In the west tower, the headmaster sat with Sam.
The child’s skin was clammy. They’d rigged up two electric fires but the dormitory still felt cold.
Captain Routon stood with a thermos flask. The bedside table was covered in dressings, gauzes, and ointment tubes. Sam’s breathing was even, but fast. The fan fed him oxygen, but it was as if he couldn’t breathe deeply enough.
“He’s in a bad way,” said the headmaster.
“I think he’s stable though, sir,” said the captain.
“What if it’s concussion, Routon? Internal bleeding.”
“There’s nothing a hospital can do that we haven’t done.”
“Unless his pulse starts going down again . . . We just can’t risk it, Routon! We can’t play God with this little fellow, and in any case, his parents should know. I should call them this minute.”
“If they see him like this, sir, I dread to think—”
“I know, dammit, I know. And I’m a hopeless coward. We’ve got Miss Hazlitt watching every move and taking notes. Have you seen her report on Health and Safety?”
“No, she doesn’t talk to me.”
“It was on my desk late last night. She wants me out, Routon! We had the most terrible row after that incident with Sam, and she said as much.”
“She’s all bluff, sir, I’ve met pen pushers before.”
“You’re wrong, Routon. I wish you were right, but she’s got government authority: she wants the school! It was the one thing I never imagined when I agreed to her wretched contract. When she sees Sam like this, she’ll bring that wretched policeman back and file her report. We’re up to our ears in debt, no way of paying Lady Vyner—”
“You’ve got to hold to your nerve, sir! Trust me. Look at the boy—is it so much worse than his first day? He’s got another scar up top, stitches in his leg. He’ll come through this, and look! He’s smiling in his sleep!”
“He might not wake up. He might be smiling like that for years to come!”
“No, no, no—he’s cleaned up nicely. His pulse is good. Sleep is all he needs, you’ve got to trust me on this one. I saw just the same thing in Sri Lanka after a grenade attack.”
“What’s he smiling about?”
The captain had done the stitches, with the same purple twine he’d used weeks ago after the teapot attack. The blanket was rolled up to Sam’s chin. The smile, if anything, was getting wider.
“I’ll stay with him,” said the captain. “Soon as the shock passes, his breathing will slow and I’ll whip the tube out. Heart of a lion, this one. Look at those eyes . . .” The captain lifted Sam’s lids: first the left, then the right. “Don’t call his parents yet.”
“Very well. But stay with him, Routon. I think I ought to be downstairs, I’m worried something’s wrong. I feel it in my bones: something’s dreadfully wrong. I just don’t know what that woman wants!”
“She wants to be important, sir—I’ve seen it a hundred times. Now your place is with the troops. They need you.”
“Call me if anything happens, yes?”
“It’s our bleakest hour. We must hold our nerve.”
*
Down in the dining hall, the children were having the debrief they needed. The floor was a mess of mud and food and the children themselves were drenched and dripping, as if they’d been hauled through a stew. But the mood was joyous.
“Where we went wrong,” shouted Sanchez, fighting over the noise of Asilah and Eric, “where we went wrong was defense!”
“Rubbish!”
“The defense was good!”
“The defense was you, Sanchez—the best goalie . . .”
“We didn’t use Henry,” said Ruskin. “That was our big mistake.”
“When we play again,” said Millie, “we have to work out the attack strategy. Sam was brilliant, but he needs more support. We need Anjoli farther forward.”
“Henry should be forward!” yelled Israel. “Henry is the secret weapon!”
There was cheering and Henry stood, bewildered and beaming.
“But that’s what I said, weeks ago!” said Ruskin. “Sam and I were reading this—listen!” He was holding up a piece of newspaper, which was turning to pulp in his hand. “It’s all about tactics and there’s some seriously good information here, listen!”
Anjoli leaped back onto a table. “Let’s face it,” he shouted. “They were dirty, filthy pigs and Sanchez smashed one!”
The hall rang with cheering and clapping.
Sanchez joined Anjoli, riding the noise. He put his arms round the boy and shouted: “Train harder—that’s what we have to do! And put Henry here.” Henry was wheeled into the center of the hall. Sanchez and Anjoli jumped down and hauled the benches into goalpost formation. “If I’m in goal, okay, I need him eight meters out.”
