The door burst open and the room was suddenly full of excited snow-monsters. Doonan was in the centre, head and shoulders above most, with an unnatural glow of desperation in his eyes. Miles was pushing him from behind.
‘Oh, Professor!’ he said. ‘Headmaster . . .’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘The lake’s frozen.’
‘Of course the lake’s frozen; it’s been frozen for weeks.’
‘But Captain Routon’s done some checks with Oli,’ said Doonan. The children were silent. ‘He’s taken some samples and . . . he says . . . He says . . .’
‘Spit it out, Doonan – what does he say?’
‘He says it’s safe for skating, Miss,’ said Asilah, quietly. ‘But only with your permission being as it’s your lesson. We don’t want to cut classes . . .’
Professor Worthington looked at the headmaster, who was looking at his hands.
‘I see,’ she said. ‘You don’t want to cut classes, but the lake’s frozen and perfect for skating.’
Sam said, ‘We could do an extra session tonight. After tiger-taming.’
‘These classes are important,’ said Professor Worthington, softly. ‘Captain Routon knows how I feel about ice: I will not tolerate aimless sliding about – that’s for playtime. If you had ice-skates, it would be different. We could call it sport.’
‘Er . . . we do, Miss,’ said Asilah.
Shyly, each child revealed what they had, until this moment, been concea
ling: a pair of antique ice-skates, courtesy of that early trip to the Ribblestrop auction house.
‘But do they fit?’
‘Yes, Miss,’ said the children.
‘And you’re saying that despite being in the middle of a fascinating science project, you would prefer to waste your time chasing each other, falling over and generally messing about on a frozen lake?’
‘Yes, Miss,’ said the children.
‘Very well. The headmaster and I will join you in five minutes.’
The children were out like a flock of squealing, howling birds. Some grabbed their bikes; others grabbed useful toys, such as tea-trays, sticks, and odd bits of furniture. Sam, Ruskin, and Oli were carrying their most prized possession, finished only the night before: Millie’s radio-controlled submarine. How they had found the hours would always be a mystery, but somehow the soldering had been completed – they’d had a bath-time trial – and it was now ready for the lake.
An interesting sight was Flavio, in a thick fur coat. He was exercising Victor, which was the name that had finally been chosen for the grumpy crocodile. The beast slithered miserably on the ice, then rested. It was showing more animation that it had ever shown back in its trough, but it still looked sour.
‘He likes the cold,’ said Flavio. ‘I don’ know why, but he’s more restless now than he ever was.’
‘I expect he wants a good swim,’ said the headmaster. ‘Has he been in the water?’
‘I was trying to find some. The ice is too thick.’
Victor made a sudden break for freedom, but Flavio had the leash firmly and held him back. His claws scudded uselessly, and Flavio dragged him gently backwards. Victor was less than two metres, tip-to-tip. He rarely opened his mouth, and when he did it was an unspectacular centimetre or two, as if eating was an effort. His teeth ran around his face in a crooked zip, some in, some out; his eyelids slid open and closed, but he never seemed particularly aware of the world around him. Flavio had secretly been hoping he’d die; he longed for a pair of crocodile-skin boots and knew just how to make them.
‘I’m going to show these miserable children how it’s done,’ said Professor Worthington, staring at the skaters. She had her own skates on and was experimenting with a few slow moves out from the bank.
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