Ribblestrop Forever! (4 page)

‘Sir,’ said Sam. ‘Did you see that little plane? The one that nearly crashed?’

‘I did, Sam. Yes. I’m not sure I should be on the phone when I’m driving, son. Is there a problem?’

‘Well, there is really, sir. You probably won’t believe me, but Millie’s at the controls – of the plane, I mean. They had some kind of emergency and their pilot’s
unconscious. How would you feel . . . this is Oli’s idea. How would you feel if they landed on top of you? It’s a matter of life and death, apparently.’

The orphans had always worked well together.

They had lived as a family for two terms in Ribblestrop’s east tower and, though they fought and argued with ferocity, when it came to a crisis they observed strict lines of command. Their
experience in the Ribblestrop Circus had made those lines firmer than ever, and the three teachers could only sit back in awe.

Captain Routon handed his phone to Asilah, the oldest of the boys, and a moment later the five skylight windows were not just open, they had been removed completely. An advance party was
swarming through them, barefoot, onto the roof. Meanwhile, Eric ran to the emergency exit at the back and swung with Sanjay and Imagio onto the bars over the vehicle’s rear bumper. They were
doing a steady sixty miles per hour – the road a blur beneath them – but it wasn’t difficult to make the leap onto the long, flat trailer behind. They soon had the tarpaulin off
and, since Eric was chief packer, they knew exactly where to locate the gear they needed. They clambered over the trunks and cases, clinging with toes and fingers as the trailer bounced under them.
Soon, they had their trapeze pulleys and cable, and had thrown a rope up to Podma, who was firmly anchored on the bus roof by human chain. Other vehicles were nosing up to them now, then falling
back in wonder. There was more hooting, and then flashing lights, including blue ones. There was a helicopter, too, directly above.

The boys tried to ignore it, for this was the tricky bit. Podma pulled on the rope and hauled the heavy cables out of the trailer onto the roof. A forest of hands received them and started to
uncoil the thickest. Anjoli started to stretch it, splayed out like a lizard on the juddering roof. Podma had taken the precaution of roping everyone together, and Professor Worthington, her head
and shoulders rearing up through the front skylight, gripped the end of the line for dear life. The boys held onto each other, communicating with signs rather than words, and it wasn’t long
before Anjoli’s cable was as tight as a tennis net, raised up a good half-metre by carefully wedged crowbars. The plane was a speck, some distance behind them, but there was clearly no time
to be lost. It was making its final approach.

‘What’s your speed, Millie?’ said Oli, as Mr Tack dropped behind the bus. He let a queue of furious vehicles past, his knuckles white on the wheel.

‘Ninety,’ whispered Miles.

‘We’re doing ninety,’ said Millie.

‘Can you slow down? We can’t go that fast!’

‘I don’t know how.’

‘Try. You can see us okay? Can you see the bus?’

‘Not yet, no. I’ve got the road and the river. The road’s right under us, but . . .’

‘You’re coming in nicely, but you’ve got to get lower and slower. You’ve got to come in as low as you can, all right? You need to come up behind us and Captain
Routon’s going to try to match your speed and carry you. We’re going to lash you on as well, so you don’t fall off. Everything’s ready.’

‘This isn’t going to work, Oli!’

‘Yes, it is. The maths is perfect. How much fuel have you got?’

‘There’s no way of telling. The alarm’s getting louder all the time and we’re juddering about. Oli, there are helicopters too! I can see fire engines!’

Miles was pressed against the cockpit glass and had managed to turn to his right. The helicopter had come from nowhere and was keeping pace with them. He could see the pilot
yelling orders and instructions, but his own headset was still on the floor, a shrill voice gabbling through static. He looked down and the road was even closer – the blue lights had
multiplied and he could see a column of ambulances off to the left. The traffic was being held back – a great, open swathe of tarmac appeared, though a police Land Rover was streaking ahead
into it. Miles could hear its siren wailing and he wondered, for the hundredth time, why the police used sirens, when all they did was paralyse everyone with terror. He looked at Sanchez, who was
holding the phone to Millie’s ear, his jaw rigid with tension.

‘I can see you, Oli,’ said Millie. ‘I’ve got the bus!’

‘Slow down!’ cried Oli.

‘I’m trying. I just don’t know how.’

