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Authors: Andy Mulligan
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we’ve been found! I knew we’d be heard!’
‘I’m so sorry,’ cried Captain Routon. ‘I forgot all about you! Wait, I’ve got rum somewhere . . .’
‘Oh, I don’t think that’s wise,’ said Doonan. ‘Father O’Hanrahan never drinks—’
‘Nonsense, it will pull him round. I cannot begin to apologise, gentlemen.’ He heaved himself into the driver’s seat and rummaged in the glove compartment. Seconds later, he
was administering the spirit to Father O’Hanrahan. ‘Boys. Millie. Go back to the truck and tell Flavio to put his lights on. I’ll come and find you in a moment . . .’
He started the engine. The windscreen wipers dislodged two great shovelfuls of snow onto the ground. In a short while, the truck came into view, its headlamps carving out tunnels of whirling
snowflakes. The lights flashed and it slid behind them. Captain Routon hunted for first gear.
‘Maybe we should look for that Travellers’ Sleepeasy,’ said Doonan. ‘Try to get warm, perhaps . . .’
‘We’ll make it, sir!’ cried Routon.
‘I’m just thinking, it might be wise to hole up against the weather.’
‘We must press on. We’ve got to get those animals to safety and there’s a party tonight.’
‘Animals?’
The school van nosed its way forward.
It’s one tail-light was just visible to Flavio and he crept up as close as he dared. A smile had spread across his face and it was the first time he had smiled in several months. He nursed
the truck forward, out of the lorry park and onto the road. There was scarcely another vehicle to be seen.
The motorway was almost impassable and several pile-ups kept all the police cars in the region busy. This was lucky, as Flavio’s truck had been described by a number of witnesses. Had it
been spotted and stopped, the driver would undoubtedly have been arrested and – with his chain of convictions – deported. If that had happened, the Ribblestrop circus would never have
existed.
Instead, the two vehicles crawled slowly west together and the children taught Flavio the school song.
Chapter Eight
Back at Ribblestrop, Lady Vyner heard the arrival from the south tower. She sat in her broken sofa and as the truck arrived, she put her head in her hands. Her grandson was
working quietly at the corner table. They looked at each other as the engines revved and tyres mashed the gravel. The horn sounded long and hard, and they winced. Minutes later, the air was ripped
to pieces by volleys of fireworks, the detonations ricocheting round the grounds.
The old lady pressed her fingers in her ears, but still the school song rose upwards, shouted on and on to the accompaniment of sticks hammering dustbin lids.
‘They’re doing a procession,’ said Caspar, peering out of the window. ‘Such a load of babies.’
Lady Vyner started to moan.
‘He’s still dressed as Father Christmas. The orphans are dancing – they’re still in those stupid elf-suits.’
‘Shut up, Caspar!’
‘Oh – they’re going back inside.’
Moments later, the tower started to vibrate to the low thud of disco music. This lasted for two hours and then there was a precious silence. The old lady hobbled to the kitchen to make cocoa and
the Christmas carols began. ‘Not again,’ she hissed.
‘Not again . . .’
The children and their teachers were at last enjoying the party they had longed for. They sat in the hall under a roof they’d built with their own hands. A million fairy
lights were strewn from the rafters and a nine-metre Christmas tree twinkled, laden with candles. Father Christmas had wept, openly, as he welcomed everyone home. Professor Worthington had waved
her fairy wand and made wishes for every child, and the gifts had been distributed, rewrapped for the fun of it and distributed again. Just before midnight, Tomaz – who had made a brick oven
in the giant fireplace – produced the biggest goose anyone had ever seen, sizzling amongst roasted vegetables. Now the
‘I’m so sorry,’ cried Captain Routon. ‘I forgot all about you! Wait, I’ve got rum somewhere . . .’
‘Oh, I don’t think that’s wise,’ said Doonan. ‘Father O’Hanrahan never drinks—’
‘Nonsense, it will pull him round. I cannot begin to apologise, gentlemen.’ He heaved himself into the driver’s seat and rummaged in the glove compartment. Seconds later, he
was administering the spirit to Father O’Hanrahan. ‘Boys. Millie. Go back to the truck and tell Flavio to put his lights on. I’ll come and find you in a moment . . .’
He started the engine. The windscreen wipers dislodged two great shovelfuls of snow onto the ground. In a short while, the truck came into view, its headlamps carving out tunnels of whirling
snowflakes. The lights flashed and it slid behind them. Captain Routon hunted for first gear.
‘Maybe we should look for that Travellers’ Sleepeasy,’ said Doonan. ‘Try to get warm, perhaps . . .’
‘We’ll make it, sir!’ cried Routon.
‘I’m just thinking, it might be wise to hole up against the weather.’
‘We must press on. We’ve got to get those animals to safety and there’s a party tonight.’
‘Animals?’
The school van nosed its way forward.
It’s one tail-light was just visible to Flavio and he crept up as close as he dared. A smile had spread across his face and it was the first time he had smiled in several months. He nursed
the truck forward, out of the lorry park and onto the road. There was scarcely another vehicle to be seen.
The motorway was almost impassable and several pile-ups kept all the police cars in the region busy. This was lucky, as Flavio’s truck had been described by a number of witnesses. Had it
been spotted and stopped, the driver would undoubtedly have been arrested and – with his chain of convictions – deported. If that had happened, the Ribblestrop circus would never have
existed.
Instead, the two vehicles crawled slowly west together and the children taught Flavio the school song.
Chapter Eight
Back at Ribblestrop, Lady Vyner heard the arrival from the south tower. She sat in her broken sofa and as the truck arrived, she put her head in her hands. Her grandson was
working quietly at the corner table. They looked at each other as the engines revved and tyres mashed the gravel. The horn sounded long and hard, and they winced. Minutes later, the air was ripped
to pieces by volleys of fireworks, the detonations ricocheting round the grounds.
The old lady pressed her fingers in her ears, but still the school song rose upwards, shouted on and on to the accompaniment of sticks hammering dustbin lids.
‘They’re doing a procession,’ said Caspar, peering out of the window. ‘Such a load of babies.’
Lady Vyner started to moan.
‘He’s still dressed as Father Christmas. The orphans are dancing – they’re still in those stupid elf-suits.’
‘Shut up, Caspar!’
‘Oh – they’re going back inside.’
Moments later, the tower started to vibrate to the low thud of disco music. This lasted for two hours and then there was a precious silence. The old lady hobbled to the kitchen to make cocoa and
the Christmas carols began. ‘Not again,’ she hissed.
‘Not again . . .’
The children and their teachers were at last enjoying the party they had longed for. They sat in the hall under a roof they’d built with their own hands. A million fairy
lights were strewn from the rafters and a nine-metre Christmas tree twinkled, laden with candles. Father Christmas had wept, openly, as he welcomed everyone home. Professor Worthington had waved
her fairy wand and made wishes for every child, and the gifts had been distributed, rewrapped for the fun of it and distributed again. Just before midnight, Tomaz – who had made a brick oven
in the giant fireplace – produced the biggest goose anyone had ever seen, sizzling amongst roasted vegetables. Now the
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