Miles folded the paper up. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The most important thing the Vyners ever owned was the sword of a saint. Saint Caspar. The poem goes back a thousand years – it was written in French and this is a translation. The sword was given to the Vyner family, for the crusades. It’s priceless and it has to stay here, in the family home.’
He looked up at Tomaz.
‘You said you found a sword?’
Tomaz looked at Millie. ‘I found six.’
‘But is there a special one? Is there one that looks like it’s priceless and was made for a saint?’
Tomaz paused. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘We can go down and look.’
‘The old man said it wouldn’t be a real, fighting sword: it would be an emblem. It has jewels in it, worth billions.’
‘I’ve not seen anything like that,’ said Tomaz. ‘But there’re rooms I can’t get to.’
‘Let’s go down and start looking,’ said Millie.
‘Hang on a second,’ said Miles. ‘Let me tell you something else this professor told me. You know the monks . . . the Brethren? OK . . .’ He paused. ‘Listen to this – and you can believe me, if you want. The reason they came to Ribblestrop is to guard the sword. There’s a curse, I’m dead serious – I know you think I’ve got a thing about curses, but the man in the museum told me. He said that in the right hands it’s good, but in the wrong hands, nothing but bad. It has to stay with the house, but people are looking for it, wanting to—’
‘What people?’ said Millie.
‘A man. Professor Williams had a visit, about a week before I went there. An old guy, asking questions. He had a police letter, saying he was investigating the smuggling of antiques. The professor said it happens every now and then – people pick up the scent, and go looking for it. They never get anywhere, but he said this guy was desperate.’
‘For what?’
‘To find it, I imagine. It’s priceless!’
‘I wish Sanchez was here,’ said Tomaz. ‘I’ve been living down there for such a long time, and now you’ve got me scared. You think we should look for it?’
‘If it’s in your house, then it’s safe,’ said Millie. ‘We’re the only people who know how to get down. If we meet anyone snooping around, we tell them nothing.’
‘I think I’m a guardian of the sword,’ said Miles. ‘That’s what I think.’
Millie looked at him. ‘What are you talking about? You burned the school down — that’s a great guardian. And you’re crazy and the only reason you’re back here—’
‘No,’ persisted Miles. ‘Listen. I think it’s why I was brought back.’ He was fumbling in another pocket. ‘Maybe that’s why Lord Vyner came to see me, all that time ago. Maybe I’m chosen.’
Millie was smiling.
‘Israel was right,’ she said, laughing. ‘You are scary. And if that ghost came to see you, it was because he wanted to see a freak. How are you going to protect anyone or anything?’
‘I’m here for a reason, Millie – I’m sure of it.’
‘One of these days I’ll tell you why you’re here. You will get the shock of your life.’
‘I’ve got a job to do,’ said Miles. ‘And I mean business.’
Now there was something heavy in his hand. It was wrapped in a dark grey cloth, and he let it rest on his lap. He looked up at Tomaz and smiled, peaceful and serene.
Tomaz said, ‘What’s that, Miles?’
‘Sanchez said I should carry it,’ said Miles. ‘For our protection.’
He was unwrapping it, carefully, and Millie knew what it was before she saw it. She smelled it – a sharp odour of metal and grease – and she felt suddenly afraid. Miles removed the last corner of cloth and there it sat: a quiet, unassuming thing.
It was Sanchez’s gun.
Millie controlled her voice. ‘How did he say you could carry it, Miles? You should not have that.’
Tomaz had stood up and was backing away.
‘It was in his letter,’ said Miles. ‘He said he wanted me to look after it, so I can protect you.’
‘Can I see the letter? Do you have it with you?’
Miles looked at her, his eyes shining brighter than ever. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You don’t think I’d let you read my personal mail, do you? I think you’re a very nice person, but I hardly know you.’
He took the gun in his right hand and slipped his finger over the trigger.
Millie could feel how frightened Tomaz was. She wanted to move as well, but something held her and she made another attempt. ‘Miles,’ she said, ‘that’s not your property. Sanchez has it for his own protection and it’s not a toy.’
‘I know it’s not a toy.’
‘There’s no way he would let you play with it!’