“He’s a fullback,” said Millie. “That’s what he is. Asilah, back left; Israel, right.”
“Where’s a ball?” shouted Ruskin. “Let’s practice.”
The ball was found and Sanchez kicked it into play. Nobody heard the headmaster enter the room. The door was already open and he appeared suddenly, through a plastic sheet. He looked around the devastated room in astonishment and was about to call out, when something held him back. He watched for a full five minutes as a whole series of tactical maneuvers were worked out and practiced. He watched the ball passed back and forth; he saw the attacks tried and adapted, the quarrels rising and falling into high fives and handshakes.
It was Millie who saw him first, and silence fell.
“Hello, boys,” he said, quietly. “Millie.”
Sanchez saw immediately that the headmaster had aged. He was wearing his gown, but it was muddy. It looked heavy on his thin shoulders and his hair was wild.
“Good evening, sir,” Sanchez said.
“Good evening,” said the orphans, one after another.
Professor Worthington came in behind him. Israel and Sanjay grabbed chairs and placed them behind the adults, adjusting the planks and pallets to ensure they were safe. Everyone was sitting down, one by one. The headmaster squeezed the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t join you for dinner,” he said. “I’m glad you went ahead without me. Here’s your tie back, Millie. We washed it as best we could.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He sat down. “Well, well, well.”
“How is Sam, sir?” said Sanchez.
“Yes. He’s . . . comfortable. You will be pleased to know that Sam has fallen into an easy sleep and though he’s not out of danger, he has an excellent nurse and the love of his friends. I will not lead a prayer, because I know every one of you, whatever your faith, will want to pray in your own way tonight.”
There was a silence again, and one or two voices murmured, “Yes, sir.”
“Let me say something. About the match.”
The children looked at each other nervously. The headmaster stood up.
“Something needs to be said, and I think the words ‘well done’ would be useful. Well done, boys—and Millie. It was a cracking game and Sam’s goals were joyous. Will goals ever be better scored? Possibly not. A fool would dwell on the fact we lost, eleven-two. An idiot would suggest our performance was some kind of failure. For me, it was a very proud day because I saw bravery and teamwork and . . . power. Was it a proud day for you?”
Sixteen heads nodded and there were earnest mutterings.
“We lost the battle. We did not lose the war. I hate to use military metaphors for something as wonderful as sport, but you know what I mean. The high school were tough; we met them with fire. Even Mr. Cuthbertson, their . . . leader, was impressed. Let’s face it: the enemy did not go home without a bloody nose.”
There was applause.
“Part of winning is learning how to lose. Part of playing any game is knowing when to fight back and how to fight back.”
“We need more balls, sir,” said Anjoli. “If we’re to train. We want to train!”
“Balls will be provided,” said the headmaster. “We cannot build without bricks.” He looked up. “But of course—listen, please—a cathedral is far more than stone. A cathedral is of stone, but first it needs builders. Am I right about that, Millie?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We shall take the game to them and I shall phone Harry Cuthbertson and ask him for a return match immediately, on his territory. I shall tell him we are longing to meet again: do I have your support in that?”
There was a long burst of applause, like the rattle of guns.
“There was no photographer at the match, so I want sketches of the game. Pen and ink, so I can publish them in the first edition of our school magazine—of which you, Ruskin, shall be editor. Drawings of Sanchez’s extraordinary saves shall be welcome. Sanjay, you shall be in charge of artwork. A team photo will be taken tomorrow, in Sam’s dormitory as we don’t want to move him. Tomorrow I declare a holiday, which is a small, perhaps inadequate token of my respect and admiration for all of you. Tomorrow, then, will be a proper celebration of the distance we have traveled, children. Never, in my life, have I seen such courage! I applaud you all!”
There was another burst of applause, this time like hail on a tin roof. Sanchez found himself standing up; Asilah stood next to him. Ruskin got up too. In a moment every pupil was on his or her feet, and the clapping became rhythmical. Who started the singing wasn’t clear. It was a high-pitched voice—possibly Ruskin’s—like a choirboy finding his choir. It soared suddenly, like a violin let fly by an orchestra of drums, into the first line of the school song. The children picked up knives, forks, and cups and beat time. The song did well as a chant, and it gathered momentum as they sang: “Ribblestrop! Ribblestrop! Precious unto me!”
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?”
“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.