Ribblestrop

Ribblestrop by Andy Mulligan

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Authors: Andy Mulligan
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Ruskin had predicted, in the direction of the school. The only problem ahead now was the fact that a little way down the line was a tunnel. One can’t get lost in a tunnel—but it was very, very dark. Flashlights, perhaps?In every schoolboy’s blazer, surely, a pocket knife and a flashlight, along with conkers and pet mice? Alas, the Ribblestrop blazers were new and their owners had in them only crayons and a copy of the school rules. Had they stopped to study those rules they would have seen rule twelve: No Ribblestrop student will ever put him or herself in danger, or endanger the life of any other Ribblestrop student . A fatuously vague rule . . . so easy to break.
    â€œShall we hold hands?” said Ruskin, as they entered the tunnel.
    The darkness drew them in and rule twelve was thus broken.
    â€œHenry?” called Sanchez. “You stay at the back, yes? You whistle, and that way everyone stays in front of you. Okay?”
    â€œHow long is this tunnel?” said Henry, slowly.
    â€œIt’s not that long, actually,” said Ruskin. “We were told. Twenty miles rings a bell.”
    â€œThat’s too long,” said Caspar. He was sounding tearful. “I can’t walk that far!”
    â€œWalk between the rails,” said Ruskin. “Then you really can’t get lost. And the sleepers are firm, too, you can sort of . . . get into a rhythm. Lucky they didn’t tear all this up when it went out of use. You’d think, really—” Ruskin’s voice took on an echo as they went deeper, “—you’d think really that people would want to salvage all the old materials. Let’s sing as we go: how about the school song? We can teach it to Sam again!”
    Seventeen voices sang:
    â€œ Ribblestrop, Ribblestrop, precious unto me;
    This is what I dream about and where I want to be.
    Early in the morning, finally at night,
    Ribblestrop, I’ll die for thee, carrying the light. ”
    At the end of the verse, Henry blew the whistle. Again and again they sang, and this time it was a work song: the kind of song a chain gang would sing as it labored. Thus the party moved into the depths of the rock.
    *
    Four miles away, had you been in the cab of the 13:06 Intercity Penzance-Paddington service, you would have heard the slammingof a connecting door and the following conversation:
    â€œHello, Arthur! You haven’t checked all those tickets already?”
    â€œI have, Darren. Not many punters today for some reason, just the one gets on at Par. They all join at Exeter, that’s when my feet don’t touch the ground.”
    â€œBetter sit down, then. Break out that tea.”
    â€œIn your bag here, is it?”
    The cab is small, but comfortable. It can accommodate driver and guard easily, and there’s always room for a trainee or inspector. The hydraulic driving seats command a marvelous view of the countryside whipping by and, as the glass is an inch thick and bulletproof, very little sound gets in to disturb conversation.
    â€œAny more news on that mess yesterday?” said Darren. He was a thin, wiry little man with a lot of woolly white hair. New dentures allowed him to smile happily: he was a gentle soul and had been driving trains for nearly forty years.
    â€œNot yet. Young girl, apparently—she pulled the lever on the other train. Then she jumped.”
    â€œI couldn’t see if it was boys or girls. Black-and-yellow uniforms, I’m pretty sure about that.”
    â€œThey’re checking the Reading schools, they might find ’em yet.”
    â€œShe had a very narrow escape.”
    â€œHopefully they got a scare, those kids. You won’t find them on the railways for a while! Look at that view, Arthur.”
    â€œTake your tea.”
    â€œSee that piece of rock to the right? That’s Ribblestrop Edge. I’ve been up there. You can see clear over the county—see Wales on a

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