Authors: Andy Mulligan
Ribblestrop (48 page)
“This happens very rarely, it might be one big anticlimax. I don't want anyone getting their hopes up.”
Ruskin said: “Should we be taking notes?”
“I promised a demonstration . . .” She pressed another switch and the hydraulic probe lifted from its box and started to extend. The children hadn't seen it since that day, weeks ago, when they'd helped build the lab. It nosed up now into the pelting rain, as if to meet the thunderclouds. A gust of wind sent the downpour spiraling over desks and onto the floor. In seconds the children were soaked, their gray shirts clinging to their skins, their hair plastered back.
“Miss, please!”
“I'm going to connect our main circuit, so shut up. Are we ready? Hands off, Vijay, you'll get a nasty zap if you touch that sheet. Hands off, everyone. Ready? I want to see your hands on your heads. Good, Sam. I'm going up, to gauge the height. Sit here.”
“You're going up?” said Israel.
“Stay back, boys.”
“Miss, I went up last time! Please! You saidâ!”
“Stay where you are. Get your feet off the floor; hands on heads.”
Professor Worthington had put on a rubber raincoat. She was wearing enormous rubber-soled boots, and her gauntlets were monstrous. She now started to climb the antenna. As she rose, the metalwork narrowed and swayed; it was like a ship's mast, when the craft is rolling in a high sea. The wind was fiercer the higher she got and she had to go very slowly. There was the smell of electricity still, so intense.
She reached the top and she saw two little figures down on the lawn, both were obviously soaking.
The needle was javelin-sized, and you could raise and lower it by easing a neatly designed spring. She loosened it and pushed up. Oh, there was lightning overhead, it was sailing in from the ocean. You just had to find your spot.
Just another few meters, higher than the south tower and its weathervane. She could see Lady Vyner, staring out of a window. She pulled back the spring and forced the needle higher. One more thrust; she could feel a great vortex of static rolling around her. She pushed another meter, and the whole sky exploded.
*
At his desk, the headmaster noticed his table lamp dim for a moment. In fact, all over the school, the lights dipped as a multiplied voltage whipped around the east tower. Dr. Norcross-Webb was finishing the new blazer badge design, his felt-tip pens scratching away at the paper. He was smiling, recalling the moment on Reading station he first designed the uniform.
The lights went out.
He pulled his door to and trekked down to the kitchen. Captain Routon was shifting the tables.
“Routon, what are you doing? You should be resting.”
“I know, Headmaster, but we need the space for party games. Oh, by the wayâ What was that?”
“What?” said the headmaster.
“I don't know, sir. It sounded like a scream.”
“I heard something a minute ago, from the north tower. I'm sure Professor Worthington has it all under control, she's doing a final science project. I wonder if we should take a look.”
There was another high-pitched cry from above and then a peal of thunder right overhead. It was as if the stones in the wall were moving.
“I heard a scream. I definitely heard someone shouting!”
*
As he climbed the north tower, the headmaster was aware of a tingling sensation on his upper lip. This soon spread to the back of his hands and then the back of his shoulders. Pins and needles:
not unpleasant. There was also a strange vibration. The tower was trembling and he was caught in the frequency. Then he heard a ringing in his ears, as if someone were doing that trick with the glass when you run your finger round the rim and the note sets your fillings on edge. His eyes were watering too, just as he reached the top step, and he was breathless. The oxygen was thin; he was reminded of high mountains.
He put his hand on the door handle and it flashed with sparks. He gasped and wondered what to do. He didn't relish electrocution, but he could hardly turn back.
Bracing himself, he grabbed the handle again and was relieved to find it uncharged. He twisted it and threw the door open.
“Headmaster!” whispered Professor Worthington. “Captain. Welcome.”
The room was still and silent. Nineteen children had turned to stone, some of them sitting on stools, some of them cross-legged on the benches. Asilah was standing on a desk, his hands clenched together above his head. The light was electric blue and sizzling along a grid of wires above their heads. Glowworms of light, hundreds of them, were pulsing from one corner to the next; some were detaching themselves and falling with the long, balletic loop of mercury, to basins below. Occasionally, the light flickered in a halo round a child's hair, flashing for several seconds.
“It happens so rarely,” whispered Professor Worthington. “I've been waiting so long.”
“What is it?” said Captain Routon.
“Take off your shoes! Quickly!”
They did so.
“It's an electric freeze,” said Professor Worthington. “To catch it first time! Keep still, you can break it so easily. Sit on the bench.”
The headmaster said, “Is it safe?”
“Look at Israel,” said Professor Worthington. “Oh, I
told
them they would see! We're charging, Giles, we're charging . . .”
“My goodness.”
Israel, the nine-year-old, was cross-legged on a stool, his hands
in his lap. His head was back, his lips were open; there was a ring of electricity round his mouth, crackling noiselessly. The sparks were scribbling the air, expanding as they watched, playing over his eyelids, his ears. Professor Worthington too was suddenly consumed by a cloud of blue, as if a whole shoal of lightning fish had dashed around her, then off again into the lattice of wire.
“What is it?” said Routon.
