Silence fell as the class opened their exercise books and applied their protractors.
“I shall be coming round to inspect,” warned Mr Gibber. “If any boy is producing immoral angles, he’ll feel the full force of my Number Four.”
Mr Gibber limited his inspection to grindboys, climbers and crawlers. Sometimes he launched into torrents of abuse, while students protested, “But sir, you jogged my elbow!”
They spent a whole lesson drawing and labelling right angles.
∨ Worldshaker ∧
Seventeen
The rest of the day continued in the same way. In Chemistry, they learned the difference between the purity of elements and the dirtiness of compounds; in Music, they recited the words of Imperial hymns; in Algebra, they learned to prefer honest numbers over sly, secretive xs and ys. All of Mr Gibber’s lessons were very moral, and very different to anything Professor Twillip had taught.
It was in a Religion test that Mr Gibber first used his tweaker: a long rod with a clothes peg on the end, and a string to work the peg. While students wrote answers to the test, Mr Gibber prowled up and down between the desks. When he grew tired of prowling, he snapped the peg onto the pen of a student three desks away.
“Writing too fast, Nebblethwaite!” he barked. “How much do you think I want to mark?”
He lifted the pen high in the air, pulled the string and deposited the offending object on top of Nebblethwaite’s head.
“Keep concentrating!” he cried. “No cheating!”
There was a short break in the middle of the morning and a longer break for lunch. Two Menials served school food from a trestle table in the yard: pies, sausage rolls and sandwiches. The sausage rolls looked good to Col, but Flarrow soon put him right.
“We don’t eat that muck. We eat from the Squellinghams’ special hamper.”
The hamper had been delivered just inside the entrance arch. The twins handed out plates and the members of the group tucked into paté, pastries, fruitcake and other delicacies. Lumbridge carried a slice of cake across to the master on playground duty.
After lunch, Mr Gibber decided to teach History. His history was as strange as all his other lessons. When one of the students asked, “What’s history, sir?”, Mr Gibber answered. “It’s whatever I say it is, Weffington. Take out your History exercise books.”
Col was used to the procedure by now. He crossed out Algebra and wrote History on the cover of the same exercise book.
“In History, I teach you about the past. Who can tell me something that happened in the past? And I don’t mean the day before yesterday, Hegglenock. Anyone? Anyone?”
Col put up a hand. “The ancient Greeks and Romans, sir. Athens and Sparta, Rome and Carthage.”
“Yes, them, of course, of course. But they’re not historical enough. Something really historical?” He cracked his knuckles one by one: crack-crack-crack! “I’ll tell you something really, really historical. History begins with a very important man called Noah. Write it down in your books. N-O-A-H. Noah was the man who built the first juggernaut.”
“Was he from the Old Country, sir?” asked the student called Prewitt.
“Why not? He was a very wise man and the ancestor of our present Queen Victoria II. He heard there was going to be a flood, so…do you know what a flood is?”
Several hands shot up, but Mr Gibber snorted scornfully.
“No, you don’t, because this was a bigger flood than you know about. A worldwide flood. When Noah heard it was coming, he built a juggernaut and called it the Ark.”
He drew a shape on the blackboard that could have been anything.
“The Ark. He built it in wood because he didn’t have iron. Then he invited two of every class and species on board.”
“Did it have steam engines, sir?”
“It had…um…its own kind of engines. Don’t distract me, Wunstable, I’m telling you about who he invited on board to be saved. There were two officers and two supervisors and two engineers and so on for every type of human being. Then there were two chickens and two goats and two geese and two pigs and two Filthies and – stop sniggeringl”
The word ‘Filthies’ had produced a wave of muffled titters around the class.
“Why two of each, sir?”
“Were they a male and a female, sir?”
Mr Gibber glared, permitted himself a brief snigger of his own, then glared again.