Miles weighed the gun and turned it. He pressed a catch and at once the chamber was revealed. There were six bullets, snug in their sockets. He slammed it back into the breech, clicked off the safety catch, and drew back the hammer.
‘We used to play with it all the time,’ he said. ‘Didn’t we, Tom? I was the protector.’
‘Please don’t,’ said Tomaz, very quietly.
‘You need very steady hands,’ said Miles. ‘We used to play a game, but I don’t play it any more. Didn’t Sanchez tell you, Millie?’
He was aiming the gun at the low wall, opposite. The hammer stood up ready to fire and Miles’s finger seemed to be uncertain. It was not on the trigger; it rested on the guard.
‘Did you keep our secret, Tom?’
‘Stop it, Miles,’ said Tomaz. ‘Please stop.’
‘I played it, but I stopped. It’s how I know I’m chosen.’
He laughed, suddenly, and with quick, skilful hands made the gun safe, shutting it down and folding it away.
‘I guess . . . being Head Girl, Millie, you’re going to have to tell on me, aren’t you?’
Millie was silent for a moment. Then she said, ‘Put the gun back where you found it. It’s not yours.’
She would reflect on the conversation weeks later with shame. She could have taken the gun from him, by force – with Tomaz’s help – and she should have done. She should have given it to the headmaster and warned him that Miles was more disturbed than he’d realised. Instead, she did nothing.
‘Look at the south tower,’ said Miles, softly. ‘Can you see what I see?’
‘No.’
‘That’s my little friend. I told him I’d be here and he can’t wait to see me.’
He stood up and waved.
Sure enough, a window in the tower opposite opened, and Millie and Tomaz could make out the small, white face of Caspar Vyner, who was waving back.
Chapter Fourteen
Two important things happened in the next few days: one bad, one good. The good thing was that Lady Vyner fell ill and was confined to her bed. The bad thing was that Portuguese Air Traffic Control went on strike. This would have a major effect on the Ribblestrop football game.
Lady Vyner’s illness meant that her legal letters went undelivered and she caused no trouble. Her collision with Miles in the corridor had unsettled her and she’d had another unfortunate encounter with a unicycling orphan the very next morning. Father O’Hanrahan made a point of visiting her regularly, but she never let him in.
In fact, Father O’Hanrahan was working extremely hard, taking an interest in everyone. He was often seen trudging around the school, trying to be cheery. He wanted to lead work-parties to the ruined chapel and set up the ‘Church Renovation Club’. Unfortunately, nobody joined, and he found that however many boys he made join his expeditions, he’d always arrive at the chapel alone.
He took over Doonan’s R.E. classes and put a huge jar of sweets on the desk. Nobody came, and when he asked the children why they were cutting his class, they told him that the timetable had been changed.
‘We were waiting for you last night,’ said Eric. ‘One hour we waited.’
‘Big disappointment, man,’ said Israel.
‘Ten o’clock, after supper.’
‘But I was in bed.’
‘It’s that new timetable,’ said Anjoli. ‘New stuff every day.’
It was a plausible excuse, because lessons were constantly being cancelled or rearranged. Football practice was getting urgent, as the first game was looming. That had to be fitted around circus-training. Zoology continued and reproductive science classes had been doubled as Violetta was now so heavily pregnant she couldn’t move. The children crammed into her den with Professor Worthington, poking and prodding, and there had been two midnight emergencies, when Flavio thought she was going into labour and had woken the entire school.
One Monday morning, Father O’Hanrahan decided to see the headmaster in person. He had been up early, clearing stone at the chapel. He had ordered Henry to attend, but there was no sign of him. He’d seen one of the Brethren and given chase: the elderly monk had simply disappeared. His hands were red and raw again. That evening he spent another hour waiting for Sam in a freezing classroom – he had organised a set of one-to-one spiritual guidance sessions, intending to interview each child alone.
Instead of Sam, Millie arrived, hot from football practice.
‘What are you doing here?’ he cried. His cassock was filthy and his hair was wild.
‘Did I leave my credit card here?’
‘What?’
‘I want to buy things and I can’t find it anywhere.’
‘It’s not time for sweets, girl – I have an appointment with Samuel! Have you seen him?’
