Prince of the Wind Read online

  At last the man let go my hand. It felt like it was broken. I wanted to rub it, but not in front of him.

  ‘Now,’ said Mr Smigielski smoothly, ushering them to the corner of the room, ‘have you seen enough? Do you feel ready to make your decision?’

  The husband turned to face us, arms folded, and glared down the line. ‘I’m after a big lad,’ he muttered, ‘but not a load of trouble. Compost farming’s no picnic, believe me.’

  ‘They will all grow, remember,’ murmured Mr Smigielski.

  ‘It’s very hard,’ whispered the wife, glancing up at her husband apologetically. ‘Remember the time we chose that puppy from the SPCA, dear? You just don’t know how they’ll turn out. And you can’t help feeling rather sorry for them all, especially …’ she glanced quickly at me, and then away again, ‘the ones with … no hope.’

  ‘Yes, unfortunately there are no guarantees,’ said Mr Smigielski.

  ‘You certainly don’t want to choose one just because you feel sorry for it,’ growled the husband. ‘We did that with Baxter, and look where it got us. And you can’t have a kid put down like you can a dog.’

  ‘No,’ she sighed, ‘you’re right, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, come on! We need to make up our minds. I’ve a meeting at four thirty.’

  ‘That one fourth from the end is a lovely-looking lad,’ said the wife hesitantly. ‘He’s got a face like an angel, and that curly blond hair … just like in the photographs of you when you were a boy. Why, he could almost be our real son. Shall we take him?’

  Luckily they weren’t all like the ones who took Geoffrey. There was the elderly couple who broke down in tears when they saw Moira, because she reminded them so much of their own daughter, dead for twenty years.

  And there was the librarian, a single lady ‘or old maid, to be perfectly blunt about it,’ she told us all crisply, but with a twinkle in her eye. She asked Mr Smigielski to leave her alone with us, and talked to each one of us in turn. When she came to little Frankie, the kid with the real bad stammer, she crouched right down to his level before she spoke. ‘And what is your name, dear?’ she asked gently.

  He gulped — a strangled, choking sound. His huge eyes stared desperately from his thin face. It was a desperation I understood. Frankie, like me, was ‘marginal’.

  ‘F-f-f-f-f-f-f-’ he stuttered.

  She looked deep into his pleading eyes … and then she reached out both arms and drew him close. ‘Don’t worry, little one,’ she whispered. ‘You’ve told me all I need to know. Come with me.’

  And as she led him to the door, there was a look on Frankie’s face I’d never seen in all my years at Highgate.

  A month later, at the end of the school term, I was the only one left. Even Cookie had gone, packing her few possessions into a battered suitcase and giving me a squashy hug that smelled of dough. ‘You be a good boy, Adam,’ she told me in a fierce whisper. ‘You’re bigger than all of this. Everything will come right for you, you’ll see.’ I hugged her back. I wished I didn’t ever have to let go. Most of all, I wished it was true.

  Mr Smigielski watched silently from the door. He’d be driving Cookie to the bus terminus to catch the coach to her new position, at a girls’ reformatory school.

  I watched Mr Smigielski’s sleek black car purr away down the driveway, Cookie’s face peering back at me through the window, and felt as if I was losing the last friend I had in the world.

  That evening at dinnertime there was only Mr Smigielski and me. The house felt huge, echoing, and empty as a tomb.

  Every day of my life the dinner bell had rung to summon us kids to the dining room. Today, no bell rang. At six thirty, my stomach growling with hunger, I hovered near the door, wondering what to do. Should I go in? Who would make dinner with Cookie gone? Would there be dinner at all?

  At last I summoned up the courage to peek round the door. There, at the head of one of the long wooden tables, sat Mr Smigielski in his black suit. He had a clean napkin tucked under his Adam’s apple. There was a tray on the table in front of him, with three or four of the chipped white institution dishes set out on it.

  He looked up and saw me, but his expression didn’t change. He patted his lips with the napkin. ‘Ah, Adam,’ he said. ‘Come in.’

  Awkwardly, I shuffled forward.