“Quiet, 4A. There were two of each because that’s the way it was and you don’t need to know any more. This isn’t smut, this is history. When they were all on board and the flood came, then every class and species had to learn to co-operate. Yes, I know it’s a long word for your brain, Melstruther. It means doing things together. So the supervisors supervised and the engineers engineered, the chickens laid their eggs and the pigs gave their bacon. They all played their parts and lived in harmony. Which is why we all play our parts and live in harmony today, don’t we, Trant? I serve as your teacher and you serve as my pupils. Sit up and serve properly, Nebblethwaite!”
Pugh nudged Flarrow, who nudged a boy in the next row, who asked, “Sir, did the Filthies learn to play their parts and live in harmony, sir?”
“Ah, ah.” Mr Gibber licked his rubbery lips and shuddered. “No, the Filthies didn’t want to co-operate. They went off to live in the dark at the bottom of the Ark. They multiplied.”
Col didn’t know what to think. Professor Twillip’s lessons had never covered history before the Greeks and Romans – nor after them, either.
He raised a hand to ask a question. “What about the other species, sir?”
“What about them?”
“Didn’t they multiply too?”
“No, no, no! Not in a Filthy way!” Mr Gibber could hardly control himself. “Not in the dark! Not in a dirty, lewd, indecent way! Ugh!”
“Ugh!” went the class. “Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!”
A memory rushed into Col’s mind, so vivid he could taste and feel it. The Filthy girl’s kiss! Soft, warm lips pressed against his own!
Disgusting!
A glowing sensation came to his cheeks. He lowered his head and prayed no one would notice. He twisted his mouth into a different shape, nothing like the shape of a kiss.
The lesson continued. For a long time, Mr Gibber’s voice was just background noise to Col. The memory of the kiss was followed by a memory of her parting words: “You’re okay, Col-bert Porping-tine!” He could recall the exact look on her face as she said it.
He couldn’t stop recalling it.
Why did this have to happen now? She was out of his life, he was sure he’d forgotten her. Out, out, out!
After a while, Mr Gibber lost interest in history. He set the class to drawing pictures of Noah’s Ark, leaving off the bottom part where the Filthies were. The class tittered and started work.
Mr Gibber yawned and sat behind his desk. From time to time he reached down to his wastepaper basket and appeared to be patting something inside.
“That’s Murgatrude.” Hythe leaned forward to whisper from behind. “The Gibber’s pet.”
Murgatrude made a deep rumm-rumm sound, somewhere between the purr of a cat and the growl of a dog.
The afternoon wore on. Fefferley and Haugh took pillows out of their desks, laid down their heads and fell fast asleep. Some students amused themselves by flicking little inked balls of blotting paper at one another, some tried to repel the attacks by building defensive walls of books on their desks.
Still Col couldn’t get the memory of Riff completely out of his mind.
∨ Worldshaker ∧
Eighteen
Col came home after school to afternoon tea in the Somerset Room. The Somerset Room was Grandmother Ebnolia’s private parlour, with satin-upholstered chairs and little lace-covered tables. Ebnolia and Quinnea pounced on him immediately.
“How was your first day?” asked Ebnolia.
“Did it give you a headache?” added Quinnea.
Col didn’t kno
w what to say. The truth was that school hadn’t lived up to his expectations at all, and Mr Gibber’s lessons had been a complete disappointment. But perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to say so, when Sir Mormus was also in the room, along with Orris, Gillabeth and baby brother Antrobus.
“A hug for your favourite grandmother,” said Ebnolia.
Hugs with Ebnolia involved more contact with her perfume than her person. The overpowering strawberry sweetness made Col’s senses swim.
“Now tell us what you learned,” she said.
“Umm. Strange things about acute angles and obtuse angles. Compounds and elements. Noah’s Ark. Is it true that Noah’s Ark was the first juggernaut?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t know, my dear.” Ebnolia showed tiny white teeth in a smile. “The females in our family have never bothered with education.”
“The females in other families do,” said Gillabeth from across the room.
“Yes, dear, but they’re not Porpentines.”
Gillabeth dropped her head in submission. She turned her attention back to Antrobus and decided that his collar and cuffs needed straightening. Antrobus received her savage ministrations, as he received everything else, in wide-eyed silence.