“Luck, really,” she whispered. “There are so many variations, so many differentials. This is the best I've ever had it, and it cleans, Gilesâit purifies. Look at Millieâshe just came in with Sanchez.”
Millie was standing on a book, rooted to the spot. Her arms were raised in a gesture of what looked like rage, a fist was clenched. Sanchez was opposite her, standing on a chair. He was leaning forward, his mouth openâpresumably shouting back at Millie. Both children had a luminous blue glow to their arms and hair, as if they were radioactive. Another massive bolt of lightning hit the needle in the roof and the room flashed like a gigantic camera. Jagged sparks flew from Millie to Sanchez, from Sanchez to Henry, from Henry to Vijay and Caspar. Tomaz was standing with his hands cupped, holding fire: then the sparks were crisscrossing, flying from every child to every child.
“And it really doesn't hurt or cause damage?” said the headmaster. He had stepped up onto a book; Routon had done the same.
“Can you feel any pain?” said Professor Worthington.
“Me?”
“Look at your hands, Giles.”
The headmaster had placed his hands on a desk and Anjoli, sitting upon it, had reached out gently and was holding one of them. Now, from under the man's fingernails came blue sparks, blue talons of electricity. He held his right hand up to his face; the sparks wove a glove of blue light, which stretched even as he stared at it, to the tuft of hair on his head.
“Oh my, it feels wonderful.”
“Believe me, Giles. There's no feeling like it. It purifies.”
“How though?”
“You have to have the right people.”
“But isn't it dangerous? It must be.”
Professor Worthington had taken off her boots and she sat on the soaking desk, the rain beating down over her. Electricity coiled round her legs and waist, and within seconds she was alight and alive, she was crackling. She smiled: the sparks fizzed between her lips. She stretched her arms out.
“What a question to ask,” she whispered. “
Is it dangerous?
” She laughed, and the lightning struck again and the children sighed, flickering. She touched the headmaster with a finger and, again, bolts of electricity ricocheted from adult to child, from child to adult. “We're at Ribblestrop, Giles, where life
is
dangerous. Are you telling me you didn't know that?”
The headmaster tried to nod. He managed to smile and tried to speak. But the storm was now directly overhead and the lightning was almost constant. Like everyone else, he was lost in electricity.
*
The very next morning Professor Worthington's response to the headmaster's question was accepted as the official school motto:
Life Is Dangerous
. It would be woven onto blazers and printed on pencil cases. It would flutter on the flag, with the lion and the lamb. It would form the chorus of the school song, if the headmaster had time to write one. After all, Christmas with thirteen orphans was going to be busy, and next term would be busier. He had banked the check and framed his license. He was dreaming of new projects, new buildings, new people. He'd received a letter saying that Miles would be returning, which was good news, if unsettling.
Next term would be amazing.
APPENDIX I
NEWSLETTER
Dear parent, guardian, and friend,
It has been an eventful term here at Ribblestrop, and I am writing to thank you for entrusting your children to my care and that of my diligent staff. Ribblestrop, I believe, is a home away from home, where we provide a secure sanctuary and equip young people with life skills. To take you through the events as they occurred would be a hard task for any man. While my own motto is “look to the future,” it would be wrong of me to let the year pass without mentioning some of the spectacular achievements of your children.
First of all, we now have a roof. Under the mathematical guidance of our two new members of staff, Captain Routon and Professor Worthington, a substantial amount of last term's fire damage has been put to rights. This means we have more classroom space and will be developing a library and seminar room in due course. If you could have seen your children scaling the slopes and working together, you would have been even prouder than you undoubtedly are already. I put it to you that the combination of academic and practical skills that these children have been learning puts them way ahead of the game when it comes to survival experiences. In the arena of sport, Ribblestrop has acquitted itself well; reading and writing are also coming on strong. The choir has made a sound start; some children have developed their skills as drivers, welders, and marksmen.
On a sadder note, you will, no doubt, have heard of the premature depature of our deputy headmistress. In her brief time at Ribblestrop, Miss Hazlitt was one of those teachers that made a real difference. She was dedicated - few children will forget the care with which she taught good manners, for example. On a happier note, you will be pleased to know that Captain Routon is making a speedy recovery.
But what of the future?
I am proud to tell you that scarcely a day goes by without some new enquiry from an interested parent. A substantial injection of funding has allowed me to look not just to our infrastructure, but also to the recruitment of new staff. As I said to the children on day one, you have to be builder and dreamer combined at Ribblestrop: and that is what I can promise for the New Year â expansion, dedication to excellence, and massive ambition. I hope your children get the rest they deserve over the holiday (our orphans certainly will, because they are staying here) â and I look forward to welcoming them back next term, for more of the same!
Thank you for your support to date. Please don't forget that each child must be equipped with a flower press for next term, as nature study dominates the spring curriculum.
Dr. Giles Norcross-Webb
Dr. Giles Norcross-Webb
Headmaster
Andy Mulligan was brought up in South London and educated at Oxford University. He worked as a theater director for ten years before travels in Asia prompted him to retrain as a teacher. He has taught English and drama in India, Brazil, the Philippines, and the UK. He now divides his time between London and Manila.
authors.simonandschuster.com/Andy-Mulligan
