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  St Erudite’s school motto was ‘Plan, Strive, Soar’. In keeping with this theme, someone had come up with the ingenious if corny idea of identifying the different levels by bird species. First years were Sparrows, second years Starlings, the middle years were Kestrels and Hawks, and by the time you reached your final years of secondary education you were first an Eagle and finally an Owl. How eagles could precede owls wasn’t immediately clear to Milli and Ernest, but after some heated debate they decided it probably had something to do with the value of wisdom over skill and confidence.

  One chilly Monday morning a few weeks into term, the children shuffled their way to school carrying bulging satchels, violin cases (both had just started lessons) and their art folios. They had missed the school bus, as a result of Milli being unable to find her shoe, and were now forced to walk despite the foul weather. Drabville’s usual school calendar had been revised to accommodate the kidnapped children’s return, so it was already late October by the time lessons resumed. The day was overcast and the wind seemed to bite right through them. There was snow on the distant hills; their tips appeared only as a whitish blur. The children hoped the streets, too, would soon disappear under a layer of white.

  Milli couldn’t suppress a smile as she glanced at Ernest. Mrs Perriclof had bundled him up as if his destination were the Antarctic rather than St Erudite’s. The black coat he was wearing over his school blazer was made from a quilted fabric that made him look as though he was encased in bubble wrap. His arms stuck out a little from his sides and his usual walk was restricted to a waddle. From a distance he looked like an overgrown penguin. He also wore thick mittens, a knitted scarf wrapped tightly around his neck and a hat lined with sheep’s wool pulled firmly over his head. All Milli could see of him was the tip of his very pink nose. This was one morning when Ernest was envious of his siblings who, considered too unprepared for the demands of’institutionalised education’, remained at home under the tutelage of their mother, an enterprise so exhausting that Mrs Perriclof often had to have a lie-down in the afternoons.

  ‘It really is too cold to be outside,’ Milli said, turning up the collar of her school blazer and sniffing audibly as they made their way down the street. She had been battling a minor cold for weeks now but unfortunately it hadn’t developed into anything more serious, like bronchitis or pneumonia. It was really of no use whatsoever—bad enough to block her nose so she couldn’t sleep properly, but not bad enough to warrant any time off school.

  ‘Thou knowest, winter tames man, woman and beast,’ Ernest said as Milli blew her nose noisily into a hanky. He had to tilt his head right back to look at her, so low was his hat pulled over his eyes.

  ‘What?’ Milli said, but regretted it almost immediately.

  ‘I am quoting from the Bard. It’s remarkable how poetry can provide us with insights into everyday life.’

  Even though Milli knew Ernest ought not to be encouraged, her curiosity was piqued. ‘Quoting from a bird?’ she repeated. Her ears were also slightly blocked.

  ‘Not bird, Bard. It’s another name for the most famous of all playwrights—even you must have heard of Shakespeare.’

  ‘Course I have,’ Milli said defensively. ‘I just got confused when you called him a bird.’

  ‘I plan to be an aficionado by the time the year’s out.’

  Milli was finding Ernest’s train of thought increasingly difficult to follow. ‘A fishy what?’

  ‘Very funny. It’s Spanish and means to become really passionate about something. Have you seen the posters advertising the competition the library’s running—Who Said What? They give you dozens of quotes from Shakespeare and you have to name the character who said it.’

  ‘Didn’t he write a lot of plays?’

  ‘Twenty-three in total, but I’m hoping they’ll focus on the better-known ones.’

  ‘What’s the prize?’ Milli asked, more interested in suppressing the sneeze that was coming than in Ernest’s answer.

  ‘A leather-bound edition of his complete works for the school library.’

  ‘Wow. And for the winner?’

  ‘Only glory,’ Ernest replied, clicking his tongue. ‘Sweet, sweet glory.’

  When they reached the turn-off for Drabville Elementary, Milli unconsciously made towards it and Ernest had to pluck her back and steer her left. Milli made this mistake every time they were forced to walk, particularly when she was preoccupied.

  Within weeks of arriving at their new school both Milli and Ernest felt far removed from their old lives. So much more was expected of them. Classes were held in various musty buildings sometimes at opposite ends of the grounds and the children often had to rush in order to avoid a Late Mark. There were books and folders, diaries and sports bags not to mention special equipment for electives to juggle as they made their way through corridors crowded with seniors who chatted away in doorways and never seemed to be in a hurry.

  We know that organisation was not one of Milli’s strong points, so if it hadn’t been for Ernest she would have been a total disaster. ‘Don’t forget your safety glasses—it’s Science after Oratory,’ he would remind her as they both tried to wrangle their things out of tiny wooden lockers on the bottom row.