“If your teacher says it, it must be right,” said Quinnea.
From his chair beside the cake-stand, Sir Mormus cleared his throat as if blasting out a blocked pipe. Harrr-arrr-uuph!
Ebnolia looked across and bobbed. “I think your grandfather wants to talk to you, dear,” she told Col.
Sir Mormus had a lemon tart in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. Col went across and stood before his chair.
“Shall I tell you about my first day at school, sir?”
“I heard, my boy. Angles, compounds, Noah’s Ark. Stuff and nonsense. You’re not going to school to learn about things like that.”
“I’m not?”
“Of course not. You’re there to learn about power.”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
Sir Mormus lowered his voice to a resonant whisper. “We don’t say this in front of women and children. No need for them to know the world isn’t all sugar and spice. It’s about obeying or being obeyed. Power isn’t a gift, my boy, it has to be earned. You earn it by subduing other people. Starting in school.”
“Other students, you mean?” Col was so surprised, he forgot to say ‘sir’.
“Yes, other students. Don’t expect to do it all at once. Practise on the lower boys first, then work up to the elite. The Squellingham twins are in your class, aren’t they?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. So you have the opportunity to dominate them from an early age. Break their spirit, make them recognise your power. If you build up their habit of subservience now, it’ll last a lifetime. Grind them down, rub their noses in it.”
“But they like me and I like – ”
“Liking has nothing to do with it. They must be afraid of you. You want to be Supreme Commander, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then learn supremacy.”
Sir Mormus swallowed his tart and drained his tea in one huge sip. His digestive processes made a deep-down gurgling sound.
“Now go back and talk to the others,” he said.
Col returned to Ebnolia and Quinnea in a sombre state of mind. He no longer felt so good about fitting into his new role.
∨ Worldshaker ∧
Nineteen
Grinding people down didn’t come naturally to Col. He tucked Sir Mormus’s precepts away in a corner of his mind and gradually forgot about them.
In any case, he was already in a position of supremacy. Crawlers and climbers in all classes at the Academy admired him from a distance and tried to copy his behaviour. Then, in the second half of the week, little presents started to turn up in his desk: packets of fudge, bars of nougat, boxes of chocolates. There was always a small card attached: From ST, or Admiringly, MB, or Thinking of you, JW.
“Girls,” said Hythe. “Those are their initials.”
Col shared the sweets around, while the group tried to work out who owned the initials. More than half the presents came from ST.
“I know,” said Pugh. “That’s Sephaltina Turbot in 4B.”
“It could be Shevaleen Thorlish,” Flarrow suggested.
“No, her father’s only a doctor,” said Hythe. “She wouldn’t have the nerve.”
“Sephaltina’s father is Chief Helmsman,” added Fefferley.
They pointed Sephaltina out at break time. She had a heart-shaped face, rosebud lips and yellow ribbons in her hair. Her cheeks were her most striking feature, blushing constantly on and off. They blushed a great deal more when she saw Col looking at her.
The twins weren’t jealous of his popularity, so far as Col could see. Nor did they resent it when he outscored them to come first in the Religion test. Then in a Chemistry test he came second to Pugh but ahead of Hythe; and in an Algebra test he came second to Hythe but ahead of Pugh. He was amazed to be getting such high marks after only a few days at school.
Fefferley, Haugh and Flarrow usually did well in tests too. Only Lumbridge scored poorly, often beaten by the blockies and some of the climbers. But Lumbridge had a special position in the group because of the way he stood guard over the twins. They looked after him as he looked after them. It was Flarrow who came lowest in the group’s pecking order.
Col saw how it worked when the Squellinghams decided to show him Mr Gibber’s pet. The whole group sneaked back into the classroom during the Thursday lunch break, and Lumbridge lifted the wastepaper basket up onto Mr Gibber’s desk.
“That’s him,” said Hythe. “That’s Murgatrude.”
