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The snow had turned to a horizontal blizzard. The children would have been excited had it not been for Flavio’s tragic story. Snowflakes came down thick and hard, and within a minute the
windscreen was white. They were sealed in.

‘But how will the animals survive the winter?’ said Ruskin. ‘They need sunshine.’

‘They need meat,’ said Millie.

‘They need exercise,’ said Sam. ‘You see them on wildlife programmes: they’re always running around hunting each other.’

‘They’re dying, man,’ said Flavio. ‘Had two parrots last week, happy and talking away. They in the back, got some kind of mange. Only that blasted camel likes the
cold.’

‘Maybe you could drive to Africa,’ said Ruskin.

‘Maybe you should come to Ribblestrop,’ said Millie.

‘You know, the RSPCA might help,’ said Ruskin. ‘Oli and I found an injured frog once, outside our shed. Do you remember, Oli?’

‘She’d been half eaten by a cat,’ said Oli. ‘She only had one leg, so she was hopping in circles.’

‘We got a matchbox and put her inside with a bit of blotting paper. Then we took her to an RSPCA charity shop. The lady who ran it was very pleased and told us we’d done just the
right thing. I could telephone my father and get her number.’

‘Why don’t you bring them all to Ribblestrop?’ said Millie. ‘We could look after them there and do projects on them. It’s supposed to be natural history this term.
I bet the headmaster would love it.’

There was a silence.

‘Did you say
bring them to Ribblestrop
?’ said Sam.

Millie’s words hung, suspended in the air. The three boys stared at the white windscreen as if they hadn’t quite understood.

‘Ribblestrop’s a school?’ said Flavio.

‘Kind of,’ said Ruskin. ‘It’s trying to be.’

‘You know,’ said Oli, quietly. ‘If you brought them to Ribblestrop, we could make cages and exercise areas. We could put heaters into their stalls. We could get hay and bits of
tree – you know, for the parrots. They’d be safe.’

‘Somewhere for Violetta to have her babies,’ said Millie. ‘She’d be safe.’

‘Hey!’ said Sam. ‘Professor Worthington said she was going to teach reproduction. We could study Violetta!’

‘We’d have panther-pups!’ cried Ruskin. ‘We could train them! We could tame them and teach them tricks . . . We could—’

‘A circus!’ whispered Oli. His lips had gone dry – his voice was small. He started to nod, then he started to rock. ‘This is the best idea ever!’ he hissed.

Sam was standing up. ‘The orphans!’ he shouted. ‘I bet the orphans could do circus stuff! They’re amazing at everything – you should have seen them last term. And
they can build and do stunts. We could have our own Ribblestrop circus!’

‘Hang on—’ shouted Flavio.

But Oli had found his voice again and was babbling loudly, shaking Sam, who had gripped Millie’s arm.

Millie was grinning wildly, as Ruskin cried, ‘A safari park! There’s so much space! The barns and the woods. We could be a zoo in the daytime and in the evening we’d learn
tricks!’

In the whooping and cheering, as ideas bubbled and burst, the hammering on the lorry-cab door went unnoticed. It was only when the cab started to rock that Violetta sensed an intruder and roared
over the top of the din, silencing everyone. The hammering continued.

‘Oh man,’ said Flavio, softly. ‘I bet it’s the police.’

‘Start the engine!’ cried Oli. ‘Let’s just go! Drive to Ribblestrop!’

Flavio gritted his teeth and swung the door open. Everyone peered out, and in the whirl of snowflakes a large bear-like figure swayed in and out of their vision. The blizzard had worsened.

‘Looking for some children . . .’ came a voice. Then it disappeared again. Two hands appeared and managed to grasp the lorry’s mudguard, and the figure hauled itself closer.
Under a shawl that was laden with snow, an anxious red face was visible. The eyes focused and moved quickly from Sam to Millie to Oli to Ruskin – the eyes took in the panther and the driver
and narrowed with astonishment. Then the face broke into a smile of sheer delight and relief, and whatever he said was drowned in a renewed frenzy of cheering.

It was Captain Routon.

Millie had two bottles of very fine duty-free champagne in her bag, and had planned a serious midnight feast with the orphans. However, it was clear that this was the moment
for a celebration.

Captain Routon was hauled into the cab. The stories were told, back and forth – everything explained. Captain Routon moved from horror to laughter, from amazement to joy, as the children
relived their experiences. Flavio went through his history again and they started the second bottle.