  Milli continued to miss her old school longer than any of her peers. She missed the intimacy of it and the leisurely pace, how a whole day could stretch out in front of you, full of promise. She missed the afternoons of reading in the corner set aside expressly for that purpose and scattered with an array of colourful floor cushions you could arrange for your own comfort. She missed the projects that could consume hours of your time on presentation alone before you felt they were impressive enough to submit for assessment. Their classroom at Drabville Elementary had been a welcoming place with every available surface displaying their dioramas of the solar system and models of the pyramids. Milli envied Finn and Fennel, who were still there, having been held back a year to allow them to catch up on all the things they’d missed during their years with the Lampo Circus. Milli was finding the transition to senior school difficult, and although she was growing accustomed to St Erudite’s culture, she really had to wonder about the pedagogy (a word she had recently learned from Ernest) behind some of its practices. How could poorly heated, Spartan classrooms be conducive to learning? And how ludicrous was it that access to students’ lockers was barred other than at break times, which meant you had to remember to collect what you needed for several lessons in a row. And that meant you had to remember what those lessons were. Often there wasn’t the time to be searching for timetables (sensible Ernest had taped a copy of his to the inside of his locker door). Milli was forever picking up the wrong folder or leaving behind her Mathemat. For the life of her she couldn’t see why most of their classes couldn’t be held in the one room, where they could have assigned desks to store their things in. And how hard could it be to fit pegs to the walls to hang up the blazers that barely fitted inside their minuscule lockers?

  Apart from the physical challenges of life at St Erudite’s the students seemed a far less cohesive group. There were the twelve prefects with shiny badges pinned to their lapels, teachers who strode through the halls with their academic gowns fluttering behind them, and students grouped into factions based on skill or sophistication. Milli was fascinated by the seniors; the boys with their easy humour and shirts only half tucked and the girls with their manicured nails and glossy smiles. Once a boy called James Woods (Woodsy to his friends) who was the debating captain had given Milli a cheeky wink after catching her staring. She had flushed deeply and had become so disoriented she had to be led away by a baffled Ernest.

  But the sudden decline in status was perhaps the most difficult change to come to terms with. Both Milli and Ernest had achieved what can only be described as a profile at Drabville Elementary. They were always the ones who took the lead, whether in debating, chess or school theatrical productions. At St Erudite’s the competition was tougher; they had to prove their worth al
l over again. Milli tried out for a couple of sporting teams but found she lacked the required speed and agility. Ernest auditioned for the end-of-year production of Macbeth and was seriously miffed when he was cast as Banquo’s son, Fleance, a character who spoke two lines in the entire play. Ernest wasn’t used to being upstaged by older boys with booming voices and greater ‘stage presence’. As for debating, both children had been placed in a beginners’ team full of stuttering students so nervous they kept getting their palm cards out of order.

  St Erudite’s Academy was also very focused on the upholding of tradition. Teachers were always impressing upon students the importance of adhering to the rules. ‘Without rules,’ one ancient master was fond of repeating, ‘there would be anarchy, and you know what would happen then, don’t you? Civilisation as we know it would crumble.’ He always doubled over when he said this, as if he himself were on the verge of crumbling. Wearing the correct uniform was also reinforced constantly, especially when public appearances were required. Milli had improved significantly in this department, with some assistance from her mother, but it still struck her as a dreadful waste of time. The boys’ uniform comprised grey wool shorts, a sky blue vest and gold striped tie. The girls wore a pleated navy skirt and pale blue blouse with a round collar. In summer, both boys and girls were required to wear a straw boater displaying the school crest on their way to and from school. Milli’s boater was already looking rather battered from having been mistaken by Stench as part of his bedding, and she hadn’t even worn it yet. Both sexes also wore the mandatory grey blazer and black lace-up shoes. For someone as free-spirited as Milli, St Erudite’s felt like an institution. If it hadn’t been for the kindness of one teacher, the whole experience would have been even more alienating.

  Even the most conservative of schools often make allowances for those involved in the performing or creative arts. It is generally thought that these individuals occupy more rarefied fields and thus must be permitted greater freedoms. Milli’s and Ernest’s homeroom teacher, Miss Mildew Macaw, fell into this category. The most obvious thing that set her apart from the rest of the staff was her dress code. She wore silk scarves, sometimes in the place of a belt or wound around her head like a turban, oriental skirts that almost trailed the floor and jingled when she moved, tights with jungle patterns, and flat silver ballet shoes decorated with bows or sequins. She also had a rather extensive collection of embroidered vests. Mildew Macaw liked to wear handcrafted jewellery (mostly made by artist friends) such as polished wooden beads as large as chestnuts or brooches in the shape of tropical flowers. Sometimes she wore clothes pegs painted in assorted colours in her hair. Often, when she needed her hands to be free, she stored her paintbrushes in the coil of her silver bun. In short, she was a character; although less enlightened students preferred other terms, like ‘Mad Macaw’ to describe her.

  Milli and Ernest loved her. Miss Macaw was thin, of medium height but long-limbed, with bony hands that she waved about whenever something excited her, which was often. She loved to share little confidences with her ‘special group’. On the very first day she had told them about her past life as an accomplished potter, the collapse of her disastrous marriage to a German baron who had absconded with her inheritance leaving her virtually destitute, the digestive problems of Buster her bull terrier, and her determination to eat only home-grown vegetables. She also informed them that these days her artistic endeavours were confined to school holidays as the more important business of teaching took up the bulk of her time and energy.

