Return to Ribblestrop by Andy Mulligan Page B

hair that was desperately in need of combing and
cutting. In his chair he was a coiled spring – the energy was flammable, rising in waves . . .
    ‘I’ve changed,’ said Miles, softly. ‘I am a different person now – and I’ve got a shrink in London too.’
    The headmaster licked his lips and tried to find words. Why Miles had set fire to the dining hall was still a mystery, and he knew that he would never unpick the complexities of that strange,
desperate little psyche. He realised in an instant how much he had missed him. It was for boys such as Miles that Ribblestrop had been conceived! A school of second, third, infinite chances . .
.
    Dr Norcross-Webb sighed. ‘I’m just very glad to see you,’ he said. ‘Welcome home.’
    ‘I tell you, I am so not the same,’ cried Miles, standing up. He was breathing hard. ‘I’ve had counselling – I’ve had so much work done on my head. I
am going to be your best, best pupil. I passed them on the drive, by the way. Where’s Sanchez, though?’ He was at the window, pushing it wider.
    ‘Delayed, but on his way . . .’
    ‘Tomaz!’ Miles shrieked. He was waving again. Then he gathered the snow from the sill and started to pack it. ‘Ruskin! It’s me! Look out below!’
    ‘Miles, please! Come away from there . . .’
    Miles turned, the snowball ready. ‘I wrote to him, but he didn’t reply. Where d’you get the bikes? There’s loads of kids now! Oh, and where am I sleeping?’
    ‘Miles, we have to go slow . . . The first thing is that I need to speak to your mother. We’re going to put you on a contract of behaviour , so everyone knows what to expect.
We need to establish a few ground rules and then—’
    Miles turned again and threw the snowball hard. ‘Tomaz!’ he shouted. ‘Get up here!’
    ‘Giles,’ said a voice. ‘I can hear you but I can’t see you . . . Oh my, now I can! Look at you!’
    The headmaster stood up and peered. Without his glasses, everything was blurred. In the doorway there seemed to be a fire of red and gold, and from it came a smoky, transatlantic voice.
Miles’s mother seemed poised on a catwalk, a tangle of blonde hair strewn over one shoulder, wild as her son’s. Peeling her gloves off she came closer, and the silk turned from crimson
to wild vermilion as she came into focus, offering a long, slim hand. The headmaster wondered for an absurd moment if this was Miles’s sister rather than his mother – she was thinner
and younger. Above him, two parrots found their voices and cackled in appreciation.
    ‘You have got more handsome, Giles,’ said Miles’s mother. ‘Damn you, but you’ve turned into a distinguished gentleman – not that you weren’t
beautiful before, but look at that chin. Miles, you can learn even from the way this man holds himself.’
    ‘I’m going down! I’ve just seen Tom!’
    ‘Mrs Seyton-Shandy. It’s lovely to see you. I was just saying to Miles—’
    ‘And your school is blooming in the snow . . . Come here, you!’ She grabbed her son’s arm and started to haul his blazer on. ‘It is a picture! We just parked up and
there’re so many little ones . . . Stay where you are, Miles – look at him.’ Her hands were round her son’s throat now, folding his collar down, and they stroked upwards to
rest on his cheeks. She slid into his chair and drew him onto her lap. ‘I hope this little boy has said an important word?’ she crooned.
    ‘Well, we haven’t really had time—’
    ‘Have you done that, Miles?’ Miles was nodding. ‘I just hope so and you look a mess again. I buy him new clothes and he turns them into rags, he just tears things up –
it’s a compulsion – it’s a bad habit!’ She kissed him. ‘And I told you not to show him that dreadful thing,’ she said, noticing the head. ‘We were
in the Philippines, on this crazy island – I do not believe it’s real, but he’s been scaring everyone on the plane. I hope he told you how he’s