‘He’s been taken by Sushamila again. He won’t be free for ages.’
‘I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about—’
‘What are you going to talk about, anyway?’
‘That is a confidential matter—’
‘Is it like a confession? Because he won’t have anything to confess.’
‘What or who is Sushamila? Will you please explain what is going on in this madhouse?’
‘Sushamila’s the lion,’ said Millie, slowly. ‘She’s got it into her head that Sam’s a lion cub, and she grabs him now and then. He’s not happy about it, but what can he do? She’s obsessed and he’s cute.’
At that very moment, the door crashed open and Sam stood in the threshold, breathing heavily. His blazer was sopping wet and one sleeve was coming loose at the shoulder. It gave him a lopsided look.
‘I am so sorry,’ he panted. ‘Did Millie explain?’
Sanjay and Israel were behind him, giggling. ‘She’s still after you, Sam! She’s right behind us!’
‘It’s not funny!’ cried Sam, turning on them. ‘You all think it’s a big joke, but it’s not much fun for me, you know! And look . . .’ He peeled his blazer off. ‘Who’s going to pay for this? She must be growing teeth. Look at my shirt!’
‘Sam, you stink,’ said Millie. ‘She’s slobbered all over you.’
‘I know!’ shouted Sam. ‘And it’s the fourth time and everyone just stands and laughs.’ He looked at Father O’Hanrahan. ‘I’m very sorry, sir. I think I need to get changed.’
The old man could stand it no more.
He took Doonan with him and knocked firmly on the headmaster’s door.
They found him in his office, cradling the telephone receiver, unable to speak. Mr Sanchez had, at that very moment, passed on the information that Lisbon airport had been closed. Sanchez and Imagio had just landed there, for the transfer to London. The plane had docked and the boys had been taken not to their onward connection, but to a hotel. They had stand-bys for the next day’s three o’clock departure, and would get the night train down to Ribblestrop, arriving Wednesday morning.
The football game against Ribblestrop High was on Tuesday, and that meant they would miss it.
When Father O’Hanrahan and Doonan opened the door, the headmaster looked haggard and bewildered.
‘I understand,’ he said, in a fragile voice. ‘How tragic. We were all so hopeful . . .’
The two men came in softly, the anger dying on Father O’Hanrahan’s lips. He had witnessed bereavement countless times before and knew its tone. He became alert.
‘Of course,’ said the headmaster. ‘We will not despair.’
‘Bad news, I think,’ whispered Father O’Hanrahan to Doonan. ‘Sit down and be quiet.’
‘Life goes on,’ said the headmaster. ‘We’ll do everything that’s necessary.’
‘It’s the old Vyner woman,’ hissed the old man. ‘Oh Lord, I was expecting this. I managed to get into her kitchen yesterday and I thought she looked like death . . . she’s had a relapse.’
‘We’ll carry on as usual,’ said the headmaster. And he put the phone down. Brother Doonan instinctively crossed himself and the headmaster put his head in his hands.
‘Is it the old woman?’ said Father O’Hanrahan.
‘What?’
‘I was just saying to Doonan, she didn’t look well yesterday. Old people often know when their time has come. She was a fighter, though! She was fighting, by Jesus. Called me every name under the sun.’
‘I don’t quite follow you . . .’
The old man’s eyes gleamed. ‘She had a good innings, though, that’s for sure. But everything changes now. Those monks will be cursing – they’ve had it all their own way till now.’
He struggled to his feet, Doonan helping him.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s the end for the lot of us. Ha! I was going to talk to you about this wretched timetable, but that can wait.’ He smiled. ‘There may not be a timetable soon, eh? Might be time to start packing your things!’
‘Father?’ said Doonan. ‘I wonder if . . .’
‘What?’
‘Shall I stay here, Father?’
‘Yes. Offer some comfort to the man: you can see he needs it.’
Father O’Hanrahan smiled grimly at Doonan. ‘I expect some of your precious little orphans will feel twice bereaved! This is a test for you, boy. But I tell you what . . .’ He rubbed his hands. ‘It’s a blessing for some of us!’