She pulled the joystick back a fraction and felt the plane swerve to the right. She pressed the left pedal and they were back on course, the road skimming beneath them and the bus and its
trailer coming ever closer. If they had wheels, she thought, a landing might be possible. Then again, she had no idea where the brakes were – should she simply run into the bus and use it as
a buffer? She didn’t dare, because she remembered Oli’s words about fireballs.

‘You can do this,’ said Sanchez, quietly. ‘I know you can.’

‘No I can’t,’ she said.

‘Just a bit lower,’ said Miles. ‘They’ve got a flag, look. They’re showing the height with a flag!’

Sure enough, Kenji and Israel had leapt back onto the trailer and were sitting at its far end with one of the black-and-gold circus flags. They unfurled it in the gale and anchored it between
two packing cases, hoping it might give Millie a clearer target. There were two police Land Rovers now, both keeping pace with the plane, just behind it, lights flashing madly. The rest of the
children and their teachers were clustered on the back seat of the bus, watching anxiously.

‘You can do it,’ said Sanchez again.

‘If I can’t,’ said Millie, ‘you won’t blame me, will you?’

‘I love you,’ said Miles. ‘I want you to know that. Both of you. If we don’t make it, I want you to know—’

‘Shut up!’ shouted Millie. ‘Tell me what to do! Higher or lower? My hands are shaking!’

‘You’re dead on,’ said Sanchez.

‘Maybe down just a tiny bit,’ said Miles.

‘Down,’ said Oli in Millie’s ear. ‘Just a tiny bit down and . . . okay, okay!’

Oli gestured at Sam, and Sam waved at Captain Routon, who sat rigid at the wheel of the bus.

‘Faster, Dad!’ shouted Sam, and Mr Tack increased his speed as Captain Routon did the same. They could hear nothing any more, except for the screaming engine of the aeroplane, which
even obliterated the police sirens. It was so low its undercarriage touched the tarmac and there was a burst of sparks. If Millie felt the bump, she remained in control and lifted her craft just a
fraction. At eighty miles an hour, decreasing due to wind resistance down to seventy-six, she came over the little car and then the trailer.

The orphans lowered the flag and threw themselves down amongst the luggage. Captain Routon held the wheel grimly. He pressed the throttle, pushing his speed up to seventy, seventy-two. The road
ahead was clear, thank goodness – the police must have closed all junctions – in fact, he could see a road-block in the distance. He checked his mirrors and saw that the
aeroplane’s propeller was sweeping up behind him. It was on a collision course, and he braced himself, fighting his instincts to brake or swerve. There were blue flashing lights everywhere it
seemed, but only the sound of howling engines and he clamped his jaws so tight his fillings were hurting.

He felt the crunch of contact like a blow.

For a moment he lost control, the back wheels simply sliding off to the right, and he heard the rending of metal as if the bus roof were being ripped apart. He steered into the skid and felt the
wheels come true again. Then his bus was accelerating, as if some awful force were driving him forward – as if he was about to take off. The plane was down, the remains of its undercarriage
snagged on the cable: the combined speed was terrifying. He touched the brake again and felt his tyres bursting. Left and right, he saw them in his mirrors – great chunks of rubber sheered
off and flew into the distance. He could see luggage bouncing away as the trailer fish-tailed amongst fountains of sparks. Any moment, he thought, the bus would somersault over its nose.

He saw that the orphans were streaming out onto the roof again, grabbing at the plane. For one precious second he allowed himself to close his eyes. When he opened them, he saw fire engines
ahead – a whole line of them up on a road-bridge. Despite his ruined wheels, the bus showed no sign of slowing, and there were emergency vehicles to the left and right, reversing quickly out
of his path. The bus sped through them and Captain Routon tried the brakes again, knowing that if he pressed too hard he’d spin everyone into oblivion. There was a stink of burning, and he
glimpsed in his mirror the shape of Doonan, on his knees in the middle of the aisle, praying hard.

Touchdown, from Millie’s point of view, was yet another miracle in a life crammed with so many.

Miles and Sanchez were cowering beside her and, as the bus beneath them accelerated to match their speed, there was a curious slow-motion about it all. They could see the cable stretched across
the roof. They could see Professor Worthington, Asilah and Anjoli gesturing with their hands, hair flapping wildly over their faces. Millie let the plane drift in and came lower still. She felt the
cable catch the undercarriage and felt the nose dip suddenly. She eased the joystick back, compensating, and the craft sunk with a crunch that made the bus skid and sway beneath her.

