The Spin

by Rebecca Lisle

  ‘Naw, couldn’t care two pence. Don’t care if I get the sack.’

  Stormy followed Ralf up the stairs. The wide polished boards creaked loudly underfoot, and Stormy found himself creeping as if he didn’t have the right to be there. But I do, I do, he told himself. His benefactor thought he had potential. For the first time someone believed in him. He had to believe in himself.

  They tramped up to a wide landing that ran right round the hall, like a gallery. ‘Staff bedrooms,’ Ralf said, ‘then up here is students.’

  They followed a narrow flight of stone stairs to a second smaller landing.

  ‘Those are the night larders,’ Ralf told him, pointing at tall grey cupboards stationed down the corridors. ‘Each one stocked up with goodies in case you can’t sleep; wine, tea, and cheese and stuff.’

  Stormy nodded, hardly listening. He was trying to remember their route – right, left, along the corridor, up the stairs . . . Easy to get lost.

  ‘Here’s your room,’ Ralf said, throwing open a door. ‘Bathroom and books and desk and Lord knows what. All yours.’

  ‘All mine?’

  The room was as large as Mrs Cathcart’s office, bigger than any bedroom he had ever seen. It was high up and the windows looked down over the terrace below and across the valley to the ring of dark mountains. The curtains fell to the ground in thick folds and were patterned with oriental spitfyres and large orchids. Padded hot pipes running along the base of the walls made the room cosy. There was a big desk and books and plenty of empty shelves for his new books, a wardrobe and chest for his clothes. The bathroom had gold taps and a large mirror with silver spitfyres leaping and jumping around its frame. The pink soap had a spitfyre shape embossed into its surface.

  But the best thing of all was the vast bed.

  The top of the wooden bed was shaped into a spitfyre’s neck and head; the wings formed sides that curled round the pillows and down to its end. The four feet had giant hooves. The bed cover was a rich golden yellow trimmed with fur. The sheets were thick and white and freshly ironed.

  Stormy stared at it, open-mouthed.

  ‘Posh, isn’t it?’ Ralf said, grinning. ‘This is your timetable, here.’ He showed him a chart on the wall by the desk. ‘Stop gawping, you’ll swallow a fly! You wait – you’ve got more work than we have.’ He laughed. ‘Enjoy! Oh, and go see the Director as soon as you’re ready,’ he added. ‘He’s in his green room at the bottom of the stairs on the right.’

  ‘Thanks. Thanks, Ralf.’

  ‘No worries. It’s not even my job, as you know, but I wanted to say hello, for old time’s sake, and you know later . . . well, we won’t be able to talk. See you!’

  Alone, Stormy went round and round the room, admiring the furniture, feeling how soft the bed was and opening and closing the drawers in the desk, finding pens, pencils and notebooks. The books in the shelves were all about flying and spitfyres. Finally he gazed out at the amazing view. Spring was almost here and although the peaks were still snow-covered, the snow was receding and some of the hills were green and fresh, glistening like salad leaves.

  Now for the Director.

  As he went down the stairs his pulse was racing; he’d been anticipating this for ages. He had never met anyone as intoxicatingly powerful or as fascinating as the Director. No one else had ever shown an interest in him the way he had. Those blue eyes looking into his and the sense of power and strength had filled Stormy with a feeling of strength too. Every word the Director had ever spoken to him was etched on his brain.

  ‘Come in,’ the Director called when he knocked.

  Stormy went in. The panelling in the room was so dark it was almost black and underfoot was a thick green carpet. The Director looked up from his large desk.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s me. Stormy, sir. I was told to come and see you.’ He went towards the desk eagerly. ‘Hello, sir.’

  There was a flash of something fierce in the Director’s eyes and then it was gone and he was smiling. He got up and closed the door behind the desk, giving Stormy the distinct impression that there was someone or something there that he didn’t want him to see. Then he held out his hand. His palm was dry and firm as he pumped Stormy’s hand up and down.

  ‘It’s you! Stanley!’

  ‘Stormy, sir . . .’

  ‘Stormy, of course, Stormy, the troublesome boy from the kitchen – mouse in the custard –’

  ‘Gravy.’