  ‘Sit down.’ I pulled out a chair and sat, trying to see what was in the dishes without seeming to look. ‘Perhaps you would care to join me in a little dinner.’

  ‘Yeah! Thanks, that’d be great!’ It was the last thing I’d been expecting.

  He gestured to the dishes. ‘My diet is somewhat bland, I fear. I suffer from a peptic ulcer, and am obliged to avoid red meat and other foods which might exacerbate the ailment.’ So it wasn’t steak and chips. Well, my nose had told me that before I even walked in the door.

  ‘I can offer you a little steamed fish.’ He gestured to one of the plates. ‘Little’ was right — a dry-looking piece of plain white fish the size of a playing card, with a dismal heap of grey-green stuff beside it in a small puddle of water. ‘… with spinach.’ He indicated a side plate. ‘A boiled potato.’ He was right, there was — one. ‘A portion of brown rice, moistened with organic yoghurt.’ He pointed to something that looked like cat-sick in a cereal bowl. ‘A small bowl of junket. Or a well-ripened banana.’

  I hesitated. None of it looked great, especially the junket, which I’d never even heard of. It looked like white jelly — made from milk, maybe? I couldn’t begin to guess how it would taste. One thing was for sure: that meal was only enough for one person — at a push. ‘I dunno,’ I mumbled, feeling myself flush. Truth was, I could have hoovered up the lot in less than a minute — even the cat-sick and the junket. ‘I’d hate to take any of your meal …’

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘In that case, if you will excuse me …’

  He forked up a few grains of cat-sick and slid it into his mouth, chewing rapidly with a little clicking sound.

  ‘Does that mean … I can go?’

  The peach stone bobbed, and he gave his lips another pat with the napkin. ‘In a moment. First, there is the matter of your future to discuss.

  ‘I have contacted Rippingale Hall and made arrangements for your transfer there. There is a train tomorrow afternoon. You will be on it.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ I gawked at him. ‘But … what will happen about school? My … my friends, and …’

  ‘Fortunately the school term ends tomorrow. There will be ample time to make alternative arrangements regarding your education. And as for friends … I was not aware that you had any.’

  I thought of Cameron. I hadn’t told him any of this. I was too ashamed … and too afraid he might think I was hoping …

  ‘Can I go to school tomorrow?’ I asked. Suddenly I desperately wanted to talk to Cam one more time, even if it was just to say goodbye. ‘For the last day? Please?’

  ‘The issue is not whether you can go; it is whether you may.’ Mr Smigielski peeled his banana, considering. ‘I see no reason why you should not,’ he pronounced at last. ‘Education is, after all, a precious jewel that should be prized above all others.

  ‘Perhaps there is hope for you after all, Adam Equinox.’

  An unexpected development

  ‘But … where is this Rippingale Hall?’ Cameron peered at me through his thick specs, his forehead creased with worry.

  ‘He didn’t say. A long way from here. That’s all I know.’

  ‘And you’re going today? Right now?’

  I nodded miserably.

  ‘I don’t believe it. People can’t do stuff like that! There must be laws against it. Maybe I could ask my dad …’ Cam was digging in his backpack. School was over for the term — for me, it was over forever. For once the long hours had flown by with the swiftness of seconds; the chattering crowd outside the gate had evaporated around us while I mumbled my startling news to Cameron … and now we were the only ones left. ‘Tell you what — we’ll make a list …�
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  Old Cam and his lists. He didn’t realise there were some problems no list in the world would ever solve. I put my hand on his arm. ‘No, Cam,’ I told him as gently as I could. ‘That won’t help this time. Instead, write down your address for me. Not your e-mail one — I don’t think there’ll be a computer where I’m going. Your postal address. Somehow, sometime, I’ll write to you —’ I felt myself blush — ‘but just don’t expect miracles, OK?’

  He looked at me and shook his head. His specs were misted over, so I couldn’t see the expression in his eyes. Then he scribbled on the piece of paper and pressed it into my hand. ‘I still don’t believe this is happening,’ he muttered.

  I opened my mouth to say goodbye, but suddenly I knew I couldn’t do it. My throat had got itself clogged up, and nothing — not even the tiniest word — was going to be able to fit through. Instead, I put my hand on his skinny shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze.