She had no idea how to turn things off, but it was Sanchez who did the obvious. He closed the emergency fuel line and, after an agonising ten seconds, they saw the propellers slowing down. That
was when a boy in a black-and-gold blazer appeared on the end of a rope, clambering onto the right-hand wing.

It was Israel, fighting the jet stream, and he had a bundle in his arms. There was activity on both sides, and Millie recognised the long hair of Anjoli. It looked as if another cable was being
slung right over the top of them, as half a dozen orphans battled with the wind. It was Miles who had the sense to go back to the door and in a moment he’d hauled it open and the cabin was
blasted with air.

Nobody could speak. The bus was skidding and slipping, and the noise was unbearable. Podma was first into the plane, Israel behind him. It was the rope ladder they carried, and it was soon
unfurled and drawn tight. Miles was out, and there were hands everywhere, steadying him as he descended. Millie was next, and then Sanchez was heaving at the half-conscious pilot. The bus swerved
again and took out a road sign. The orphans grabbed wrists, hair, collars and knees, and somehow, everyone was inside the bus.

There was wild cheering and a scrum of embraces. This might have continued had not Doonan’s voice soared out over the din.

‘Look out! Oh no! Sweet Jesus, no! Brace, children! For God’s sake, brace! Bridge! Bridge!’

It happened so fast.

Captain Routon was simply trying to keep the bus on the road, because it was shimmying wildly. They were almost at the bridge, and the blue lights were blinding. There was snow in the air, too,
thick on the windscreen and flying all around them. It was foam from the fire engines, and even as Doonan shouted they felt themselves spinning into a vast cloud of bubbly whiteness.

The bridge was just low enough to catch the upturned nose of the plane, and flipped it backwards. The cable round the plane didn’t snap, it simply tore the whole roof of the bus right off
and sent it spinning onto the road. One of the police vehicles that was following skidded and hit the wreckage broadside. The other managed to brake, but was then whisked away on a lake of
gobstoppers – Miles’s suitcase had fallen onto the road and burst, spraying them in all directions. The car pirouetted into the central reservation and slammed into a Portakabin. The
children emerged from the foam clinging to their bus seats. The bus then shouldered its way through a crash barrier and down a steep embankment – just where the elbow of the River Ribble was
at its widest. A handful of fishermen jumped for their lives, and could only gape as the mangled vehicle slipped hissing and steaming into the deep, dark water.

Mr Tack pulled up neatly on the hard shoulder and put on his hazard lights. Ruskin, Sam and Oli raced to the river-bank in time to see the bus, with everyone onboard, sinking fast. A strange,
awestruck silence descended, then the three boys rushed forward to save their friends from drowning.

Ribblestrop’s headmaster was in his study when the call came through.

He had ignored the phone all day, thinking it was one of the school parrots. There were two, and they’d been learning more and more sound effects ever since they’d arrived. Now
they’d gone to roost up in the rafters above his desk, and it seemed their chief occupation was to torment him. Telephones, door-knocks, children’s voices; Doctor Norcross-Webb felt he
was being haunted. He was quietly seething, because on the last day without children he’d hoped to get some concentrated work done on the school song. There was still only one verse, and he
was determined to write the second before the big assembly at six o’clock. He’d brought his accordion down from the attic, but the birds had even started to imitate that. He closed his
eyes, put his fingers in his ears, and sang the opening lines of his latest effort:

‘
Ribblestrop, Ribblestrop, jewel within my breast.

I will hap’ly die for thee; I will stand the test.
’

He paused.

Was the allusion to death wise? He knew that ‘jewel’ was an awkward word to sing, and he wasn’t at all sure why a child should have one buried in its breast. Would anyone
understand that ‘hap’ly’ was ‘happily’?

He looked at an earlier draft.

‘
Ribblestrop, Ribblestrop, let me hug thy stones . . .
’

It was worse, and he knew it.

He gazed out of the window again. The breeze was warm and it ruffled the heads of the spring flowers. They were the product of Captain Routon’s gardening club last term and overflowed from
the pots on the terrace. Pinks, whites and blues – it was a perfect scene. In the distance one of the school donkeys cropped the grass beside the camel, and the sun gave the lake a silvery
glimmer. He gazed, and tried not to let his eyes drift to the furious letter in his in-tray. It was the second of the day, from Lady Vyner, and had been hand-delivered.