  ‘Ha, ha, yes. The boy with the benefactor.’ He shook his hand again. ‘The boy who got so very, very lucky; so very, very rich. Yes. Now I remember you exceedingly well. That was a bad business. All over and done with now.’

  ‘I’m back as a student,’ Stormy said, patting the crest on his jacket. ‘A sky-rider.’

  The Director smiled. ‘Have a piece of cake. Otto’s cake.’

  He waved at the chocolate cake on the table; it was the cake Purbeck had been carrying. Stormy almost giggled; the cake was following him.

  ‘So you have a benefactor.’ The Director winked. ‘A benefactor, eh?’

  Stormy smiled back and nodded.

  ‘It’s wonderful news and I understand we are not to ask whom.’ He sat down again at his desk and gently nudged some papers with the tip of his finger so they slid into a neat pile. ‘I’m sure you’ll settle in here, clever boy like you. Work hard and perhaps I’ll be handing out a medal or a silver cup to you at the next ceremony. I always liked you, Stormy. I thought there was something special about you right from the first time we met. Araminta did too, didn’t she?’

  ‘I hope so, sir,’ Stormy said.

  ‘And someone must think most highly of you, mustn’t they,’ he added, ‘to pay for all this.’ He indicated the Academy. ‘It’s a mystery.’

  He was as good as admitting it, Stormy thought.

  But before he could say anything, he was being shown out. He found himself standing in the corridor feeling that somehow he hadn’t said what he wanted to say or conducted himself quite the way he’d wanted to. He went slowly back to his room feeling strangely heavy-hearted.

  A boy was lurking in the shadowy corridor by his door.

  Purbeck.

  ‘Hello, old chum!’ Purbeck said, flicking a duster at some imaginary dust. ‘Glad you’re back. It meant a lot to you, being here, didn’t it?’

  Stormy looked around anxiously, hoping no one would see them. ‘Yes. How’s it going?’ he whispered.

  ‘Fine. Can’t you see I’ve got fat?’ He patted his belly. ‘Otto’s glorious food goes straight into my big gob! Hey, you didn’t tell Otto what we do with his nosh, did you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What you don’t know can’t hurt.’

  ‘Hey, Purbeck, the spitfyre in the last cave, the thirteenth,’ Stormy asked. ‘Is she still there?’

  ‘As far as I know. I haven’t seen it. I didn’t know it was a she, but – she’s there all right.’

  Stormy felt a bubble of lightness inside him: he wasn’t too late. Every time he’d thought about her waiting for his visit that never came, the pain and guilt had got worsened; it was like having a giant splinter lodged in his heart, the spike digging deeper and harder as the months went by. Now he really would do something about her.

  ‘I heard the big D’s given you one of the best rooms,’ Purbeck went on. ‘And you’re in all the good classes with the decent teachers. On the top table for dinner as well! Hey, Stormy, the Director could be your mystery benefactor. Ever thought of that?’

  ‘No, I never thought of that,’ Stormy said, not meeting Purbeck’s smiling eyes.

  24

  Test

  Stormy sat down on his grand bed and waited.

  He heard the dinner gong sound, followed by a rush of feet thundering along the corridor. Now what was he supposed to do? Someone hammered on the door and a boy put his head round.

  ‘Hiya! Grubs up! Come along with me. I’m Tom.’

  ‘Thanks!’

  Perhaps th
ey weren’t all so bad, Stormy thought, jumping off his bed. Food! The dining room! He was going to be inside that wonderful place he’d glimpsed so many times through the swing doors.

  The narrow corridor was crammed with students flooding towards the dining room, stampeding down the stairway. ‘Come on!’ Tom pulled him in and they were carried along in the current.

  Students craned to get a look at this new boy. Stormy wished that he were different, taller, stronger, better-looking, smarter . . . anything other than the weedy orphan skivvy he was. The tangle of bodies rushing along was so rough that twice he nearly fell when someone else’s leg got tangled in his.

  ‘Watch it!’

  ‘Clumsy!’

  ‘New boy!’

  He just couldn’t seem to get out of their way and finally he did trip and come tumbling down the remaining steps of the big staircase, landing up beneath the glass-eyed glare of a brown bear head.