All Col could make out was a curled-up lump of hair or fur at the bottom of the basket. “What is he? A cat?”
Hythe turned to Flarrow. “Lift him out.”
Flarrow took a backwards step. “He’ll go berserk.”
“Do it,” said Pugh.
“I’ll get scratched.”
“So?”
Flarrow looked round the circle of faces and surrendered to his fate. He buttoned his jacket up to the neck for protection, then reached into the basket with both hands.
Murgatrude exploded into action like a coiled spring. He raked at Flarrow, flew through the air and crashed into the blackboard, then zoomed around like a hurricane, banging into desk-frames and skimming along walls.
Col glimpsed a half-bald body, a nose like a pug-dog and whiskers like a cat.
The animal made a complete circuit of the room, then up onto the desk and back into the basket.
Everyone laughed except for Flarrow, who was bleeding from scratches on his hands and chin.
“Now do you know what it is?” Pugh asked Col. “A cat or a dog?”
Col shook his head.
“Nobody does,” said Hythe. “Nobody has ever worked it out.”
“Lift him out again,” Lumbridge ordered Flarrow.
There was a warning growl from Murgatrude in his waste-paper basket.
“No, don’t,” said Col. “Stop.”
It was an outright command, of which Sir Mormus might have approved. Lumbridge shrugged and desisted – but only after exchanging glances with the Squellinghams. Even Flarrow looked in their direction first.
∨ Worldshaker ∧
Twenty
“Right.” Mr Gibber cracked his knuckles. “The next subject will be…will be…” He waited for attention. “Will be Geography. What’s Geography, Clatterick?”
“Don’t know, sir.”
“Because you’re a dimwit and a doodlebrain. But I know. Your humble teacher, Mr Bartrim Gibber, knows.”
It was Friday afternoon, and Fefferley and Haugh had already brought out their pillows. Mr Gibber unrolled two maps and pinned them up on the blackboard: a map of the world and a map of the Old Country.
Mr Gibber’s Geography was as moral as all his other lessons. He divided the world into good coastlines and bad coastlines. G
ood coastlines like Florida and Cape York were firm and proud and pushed forward into the ocean. Bad coastlines like the Gulf of Mexico and the Great Australian Bight bent weakly inwards. In general, the coastline of Europe was the best of all coastlines, and the coastline of the Old Country was absolutely perfect.
“See Wales pushing forward.” He used one of his canes to point on the map. “And Cornwall here. Kent. East Anglia. All outstanding coastlines. Coastlines with character.”
Col put up a hand. Mr Gibber licked his rubbery lips and took up a pose of listening.
“Silence, everyone! A question from the grandson of Sir Mormus Porpentine. What would you like to know?”
“I don’t see how you can have one without the other, sir. The bits that stick out need bits going in between them. Like the Bristol Channel between Wales and Cornwall. Or the Thames Estuary between Kent and East Anglia.”
“Oh, he knows all about the Bristol Channel and the Thames Estuary.” Mr Gibber went into an ecstasy of grinning and grimacing. “Going in, he says. Disgusting! Where are they? There!”
Mr Gibber drew back his cane and gave the map a mighty whack. “That’s what I think of the Thames Estuary!” Another whack. “And that’s what I think of the Bristol Channel!”
The map of the Old Country fell off the blackboard.
Flarrow put up a hand. “What about the Great Australian Bight, sir?”
Whack! Mr Gibber vented his spleen on the Great Australian Bight.
Another student chimed in. “The Gulf of Mexico, sir!”
Whack!
The map of the world joined the map of the Old Country on the floor. Mr Gibber whirled around and started whacking desks at the front of the class.
“This is what I do to a bad coastline! And anyone in favour of a bad coastline! Are you in favour of a bad coastline, Trant?”
He brought his cane down so hard on Septimus Trant’s desk that Septimus let out a yell.
“Oh, you are, are you?” Whack! “Perhaps you’re in favour of the Thames Estuary? Even though Porpentine has shown us how bad it is?”
Worldshaker 01; Worldshaker Page 8