‘It’s the best idea I’ve heard in a very long time,’ declared the captain. ‘How much fuel have you got, sir?’

‘Next to nothing,’ said Flavio.

The captain was pulling out his wallet. ‘So lucky our paths crossed, I would say. I was only talking to the headmaster the other day and he was saying how we needed some kind of project.
Some kind of . . .
focus
for the term.’ He took a five-pound note and laid it on the dashboard. ‘He will be delighted! So will the orphans! Now – can you follow me? Might
be best if the children stay here where it’s warm. Where it’s . . . warm.’

He faltered suddenly. ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘I’ve forgotten . . . The van.’

The children stared at him. He seemed anxious.

‘What have you forgotten?’ said Sam. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘How long have I been sitting here?’ he said.

‘About an hour,’ said Ruskin.

It was true. There had been so much to explain and plan that the time had shot past.

‘I’ve left those priests in the van. They’ll be frozen stiff – there’s no heater! I said I’d only be a minute. Oh my word, they’ll be blocks of
ice!’

Captain Routon leaped out of the cab and the children followed him. The blizzard had eased, but visibility was still very poor. There was no sign of another vehicle.

‘Where did you park?’ shouted Millie.

‘I don’t know,’ said the captain. He had lost his sense of direction. Then, as they listened to the wind, they heard a forlorn hooting. It might have been the cry of a lonely
sea-bird echoing over an Arctic wasteland. It came again, seemingly more distant than before, and the children set out towards it. At last, out of the swirling white, a grey igloo came into
view.

Sam found a handle and managed to get the door ajar. The rest of the party were soon helping, prising it open on its frozen hinges. The interior light came on and revealed two figures. One was
moving; the other seemed unnaturally still. Millie recognised them both at once, of course. The old priest was seated, his face a rigid mask of suffering. His skin was deathly pale. The younger man
– Brother Doonan – was kneeling on the seat next to him, rubbing the man’s hands, in a desperate attempt to keep his circulation going.

‘Oh my word,’ he said. ‘An answer to my prayers!’

‘It’s over, Doonan!’ said the old man, faintly.

‘It’s not, Father! Help is here – we’ve been found! I knew we’d be heard!’

‘I’m so sorry,’ cried Captain Routon. ‘I forgot all about you! Wait, I’ve got rum somewhere . . .’

‘Oh, I don’t think that’s wise,’ said Doonan. ‘Father O’Hanrahan never drinks—’

‘Nonsense, it will pull him round. I cannot begin to apologise, gentlemen.’ He heaved himself into the driver’s seat and rummaged in the glove compartment. Seconds later, he
was administering the spirit to Father O’Hanrahan. ‘Boys. Millie. Go back to the truck and tell Flavio to put his lights on. I’ll come and find you in a moment . . .’

He started the engine. The windscreen wipers dislodged two great shovelfuls of snow onto the ground. In a short while, the truck came into view, its headlamps carving out tunnels of whirling
snowflakes. The lights flashed and it slid behind them. Captain Routon hunted for first gear.

‘Maybe we should look for that Travellers’ Sleepeasy,’ said Doonan. ‘Try to get warm, perhaps . . .’

‘We’ll make it, sir!’ cried Routon.

‘I’m just thinking, it might be wise to hole up against the weather.’

‘We must press on. We’ve got to get those animals to safety and there’s a party tonight.’

‘Animals?’

The school van nosed its way forward.

It’s one tail-light was just visible to Flavio and he crept up as close as he dared. A smile had spread across his face and it was the first time he had smiled in several months. He nursed
the truck forward, out of the lorry park and onto the road. There was scarcely another vehicle to be seen.

The motorway was almost impassable and several pile-ups kept all the police cars in the region busy. This was lucky, as Flavio’s truck had been described by a number of witnesses. Had it
been spotted and stopped, the driver would undoubtedly have been arrested and – with his chain of convictions – deported. If that had happened, the Ribblestrop circus would never have
existed.

Instead, the two vehicles crawled slowly west together and the children taught Flavio the school song.

