“Why don’t we go another way to your house?” said Ryan, pointing left. “We could avoid the school if we take that road there.”
Dionna looked at him now. “But that would mean you having to go miles out of your way.”
“Not miles. And it’ll give me a chance to tell you what my plan is … for the Open Afternoon.”
Dionna’s face changed from a nervous frown to a thankful smile. “OK! Thanks, Ryan.”
They turned a corner and Ryan began.
“So … I may need to borrow some stuff from you.”
“Good afternoon, parents,” said Mr Carter. Even though this was Parents’ Open Afternoon, and the point was to make parents feel happy about the school, he said it in more or less the same voice he’d used in assembly, and so most of the mums and dads immediately looked a bit scared.
“Are there any sandwiches?” whispered Eric Stone, father of Ellie and Fred, to his wife, Janine. They were standing in the playground, which Mr Carter had insisted the pupils transform into an inviting space for this special day. It was normally just a long stretch of tarmac with a broken climbing frame at one end, but now there were stalls and colourful bunting, and a big banner that was supposed to say “WELCOME TO BRACKET WOOD PARENTS’ OPEN AFTERNOON!”
Although it actually said WELL COME. Which made it sound as if the school was trying to make the parents, who didn’t really want to, come. Which in most of the parents’ cases – certainly in Eric and Janine’s – would be true.
“Bacon ones, maybe?” Eric continued, looking around hopefully.
“No, Eric!” hissed Janine. “It’s not a greasy spoon café It’s a school!”
“Thank you all for coming today,” continued Mr Carter. “A fair few of you have turned up, which is good. Although I shall be sending letters to those who haven’t.”
“Blimey,” said Tina Ward under her breath, exchanging a glance with Susan Bennett, Barry’s mum. “I don’t much like his attitude!”
“Thank God we made it,” said Geoff, Barry’s dad.
“It is my intention, as I’m sure your children –” Mr Carter gestured behind him, where Years Two to Six were standing in a series of neat (by Bracket Wood standards) lines – “will have told you by now, to transform this establishment into a school that you can be proud to send your children to.”
“And also one that won’t get another Inadequate OFFHEAD rating,” whispered Jackie Bailey, Malcolm’s mother.
“YBBI,” said Libby, Malcolm’s teenage sister who had been dragged along by her mum and was, as ever, bored. She spoke mainly in acronyms. This one meant You’d better believe it.
“Yes!” said Mr Carter. “You HAD better believe it!”
Libby looked a bit shocked that he’d heard. And understood.
“Oh yes, Libby Bailey, I’ve checked all the files! I know you used to go here, where no doubt you learnt to speak mainly in initials … because you didn’t learn enough English when you were here, is my opinion!”
“Hey!” said Libby. “TITLU!” Which means That is totally, like, unfair.
“But,” continued Mr Carter, ignoring her, “that is all going to change. So. We’re going to go into the school in a minute, but first, some children from the lower school are going to do a little performance with the school pets.”
Two Reception pupils, a girl and a boy, came forward, holding a box. They were followed by Miss Finch, in a very nice dress that made her look like the Gruffalo in a very nice dress, and a smiling Miss Gerard. It was lovely that she was smiling, although this did mean that you could see her teeth, which were particularly red-wine-stained today. Which might have been also why she wasn’t walking very steadily.
The children put the box on a table in front of Mr Carter, who grimaced at them in a way that was possibly meant to be friendly and encouraging, but looked more like he was having a small fit.
The girl turned to the parents and, in her loudest outdoor voice, said, “THE SCHOOL PETS ARE TWO TORTOISES. WE GOT THEM FROM ORWELL FARM TO LOOK AFTER.”
Then the Reception boy said (but so quietly it was almost impossible to hear) …
“Their names are Benny and Bjorn. Which a long, long time ago were the names of two men in the band called ABBA.”
“YES!” said the girl, so loudly it made Eric Stone jump. “ABBA!”
“Although the one called Bjorn is actually a girl.”
“SHE IS A GIRL!”
“We are going to take them out and talk for a little while about what tortoises eat and how long they live and the best way to look after them.”
There was a pause. Miss Gerard, who had been looking off to the side and swaying slightly, went, “Oh!” then came forward and lifted the top off the box.
The loud Reception girl lifted up the male tortoise.
The quiet Reception boy lifted up the female tortoise.
There was a short pause when no one said anything.
Mr Carter frowned.
Miss Gerard went, “Eh?”
Mr Barrington took off his enormous glasses.
And then all the parents and all the pupils – except the two holding the tortoises, who just looked confused – started to laugh.
Because the male tortoise was wearing a pair of underpants. And the female was wearing knickers. And a bra.
When I say wearing, what I mean is that Benny – the male tortoise – had a pair of underpants, classic Y-fronts, size small, draped across his shell. His little legs were actually poking through the holes where legs are meant to go. And Bjorn – the female tortoise – was wearing a pair of flowery knickers in the same way, but above them, across her upper half, there was a small bra, such as might have been worn by a Barbie.