  Everyone laughed. He tried to laugh too, but he didn’t think it was funny.

  When he got up, Tom had vanished.

  Nervously he followed the others as they streamed through a doorway and into the great dining room. This time he was part of it, not peering through a crack in the door like a lizard. He belonged in it.

  It was just as he’d hoped it would be; just as grand, with long covered tables, gilt chairs, black-suited waiters like statues against the wall. Bright lanterns shone from the walls and candles adorned the tables.

  ‘You’re up there!’ a girl said, pulling at his arm. ‘You’re on the top table.’

  The top table. This was on a stage, set at a right angle to the room, and it boasted elegant silver candlesticks, crystal glass and a white cloth hanging to the floor.

  ‘It’s only ’cos he’s so rich,’ someone whispered. ‘He’s nothing to write home about as far as I can see.’

  ‘He’s taken Tarik’s place!’

  ‘Can you imagine having to eat with a skivvy?’

  So they all knew where he had come from. There was no hiding that. Stormy grew hotter and hotter.

  ‘Hi, I’m Bella,’ a dark girl said, pushing him towards the front. ‘Ignore them,’ she added. ‘Some will hate you because of what you once were, others will hate you for having more money than them and some won’t know or care, so just brazen it out.’

  She pushed him up three steps to the top table and plonked him in a seat. He checked the place card in front of his plate; there was his name in gold letters. On his right, Araminta; on his left, Hector Grant. Boom bang boom went his troubled heart.

  ‘Chin up!’ Bella called as she slid away into the crush of bodies.

  The Director and Araminta came in and a hush fell over the room. The students turned to watch the Director and then studied Stormy too as if he were a rare exhibit in a zoo.

  When the Director sat down, the chatter started up again. Hector had taken his seat but was looking in the other direction; Araminta had turned away. He had an uninterrupted view of the blue ribbons wound through her long plait as she chatted to her neighbour. Stormy stared ahead with a fixed grin, practising what he might say as an opening conversation piece – should an opportunity ever arise.

  The doors at the far end of the dining room swung open and Stormy strained to see, hoping to catch a glimpse of Ralf or Purbeck – seeing them would make this real – but he saw only a flash of grey uniform before the door closed. He wondered if they’d tried to catch sight of him too.

  The waiters served the food to the top table first, golden roast potatoes, succulent chicken with herby sauce, tiny sprouts and rich gravy. Knowing how everyone had slaved away in the kitchen to make this, he was glad to be here, gladder than ever, and yet, thinking of Otto made him feel suddenly sad too.

  He pulled himself together, sat up and chanced another look to his left, but Hector still had his back to him. He turned the other way. Had Araminta possibly asked specially for this seating? Then, suddenly she was speaking to him.

  ‘I never expected to find myself sitting next to you,’ she said, cracking a chicken bone between her teeth.

  ‘I came into some luck,’ he said. ‘I’m a student now.’

  ‘Hmm. I hear you’re paid up for years and years. Daddy’s thrilled. Did someone die?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ He searched her profile for some hint of her knowing more.

  ‘Don’t stare at me so,’ she said and he instantly reddened and looked away.

  ‘You’ve grown a lot,’ she added. ‘Much taller than the servery boy I used to know. Why don’t you look at me when I talk to you?’

  She was at it again, saying one thing and then the opposite, and he felt confused and anxious – just how she always made him feel.

  ‘I’m not a servery boy now,’ he said, making eye contact for a split second.

  ‘He’ll be in your classes, Hector,’ Araminta said loudly, leaning forward to speak to Hector. ‘He’s a sky-rider.’

  Hector didn’t recognise Stormy. He looked blank. ‘Say that again?’

  ‘He’s a sky-rider, the new boy. Stormy.’

  ‘Stormy?’ He looked puzzled. ‘Weren’t you the boy mucking out the stables?’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘And now you’re a rider?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘How?’

  ‘Don’t you ever listen to the gossip, Hect? He’s just got loads and loads of money.’

  Stormy clenched his hands under the table. ‘Yes, I got some luck, I –’

  ‘Now I remember. I heard the Director talking about it to Mr Jacobs. You’re an orphan?’ Hector’s nose crinkled up as if ‘orphan’ wasn’t a word he really liked to say. ‘A skivvy?’ he said, with even more contempt. ‘And now you’re in the Academy? What is the Director thinking of?’