Back at Ribblestrop, Lady Vyner heard the arrival from the south tower. She sat in her broken sofa and as the truck arrived, she put her head in her hands. Her grandson was
working quietly at the corner table. They looked at each other as the engines revved and tyres mashed the gravel. The horn sounded long and hard, and they winced. Minutes later, the air was ripped
to pieces by volleys of fireworks, the detonations ricocheting round the grounds.

The old lady pressed her fingers in her ears, but still the school song rose upwards, shouted on and on to the accompaniment of sticks hammering dustbin lids.

‘They’re doing a procession,’ said Caspar, peering out of the window. ‘Such a load of babies.’

Lady Vyner started to moan.

‘He’s still dressed as Father Christmas. The orphans are dancing – they’re still in those stupid elf-suits.’

‘Shut up, Caspar!’

‘Oh – they’re going back inside.’

Moments later, the tower started to vibrate to the low thud of disco music. This lasted for two hours and then there was a precious silence. The old lady hobbled to the kitchen to make cocoa and
the Christmas carols began. ‘Not again,’ she hissed.

‘Not again . . .’

The children and their teachers were at last enjoying the party they had longed for. They sat in the hall under a roof they’d built with their own hands. A million fairy
lights were strewn from the rafters and a nine-metre Christmas tree twinkled, laden with candles. Father Christmas had wept, openly, as he welcomed everyone home. Professor Worthington had waved
her fairy wand and made wishes for every child, and the gifts had been distributed, rewrapped for the fun of it and distributed again. Just before midnight, Tomaz – who had made a brick oven
in the giant fireplace – produced the biggest goose anyone had ever seen, sizzling amongst roasted vegetables. Now the children sat back, wrapped in duvets, surrounded by the debris of their
celebrations. Nobody could dance another step. Nobody could take another mouthful, solid or liquid. Brother Doonan had been welcomed and a frost-bitten Father O’Hanrahan had been wheeled in
briefly. Flavio had been introduced, but had left immediately to sort out the animals. There was only one thing left and an expectant hush had descended.

‘Well, boys,’ said the headmaster. He pulled off his beard and hat, and stood before his school. His eyes were shining. ‘Boys and Millie. What adventures we have had together .
. . And here we again, facing new ones. Who knows what is about to happen this term . . .’

‘Sanchez, sir?’ said a young orphan.

The headmaster raised a hand. ‘There were times last term when I said, “That’s enough, Headmaster! The Ribblestrop dream has died!” But it was you who relit the candle
and took the candle to the torch. It was you who showed me that a true Ribblestropian never gives up, and never says,
enough
– indeed, that could be a second motto, couldn’t it?
Never enough!
We are ready, aren’t we?’

‘Yes, sir!’ shouted everyone.

‘I am so glad. You will be aware, of course, that we have been fortunate in acquiring a zoo within the last few hours. Our thanks must go to Sam, Oli, Millie, and Ruskin for that
sensational piece of foresight. I am awarding each of them a house point, which is just one of the new initiatives this term. House points will be awarded for acts of care, courtesy and courage.
Indeed,
any
act that develops Ribblestrop as a community will be eligible for a house point, for a community cannot—’

‘Time for the film, sir?’ said Captain Routon, quietly.

‘Yes! I just want to add, before the excitement of the video . . . that we will be holding Speech Day in a tent, at the end of this term. I have had a very quick consultation with my
colleagues here and we feel that the term should climax in a circus.’

There were immediate gasps.

‘A circus in which you will be the performers, of course. So I will be inviting all of your parents . . . I know that some of you don’t
have
parents, but that should not
prevent you taking part and . . . receiving your prizes.’

The orphans looked confused.

Professor Worthington touched the headmaster’s arm. ‘Time for the film, Giles.’

‘Yes. So I want you to think about that and ask yourselves, ”What can I do for Speech Day?” Now I am going to hand over to our newly appointed Head Boy—’

There was another, louder gasp of excitement.

‘No, no – not in the flesh. As I explained, Sanchez is in South America—’

The excitement broke into disappointment.

‘I told you that! He has been delayed by family business – quiet, please. However, his friend Millie Roads – who travelled with him intrepidly through the mountains of Colombia
– has brought a videotape, on which I believe he has recorded some wise words. Is that right, Millie?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Millie had sent her luggage ahead from the airport, but the one item she had not let out of her sight was the Sanchez video. She had helped him make it. She had been sworn to secrecy and not
mentioned it to anyone except the headmaster. She produced it now, wrapped in tinsel and foil.