The headmaster didn’t notice the old man leave. He sat gazing out of the window, until Doonan felt he ought to say something. ‘Bad news, I think, sir?’ he said.
‘What?’ The headmaster peered and seemed surprised Doonan was in the room. He still hadn’t found time to get new glasses, so everything was blurred. ‘Yes, Doonan: catastrophic. Gary Cuthbertson . . . I know him too well. He’s the High School’s Director of Sport and he won’t postpone the fixture, I know he won’t. He has some talent scout coming down, apparently – one of his lads is up for a trial. And every aeroplane’s in the wrong place! The children were so excited and now we’ll be a dangerously weak side. It’s not just the goalie – Sanchez is our goalie, you know. It’s his presence on the pitch; it makes such a difference.’
‘Are you talking about football, sir?’
‘Not to mention Imagio – he was our secret weapon.’
‘Sir, are you—?’
‘I’m talking about the game, Doonan! Eleven o’clock kick-off tomorrow and two of our key boys are stuck in Portugal!’
‘You know, I think Father O’Hanrahan’s got the wrong end of the stick.’
‘I know what Routon will do. He’ll play Ruskin in goal, and I can see the logic of that, and I am not going to interfere, but . . . Oh, Doonan! Our defence is not strong! Ruskin’s brave, but he’s so uncoordinated. I’d put Sanjay in goal, but Routon insists he’s a winger. It’s all too bad! I have every sympathy for trade unions, but . . . I’m sure if the workers knew, they’d fly one little plane to London.’
‘Father O’Hanrahan got a different impression, sir. I think he’s—’
‘He’s not a footballing man, is he? Let’s be honest. We’d better find the boys and break the news. I wonder what difference Miles will make – he’s fearless, you know.’
The two men crossed the lawn together.
Doonan laughed nervously. ‘You know, that’s why we were coming to see you, sir,’ he said. ‘We never seem able to find the children when we want them. We thought there were classes today.’
‘No, no, no. We’ve put everything on hold until the match is over. Flavio’s become a pretty good fitness coach, actually, which is just what Routon needed. Routon’s more of a manager. This is why they’ll be devastated, you see: everything’s been going so well. Ruskin in goal! Can you imagine anything worse?’
‘You may find,’ said Doonan, ‘that tragedy sometimes binds a community.’ It was a line he’d had prepared and it still seemed appropriate.
The headmaster nodded. ‘You may be right. So many things are not ours to control.’
‘Prayer is action, though,’ said Doonan.
‘Yes,’ said the headmaster. He paused and met Doonan’s eyes. ‘That’s a useful thought. The fact is, though . . . without Sanchez and Imagio we’re going to be annihilated. After so much expectation, it seems terribly cruel.’
‘I’d be happy to say a few words, if that would help them, sir?’
‘It must seem so trivial to you! A mere game . . .’
‘No!’ said Doonan. ‘I was a cub scout back in Ireland – I was first reserve for the B-team. I know what it all means! Shall I tell them that story about how the Red Sea was parted for Moses? You know, even as the Israelites awaited destruction?’
‘I think you should,’ said the headmaster. ‘It might lift them.’
‘Miracles do happen,’ said the boy.
Chapter Fifteen
The headmaster found the children practising their circus skills.
Flavio had not been keen to actually demonstrate his tightrope-walking abilities, because he didn’t want to show off. However, the children had persisted and he’d slung a wire from the back of his trailer to the roof of one of the outbuildings. It was a steady upward slope if you started at the truck-end, climbing from shoulder height to about ten metres it was a sensible start for any would-be acrobat, because you slowly learned to control your fear of heights.
Flavio did it in bare feet. His toes were wide and curled around the wire. His heavy body was in strict control and he moved up it with the speed of a monkey. The orphans, of course, took to it at once. Many had worked on ships, some on lethally dangerous building sites, and they could soon run up the wire in boots or bare feet. Eric was the first to attempt it on a bike, removing the tyres so the wire could fit the groove of the wheels. It wasn’t long before he and Podma could start at either end, meet in the middle, climb over the other’s machine, and then continue their two journeys. Flavio would stand gazing up, realising that the mad idea about Speech Day was actually quite sane.
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