  Aside from being their form mistress, Miss M, as she was eventually dubbed, took them for Ceramics as well as a subject called Conflict and Catastrophes, which covered a mishmash of topics from the Battle of Hastings to tornadoes and other natural disasters. Ceramics was by far Milli’s favourite class, even though Miss Macaw insisted on playing Gregorian chants in the background for inspiration. Even Ernest didn’t seem to object to donning his smock and sinking his fingers into a clump of moist clay. In Ceramics they learned to sledge and slurry as they made masks, chimes and coil pots. Miss Macaw was a veritable mine of information when it came to art history. Various pieces of information would be dropped like pebbles into whatever discussion they might be having at the time.

  ‘The ancient Greeks were fine ceramic artists,’ she rhapsodised one afternoon as she strolled around the art-room, stopping to give artistic advice as she went. ‘We use much the same techniques today some two thousand years later. Now, isn’t that amazing?’ Miss Macaw stopped by Milli’s table and bent over to show her how to smooth out the lumps in the food bowl she was making for Stench. As Milli listened to her explanation, she happened to look out of the classroom windows at a rapidly greying sky. Just for a moment she indulged in her old pastime of trying to discern faces in the clouds. There was definitely the head of a horse, she decided, followed by what looked like a bowl of porridge. After a while she thought she could make out an ancient face with a hooked nose that seemed to be looking straight back at her. There was something about that face…something horribly familiar that made her breath catch in her throat. Stench’s bowl almost slipped from her grasp and she looked around for Ernest to calm her fears but he was unloading the kiln in a far corner. When Milli looked out the window again, the clouds had shifted position and the face was gone.

  When St Erudite’s came into view, Milli and Ernest were alarmed to see the entrance area deserted, apart from a few gardeners unloading wheelbarrows and beginning work on the garden beds. They bolted through the gates, down the gravel path and up the flight of external stairs that took them to Sparrow House, a maroon-brick rectangular wing in the oldest part of the school.

  In her haste to keep up with Ernest, who was determined to avoid a Late Mark, Milli lost her footing on the stairs, dropped her folio and watched its contents (three-dimensional drawings of streetscapes) float down to ground level.

  Fortunately, discipline was an aspect of education that interested Miss Macaw the least and she merely smiled indulgently at the children when they finally made an appearance and waved them to their seats.

  While Miss Macaw marked the roll, the Bulletin Monitor, Nigel Molting, read aloud the class announcements. Nigel thought himself very important, and liked to emulate teachers by stopping, raising his eyebrows and waiting for silence every time someone so much as whispered; a habit that had earned him the nickname of Sir. Sir was just reminding anyone who was interested that tomorrow was the last day for returning money and permission slips for the Literary Breakfast when an unexpected crackle came from the loudspeaker. Classes were only ever interrupted by a loudspeaker announcement in the event of an emergency. All heads turned towards the speaker. Even Miss Macaw screwed up her face and gave it her full attention.

  ‘All Sparrows and Starlings are to report to the main hall for an assembly immediately after roll call.’ As the speaker crackled into silence again, a buzz of speculation spread through the classroom.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  News at Assembly

  St Erudite’s main hall was vast and formidable.

  It was long and airy with vaulted ceilings and heavy wood panelling. In the foyer hung portraits of previous headmasters and benefactors, and there were rows of glass cabinets housing sporting and academic trophies, as well as photographs of the school’s most recent theatrical extravaganza. By the time the Sparrows filed into the main hall, most of the junior school teachers were perched on a platform at the front like a row of bats in their academic gowns. Their eyes darted around the hall like radar beams, scanning for students whose appearance or behaviour might be considered less than exemplary.

  Gloria Humpenstar and Edweed Gosling, the head girl and head boy, approached the lectern. ‘Please stand for the official party,’ they said in unison.

  The students rose en masse as the official party appeared as if from nowhere and proceeded slowly down the centre aisle. It was headed by Dr Publius Hurtle, Headmaster of the Academy, a short, well-fed man
with a balding pate and steel grey eyes who wore a purple sash on his gown that denoted his academic standing. He was followed by others with varying degrees of responsibility. Milli observed that so weighty were their gowns that it seemed to result in some very bad posture. Miss Simper, Head of Sparrow House, was particularly slanted.

  When the party reached the podium and were finally seated, the heads of school spoke again. ‘Please remain standing for the school song.’

  The notes of an organ rose and crashed through the hall and the official party led the singing. Milli joined in, her voice faltering a little. She was still unsure of the verses and had to keep stealing sidelong glances at Ernest who, naturally, had memorised them all by the second day of school.

  St Erudite, our hearts will always cherish you The big draughty school upon the hill! To you we owe our standards. Obstacles we never will fear.

  Through your hallowed halls and stony arches We walk with dignity and pride. Our hearts swell up with feeling To know your spirit is always by our side!

  With our motto emblazoned on our pockets We face challenges with serenity! St Erudite, may your teachings guide us In our search for identity!

  Well versed in all the classics But modern thinkers through and through, Whatever path our lives may take us Know that our hearts reside with you!

  Oh leap for joy! Shout to the skies! St Erudite, St Erudite! Wherever life may take us May we be forever true!