  Then I turned and headed away up the hill towards Highgate for the very last time.

  My feet crunched up the gravel drive. I climbed the red concrete steps to the entrance porch, same as I’d done a thousand times before. I stopped on the second step, staring down at the five long, parallel runnels that ran from one end of each step to the other, as if a giant had taken a massive fork and drawn it across when the concrete was wet. I looked at the places on the edge where the smooth red surface had chipped away to leave crescents of rough grey cement. I’d never consciously noticed them before, but now I realised they were as familiar to me as my own face in the mirror.

  I walked through the front door and felt the cool darkness settle round me. It smelled different: of emptiness, and silence. I walked through to the dining hall to put my lunch box on the servery, same as I always did — though there was no point now. And that’s when I realised.

  The long tables were all gone. The chairs, with their wooden seats polished smooth by wriggling bottoms … my own bottom, right from when I’d been so small I could only just peek over the table-top, till now. The built-in servery was still there; but the kitchen beyond it was empty, with greasy dents on the lino where the appliances and cupboards had stood.

  I walked slowly down the passage to the rec room, knowing what I would find. Pushed the door open, hearing it creak in the silence. Gone — everything was gone. The grey plastic chairs, the computer, my favourite chair with the broken spring, the television, the rickety bookcase in the corner … even the dusty games and the puzzles with half the pieces missing that no one had played with for years. There were dusty patches on the threadbare carpet where the things had once stood. Other than that, they might never have existed. The removal firm must have come while I was at school and taken everything away.

  Everything?

  I hurried back down the passage to the boys’ dorm. The door was closed. I reached out a hand, grasped the doorknob. Hesitated, almost afraid of what I would see. Swung the door open.

  The beds were gone — all of them. The metal bedside cabinets, the lockers — gone. The room looked way bigger than it used to do.

  There by the far wall, where my bed used to be, was a small, pathetic pile of stuff. I knelt down and checked it through. My few clothes were there, even the special ones I’d been given by Q. Still folded neatly, arranged in a tidy pile. My shawl was there, rolled the way I’d left it. I undid it and checked. Felt my heart do an almost painful forward roll of relief. My penny whistle was safe inside.

  But my Bible — my Bible was gone. And inside it …

  I stared wildly round, hoping it might be lying somewhere, hidden …

  But there was nowhere for it to hide.

  Only Mr Smigielski, standing silently at the door, watching me.

  ‘P-please, Mr Smeegulski,’ I stammered, still kneeling on the floor clutching my shawl, ‘my Bible — where’s my Bible?’

  He gave a small frown. ‘Technically, Adam, any items that may have been assigned to you on your arrival remain the property of Highgate. The other children may well have taken their Bibles with them when they left — but whether they were within their rights to do so is debatable. What you term ‘your’ Bible has been sent to Central City Auctions with the rest of the oddments as a job lot. We may not receive much for it, alas, but …’

  ‘But … but … there was something of mine in it!’

  He shrugged, the merest twitch of the narrow shoulders beneath the black cloth of his jacket. ‘Too late, I fear. Such childish trifles can hardly be important to you now.’

  I stared up at him, hollow with disbelief. The newspaper clipping — the only remaining link to my lost parents — was gone.

  Automatically, as stiffly as a robot, I packed my things away into my school bag. They fitted easily. I stumbled to my feet. My legs felt prickly and wooden, as if they’d gone to sleep.

  ‘Well,’ I said dully, ‘I guess that’s it then. I’m ready to go.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Mr Smigielski rubbed his hands together. For him, the job was nearly done. The dry skin of his palms made a rustling, papery sound in the stillness of the dorm.

  ‘There is one thing, however. A slight change of plan. What one might term … an unexpected development. While you were at school, I received a telephone call — quite out of the blue, one might say. It was from a person who it appears wishes to foster you, against all probability. Apparently they know you well, and have an interest in your welfare. You will be collected shortly — in approximately fifteen minutes, I believe,’ he continued, consulting his watch.

  ‘Your future home will be a small town by the name of … Winterton.’