  ‘Money, I expect,’ Araminta said.

  It was true. Stormy knew in his heart of hearts that what she said was true.

  ‘He might join you in the Star Squad,’ Araminta said.

  Hector smiled. ‘That would be interesting. The Star Squad is for the elite of the elite, new boy, and I’m not just talking about family here. You need to be able to fly like a bird and shoot fire like a cannon . . . Can you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Stormy lied. Quickly he reached for some butter for his bread – anything to occupy his hands.

  ‘Oh dear, table manners! This is what I was worried about,’ Hector said, tapping Stormy’s outstretched arm with his forefinger. ‘No training in the niceties of life. We don’t use that knife for the butter; there’s a special one there. And that’s my napkin you’re rubbing over your grubby mouth.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Stormy handed him the napkin back.

  ‘No thank you, you keep it . . .’ Hector threw it back. ‘Let me give you a bit of advice, Stormy. One thing you require for the Star Squad is straight As and we’ve tests in aerodynamics and warfare tomorrow, so if I were you, I’d do some revision tonight.’

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ Stormy said. He would prepare all night long if he had to. ‘Those are my favourite subjects.’

  ‘And on the top table, we do not drink water, we drink wine,’ Hector said. ‘I know you want to mix in and not look out of place.’ He poured Stormy’s water back into the jug and replaced it with red wine. ‘Drink.’

  ‘I really don’t –’

  But Hector was smiling and pushing the glass into his hands and up to his mouth and he had to take it. ‘There!’

  It took a moment for Stormy to get his breath back and wipe the dribbled wine from his chin.

  ‘I just want to make my benefactor proud,’ he said quietly, hoping Araminta would understand his meaning. But even at that she didn’t move a muscle and he thought she must be the best, strangest actress in the world.

  By the end of the evening Stormy had drunk so much wine he could barely make it up to his room. He had almost told Araminta that she was the most beautiful girl he had ever met and that he thought of the Director as his new father and Hector his greatest friend. Thankfully he was incap
able of saying anything. He fell into his room with the help of a mighty push from some kind boy, and crashed onto his bed.

  He woke early. He always woke early, ready for work in the kitchen, but there was no such work today. He had a bad headache, but after drinking three glasses of water he felt better. He remembered the previous night with a groan. Why had he said those things to Hector that weren’t true? Who was he trying to fool?

  He peered at his new timetable; several of the sessions were taken by the Director and marked ‘Star Squad Only’. He looked at the plan for that day; there were tests in ancient spitfyre myth and legend at ten thirty, but no mention of aerodynamics or warfare. He must have misheard Hector. He’d had so much wine to drink he’d probably got the subjects mixed up. Thank goodness he’d looked at the timetable because now he would revise the correct subjects. He settled down to work, but somehow he was hungry again and sneaked out to the hall larder – it was stocked with goodies – and brought back croissants, sausages, fruit and yogurt to his room. Brain food. He set about learning as much as he could from his new books, determined to impress.

  It took him a while to find his classroom because none of the students he asked knew where it was; one directed him outside into the courtyard and two sent him back down to the servery. When he did reach it, the teacher, Mrs Lister, welcomed him kindly.

  ‘Good morning, Stormy,’ she said. ‘I teach ancient winged horse ceremony, history, myth and legend. I’m pleased to have you in our group.’ She was thin with pale grey hair and small spectacles that she peered through as if she was very short-sighted. ‘It’s nice to have a new face in the class.’

  ‘Yeah, specially when it’s a rich face!’ a girl called out.

  ‘Now, now, Petra,’ Mrs Lister said, laughing, ‘let him alone, the poor boy. Be kind to him.’

  ‘Come and sit by me,’ Petra said. ‘I’ll be kind and there’s lots I want to ask you.’

  ‘You don’t know the meaning of the word. Kind, huh. No, come sit next to me!’ Bella said.

  ‘He’s quite handsome, isn’t he?’ Petra added in a low voice. She pushed her blonde hair out of her eyes. ‘For a skivvy.’