The whole image of the two tortoises wearing underwear was made worse – or better, depending on how you looked at it – by both children deciding to hold the tortoises up, with their bellies facing the laughing parents. I should stress at this point that neither tortoise looked at all bothered by this. Bjorn, in particular, looked quite pleased about the outfit. It made her look more like a lady, more as if her name should be, perhaps, Bjornita.
Mr Carter, however, did not look pleased about it.
At all.
“Stop laughing!” he shouted at the children.
They did, immediately.
Mr Carter turned round. “I said …” he snarled at the parents, “STOP LAUGHING.” They also stopped immediately. You could have heard a pin drop. It looked as if the new head teacher’s threatening power had got the situation under control. He turned back to the two Reception children, terrified by now, still holding up the pair of tortoises. They were shaking a little.
Which is possibly why, at that point, Benny’s Y-fronts slipped slowly off his little body and fell in a pile beneath him. Bjornita’s little head turned to look.
And everyone – parents, children and teachers alike – fell about laughing again.
Everyone, that is, but Mr Carter, who, after looking around with contempt at all the hysteria, picked up the underpants and looked inside the waistband.
“Ryan Ward,” he said in a terrifying tone. “My office. Now.”
Ryan Ward looked around the head teacher’s office. He had been here many times before, of course. But it had changed. It had only been a week since Mr Carter had taken over, but somehow in that time he’d transformed Mr Fawcett’s room – which had always been dusty and untidy, with piles of books and papers everywhere – into a sharp, clean, modern space. The walls, which used to be brown, were now bright white, and gleaming waxed floorboards were visible where previously there had been an old coffee-stained carpet. The depressing grey filing cabinets that used to line the walls were gone, and a new desk, silver and wide and curved, had replaced Mr Fawcett’s grotty wooden table with drawers that always stuck.
“I wonder why you chose those particular pants, Ryan?” said Mr Carter, who was sitting on the edge of that desk with one leg on the floor, a bit like a model in a desk ca
talogue. Next to him on the desk was a pair of pants: the ones that had recently been on Benny the tortoise.
“They were the nearest I had to tortoise-size, sir,” said Ryan, who was standing in front of him. “A bit old now, of course. But they did the business perfectly when I was three.”
“Hm,” said Mr Carter. “I’m not sure I believe you there, Ryan.” He reached round and, holding them as far away from himself as he could, picked up the pants. “I think you may have deliberately chosen them because the name tag was sewn in to them. A name tag that says –” and he turned the waistband towards him and looked at it disdainfully – “Ryan Ward.”
“Well, sir. My mum’s a stickler for name tags. Always worrying about me losing stuff.”
“Perhaps, Ryan, perhaps. Or perhaps you wanted to be caught. Perhaps you wanted to be known as the perpetrator of the great tortoises-in-pants prank, the one that ruined the new head teacher’s Open Afternoon. Because you are proud of being that person.”
He held the pants very close to Ryan’s face as he said this.
“You know, I like what you’ve done with this place,” said Ryan, pushing the pants down with one finger so he could see over them.
“Pardon?”
“This office. It used to be stuffy and horrible in here. But you’ve made it all new and flash.”
For a second Mr Carter looked genuinely pleased.
“Well, don’t think you’re going to get round me by praising my sense of interior design, Ryan. But now you mention it, yes, I am happy with what we’ve done. Still got a few things to clear out from the old head teacher’s days – like this …” he said, turning back to the desk. He held up a small, very old-looking wooden box. “The builders discovered it under the floorboards when they were redoing the floor.”
“What is it?” asked Ryan, not actually very interested, but keen to put off the punishment he knew was coming.
“It’s a musical box, though it doesn’t actually seem to play any music.”
Ryan squinted at the box. On the top was a weird little symbol, like a circle made out of two curved arrows. Mr Carter opened the box to reveal the mechanism – a series of tiny interlocking gold cogs and wheels – but they remained still and no sound came out.
“Anyway,” said Mr Carter, putting the box back down on his desk and speaking in a scary let’s-get-on-with-it voice, “I know you’re just stalling. So. Ryan.”
He took a deep breath and leant towards Ryan.
“You think that me running this school is a challenge to your naughtiness. You think: I’ll show him, this new head teacher with his strictness and his new rules and his frightening manner. But you’re going to have to forget all that. Because I’m shutting you down. Now.”
Mr Carter’s face was close to Ryan’s. Really close. Ryan could smell his over-brushed, toothpastey breath. He stayed firm, though, did Ryan. He looked straight back at the new head teacher’s fiery black eyes as if to say: They may be fiery, but the butter is still not melting in my mouth.
“But what punishment? What will convince you to give up this little campaign I know you’re planning? Well, obviously detention. We can do that. That’s done. That’s in the bank. You’re down for five of those this week.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And obviously a letter home to your mum. Already written. On its way.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But none of that will really … really pierce you, will it, Ryan? Really make you wince and think again.”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t know, sir.” Mr Carter moved away from Ryan, towards the door. “Well, something – or rather someone – you do know is this person, I think.”
He opened the door. Standing in the corridor looking very nervous indeed, was Dionna Baxter.
