If it were not for the hand carved sign nestled subtly within the sweeping dry stone wall entrance that displayed:
BLANKROOK SCHOOL - EST. 1606
you would be forgiven for thinking that the estate was a stately home under the stewardship of the National Trust or English Heritage. The engraved letters were accompanied by a brushed steel plaque displaying the school coat of arms: a shield containing a blossoming rooted tree sprouting from a medieval tower. Beneath the coat of arms was the school's Latin motto 'scientiae ianuam': 'the doorway to knowledge'. A crudely painted banner had been cable-tied to the fence by the locked entrance gates:
WELCOME NEW STARTERS
A solitary figure stood in the pouring rain by the sign. He was coatless and soaking wet, but the weather did not bother him. He lowered a pair of goggles over his eyes as the rain lashed harder against his face. It was the wettest September on record. His face was illuminated momentarily by the headlights of an approaching minibus. The school logo was visible on the bonnet. Its roof was piled high with bags and suitcases. A turquoise tarpaulin had been spread across most of the items, but it was flapping wildly in the wind and doing little to protect the luggage from the elements. The figure retrieved a small key from his waistcoat pocket and unlocked the large rusting silver padlock on the left-hand entrance gate before pressing the Suffolk thumb latch and pushing the gate open. It trundled on a single wheel through a well-worn groove in the Tarmac and clattered against the far curb.
The minibus drove carefully through the opening and began the final part of its journey up the winding road towards a grand Gothic building. The driver gave the figure a cursory wave of thanks. The man nodded in response as the vehicle rolled by. The side windows were steamed up, blocking his view. He knew there were fourteen children on board; their entire, soggy lives strapped to the roof above their heads. He watched the taillights disappear amongst the trees before closing and padlocking the gate. He grabbed a penknife from his trousers and cut the bedraggled banner from the fence. The lettering had started to run. He crumpled the sign in his fists until it was the size of a football. Satisfied, he tucked it under his arm and followed the minibus up the hill.
***
Rose Song missed Washington DC and her friends terribly. England sucked. And blew. At the same time. She missed Marble Slab ice cream. She missed Kurt. Why did Dad have to take that stupid job? Man, it was cold here. Did the sun ever shine?
Her father had taken the role of Hong Kong ambassador to the UK, based in London. She would have much preferred if he had stayed as assistant to the Hong Kong ambassador to the US. At least she got to live at home in Washington. But Mom and Dad decided it would be character building for her to go to boarding school in the UK. Her parents only lived three miles away, but she would not see them until Thanksgiving!
Rose adjusted her New York Mets baseball cap, flicked her shocking pink hair from her eyes and looked around at the other kids sitting, some more patiently than others, among the stacked plastic chairs in the middle of the main assembly hall. They had been given handwritten stickers displaying their names to wear on their clothing. Their various suitcases, holdalls and rucksacks sat beside them, with water dripping and pooling on the worn parquet flooring. One kid called Elliot had matching monogrammed luggage. Rose noticed a girl sitting separately from the others. She did not recognise her from the bus journey. Nobody spoke. Rose blew a large bubble until the gum burst on her lips with a loud splat.
A spotlight shone on the stage at the opposite end of the hall. Wrestling their way between the drawn pair of velvet curtains were two figures dressed in green tartan school uniforms. The girl was a pretty blonde, with a welcoming smile. Following her on-stage was a good-looking boy, holding a microphone. He blew into the head and tapped to confirm it was switched on.
"Are we having fun yet?" he shouted, making the microphone pointless.
"No!" yelled a large thuggish boy wearing an expensive tracksuit and trainers, without looking up from his tablet. His name badge said 'Jack'.
The boy with the microphone ignored him. "My name is Charlie Wood," he introduced. "Amelia and I have been tasked with showing you late arrivals around Blankrook School. The rest of the students arrived, on time, last weekend in time to settle in before classes start...tomorrow!" He scanned the room at the bewildered, bedraggled features of the anxious faces staring back at him. "For whatever reasons, you lot have left till the last minute. But we are very happy to have you, of course!" He turned to address the blonde girl. "Who's on the list?" he asked as he handed her the mic.
The girl called Amelia scrolled through the Notes app on her phone. "Mostly Year Sevens, same as Charlie and me, with a few younger ones, a couple of international students, the son of our newest governor, a scholarship student, the daughter of a diplomat and the kid of our new headteacher, Mrs. Marney!"