  Out of the blue

  Winterton — Quested Court — Q!

  I gaped at Mr Smigielski, hardly daring to believe it was true. ‘Winterton?’ I croaked. ‘Truly? Are you … are you absolutely sure?’

  His lips twitched into a ghost of a smile. ‘Indeed I am. Do you wish to know the name of your benefactor?’

  I shook my head, grinning up at him from under my thatch of hair. ‘You don’t need to tell me,’ I told him. ‘I already know.’

  I sat on the top step with the afternoon sun baking hot patches on the knees of my jeans, and waited.

  Sure enough, almost exactly quarter of an hour later I heard a car engine approaching up the hill, and the crunch of tyres turning into the driveway. But it wasn’t the big forest-green four-by-four I’d been expecting — instead, a low-slung black sports car swept through the open gate. The door opened and a slim figure unfolded itself, reaching back in for a crocodile-skin handbag, and closing the door again with a decisive click. I felt a pang of disappointment. I’d hoped Q would fetch me himself — or at worst, send Shaw. But here was Usherwood, the only person at Quested Court I didn’t entirely trust … or even very much like. Watching her walk towards me across the gravel with her usual cool, watchful expression, her sleek hair shining like starling feathers in the sunlight, I thought again how much she reminded me of a bird of prey.

  She stopped at the foot of the steps and looked at me with a strange little crooked smile, as if she was waiting for something. Hastily, I scrambled to my feet. I knew what she must be thinking: that it was high time I learned some manners. I’d need them, where I was going! I wiped my hand on the seat of my jeans and held it out to her. ‘Hi, Ms Usherwood,’ I mumbled.

  She took my big mitt in the tips of her fingers and held it for a second. Her skin felt cool and smooth. She was still looking up at me like she somehow expected me to say something more. I shuffled my feet awkwardly, racking my brains. What was she waiting for? Yeah, right! ‘Uh … thanks — thanks for coming to get me,’ I muttered.

  ‘It’s a pleasure,’ she said formally, with a tilt of her head and a lift of one eyebrow, and that same odd, unsettling smile. I felt myself squirm. Life at Quested Court was going to have its tough patches with old Usherwood around — especially if she’d decided to take sole responsibility for knocking off my rough corners and polishing me up. Still, I grinned to m
yself, Quested Court was a big place; she’d be easy enough to avoid.

  ‘Is that all the luggage you have?’ she was asking. ‘In that case put it in the car, and wait there while I complete a few formalities.’

  I slouched down the steps, but her voice brought me up short. ‘Adam … after you have said your farewells, of course.’

  Sure enough, there in the doorway stood old Mr S, with his usual knack of materialising out of nowhere. So up the steps I went again, holding out a sweaty paw. ‘Goodbye, Mr Shmuggleski,’ I mumbled, shooting a wary glance at the Usherwood. ‘Uh … thanks … I guess.’

  He gave a frosty smile, and tweaked the tips of my fingers briefly as if he was afraid I might contaminate him. ‘Goodbye, Adam.’ Then he turned to Ms Usherwood. ‘And now, Madam, if you could accompany me inside for a moment …’

  Together, they disappeared into the darkness of the hallway.

  With a sigh of relief, I shouldered my bag and mooched over to the car. Was about to lower myself in, when I had a sudden thought. I straightened and looked over at the big white house, cool and shuttered-looking in the sunshine. Suddenly it looked lonely, and somehow sad. There was no Usherwood to remind me … but this time I didn’t need to be told. Goodbye, Highgate, I said in my mind. And thank you … for everything.

  But the big old house didn’t say a word.

  From the beginning, it looked as if the trip to Quested Court was going to be a long one. The little car was nippy and fast, and Ms Usherwood drove with smooth confidence, keeping the needle dead on the speed limit all the way — not a hair over, not a hair under.

  But the conversation didn’t exactly flow.

  Once we’d navigated the various twists and turns and were safely on the northern motorway, I figured I’d better start the ball rolling. After all, she’d driven for five hours or so to fetch me, and I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. ‘So,’ I said chattily, squirming in the seat to get comfortable, ‘Q — I guess he’s real busy, then?’