“In fact, I think she may be your best friend …”
A few seconds later, Dionna was standing next to Ryan in front of the curved silver desk. She glanced at him, fear in her eyes. Ryan half smiled at her, trying to look unbothered, but inside he could feel his tummy dropping like it did sometimes in the car when his mum drove too quickly over a bump.
“I’m right, aren’t I, Dionna,” said Mr Carter, “that you two are best friends?”
“Um …” said Dionna. Mr Carter stared hard at her. She clearly thought better of lying. “Yes.”
“And I’m also right in saying that the underwear on the female tortoise was—”
At this point, Mrs Wang walked in. Well, crutched in. Holding up the flowery pants that had been on the female tortoise. With some difficulty.
“—yours?”
Dionna looked down.
“Yeah. Although the bra is technically my sister’s. From her favourite Our Generation doll. My parents gave it to her for Christmas. Can I have it back now, actually?”
“We’ll see. But I’m glad you’ve brought up your parents. Because as we know – and I’m sure Ryan knows too – you, Dionna Baxter, only came to us last year from Oakcroft on a conditional basis. You were allowed in on the condition that you fitted in well. And, frankly, I think this incident – and your continuing association with Ryan – proves, really, that you DON’T.”
Dionna’s face crumpled. Her chin started to wobble.
“So,” continued Mr Carter, “perhaps I should be writing to your parents and explaining that it hasn’t quite worked out for you here. Perhaps it would be better for you to return to your previous school – where I believe your scholarship is still being held open.”
“Please, Mr Carter,” said Dionna, tears streaming down her cheeks, “I had a terrible time at Oakcroft!”
“Oh, come now,” said Mr Carter. “It’s an exceptional educational establishment.”
Dionna swallowed. “It’s not that. It’s …”
“Yes?”
“Well … I was … They were …” She took a deep breath.
Then looked down, unable to continue.
“They bullied her,” said Ryan. “The posh kids bullied her. You can’t send her back.”
Dionna stared at him.
“How did you kno—”
“I guessed. It wasn’t that hard.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Dionna,” said Mr Carter, who actually did sound a little sorry, but also like it wasn’t going to stop him. “I think you should have thought of THAT before you lent your pants to Ryan Ward to put on the school tortoise!”
Normally, this combination of words alone would have made Ryan laugh out loud.
But he didn’t laugh. He just looked grimly at Dionna, willing her to stop crying.
He turned back to the new head teacher.
“But, Mr Carter—” he began.
“No buts, thank you very much! Your prank ruined our Open Afternoon!”
“It wasn’t her fault. It was my idea. I just borrowed—”
“It’s too late for that now, Ryan,” Mr Carter said, turning away.
“No, it isn’t!” said Ryan. “It’s not fair!” He searched his brain frantically for something that might make the new head teacher reconsider. Then he said, “I don’t think Mr Fawcett would have done that! I don’t think any fair head teacher would do that!”
Mr Carter turned back to Ryan. His eyes narrowed.
“Oh. Now you’re thinking about poor old Mr Fawcett? Mr Fawcett, who resigned from this school – ran away, in fact, screaming madly, ‘I’m free, I tell you, free!’ – mainly because of you?”
“Well—”
“You didn’t think about what it was like for the poor man while he WAS the head teacher here.” Mr Carter shook his head. He walked round to the other side of his desk. “No. You’d never think about that, would you? You’d never think about what it’s like to run a place like this! Ha! You know what, Ryan Ward? I wish – I just wish – that you did know what it’s like, what it’s really, really like to be a head teacher at a school like this … and to have to deal with boys like YOU!”
As he said “YOU”, even mor
e loudly than he’d said any of his loud words so far, he brought his fist crashing down on the desk. Which made it even more frightening.
But it also made the musical box, still sitting there, jump up a little, come back down again …
And start playing.
It was a strange tune, picked out in the eerie, ghost-story plinky-plinky style that all musical boxes play. It was like a nursery rhyme tune, a mix of “Ring a Ring o’ Roses” and “London Bridge is Falling Down” and “Three Blind Mice”. But with a tiny element of “Let’s Marvin Gaye and Get it On” by Charlie Puth, featuring Meghan Trainor.
“That’s odd,” said Mr Carter, staring at the musical box.
“Yes,” said Dionna. “‘Let’s Marvin Gaye and Get it On’? How can that possibly be the tune? The box is far too old for—”
“No, I mean,” he said, “it hasn’t been wound up. I doubt it’s been wound up for years.” He shrugged and turned back to Ryan and Dionna. “Anyway, where were we?”
Neither Ryan nor Dionna wanted to answer that question. But luckily they didn’t have to because at that point Mr Carter fainted.
His eyes closed, his knees buckled and he crumpled in a heap on the floor.
“Blimey,” said Dionna.
She turned to Ryan, expecting to see him smirking because maybe he’d put something in Mr Carter’s tea, or set up some kind of prank that had led to the head teacher fainting.
But Ryan, too, was crumpled in a heap on the floor.
“Oh!” said Dionna. “What’s happening?”
“I don’t know,” said Mrs Wang from where she’d been standing in the corner of the office all along. “But I’d really like you to take your pants back. It’s very hard to hold them up when you’re on crutches.”
“Hello? Hello?”
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