It was Sunday morning, the day before the autumn term started. Scarcely time to adjust to their new surroundings. Amelia handed out A4 pieces of paper showing a map of the school on one side and their individual timetables on the other.
"At the top of your sheets, your name is written in a specific colour," pointed out Amelia. "This indicates which house you have been placed in here at Blankrook. This will also be your dormitory. There are separate girls' and boys' quarters. Two teachers live on site in each of the four houses."
"These dorm masters and mistresses will be your mentors at school and are available twenty-four seven if you need anything," informed Charlie. "Even for getting a spider out of your bath!"
"There are four houses," continued Amelia. "Hawk House wears the colour emerald," pointing at Charlie's green tie. "Vulture House is crimson. Navy blue for Eagle House and last, but by no means least, violet represents Falcon House," she said, waggling her purple school tie proudly.
Charlie and Amelia led the group away from their soaking belongings and began a tour of the grounds. They explained everything from where to get their uniforms, to where the staff room was located. The best teachers, the worst teachers. The teachers who were having affairs with other teachers.
"We have no intention of showing you the teaching facilities today," smiled Charlie. "You'll have five days a week to familiarise yourself with the insides of classrooms."
"All of you will be boarding here and there are plenty of recreational hours to fill outside of lessons and homework," added Amelia, pushing open a pair of double doors to the outside. It had stopped raining. In front of them was a terracotta building that resembled the Royal Albert Hall. It was circular with a shallow, glass domed roof. The grand entrance was flanked by two stone 'tragedy' and 'comedy' masks.
"We've an amateur dramatics group, a musical theatre society, a poetry hub, a jazz club and a kazoo orchestra," listed Charlie.
"The building also doubles as a cinema," said Amelia. "Movie club night is Monday."
They were shown a vast sports centre with internal courts for badminton, squash, table tennis and five-a-side, a climbing wall and gymnasium with state-of-the-art equipment. Outside were artificial pitches for hockey, netball and basketball. Lush grass pitches disappeared into the distance with football and rugby posts shining bright white despite the morning gloom. There was an outdoor aerial assault trail built into the trees along one edge of the school's perimeter and, by the staff car park, an Astroturf crazy golf course!
Amelia led the group beyond the parked cars towards the main entrance road. At the bottom of the hill, by the main road into the local village, was a smart, redbrick building.
"This is 'The Gatehouse'. The headteacher's cottage," explained Amelia. "Students are strictly banned from pestering her at home," she warned. "If you want to know what the wallpaper is like in the downstairs toilet, I suggest you befriend Mrs. Marney's daughter!"
A timid looking girl with mousey brown straight hair, pushed back with an Alice band, raised her hand from the back of the group. Her name badge said 'Isla'.
"You don't have to raise your hand," said Charlie sympathetically.
"Oh, sorry," she apologised, pulling nervously at her sleeve. "Kind of a bird theme, with ornamental cages and tree branches."
Everyone looked at the girl, wondering what on earth she was talking about.
"The wallpaper in the downstairs toilet," blushed Isla Marney, the headteacher's daughter.
Beyond the home of the headteacher and her beetroot-faced daughter, the group approached a second, smaller, and altogether more sinister looking building. It was set back in amongst the trees, beyond a cycle path that was signposted: 'Upper Puddlemere village ½'. It looked like it had fallen into disrepair. There were tiles missing from the roof and one of the windows was boarded up. There was a Morris Minor, in Snowberry White, abandoned in the driveway, mounted on bricks. Grass and weeds had burst through the Tarmac drive and were coiling round the bumpers. A bird's nest occupied the space between the headlights where the radiator grill should have been. There were several punctured basketballs suspended from different lengths of rope attached to the lowest branches of a large dead tree by the front door.
"Interesting take on hanging baskets," commented Rose, which raised a giggle from within the group.
"This is Clay Porter's cottage. The school caretaker," explained Amelia.
"Someone lives in that dump?" asked Jack from near the back.
"Don't let appearances deceive you," warned Charlie. "He's the coolest adult at this school. He remembers every child's name, knows every room, passageway and cupboard, and has saved my backside more times than I can count."
"You will be far better off making him your friend," added Amelia, "than your enemy."
As Amelia finished speaking, they heard an otherworldly scream from behind the cottage, followed by the sound of breaking glass. A figure appeared, limping slightly and carrying a large, bloodied knife in his left hand. He was wearing a powder-blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows underneath a dirty brown suede waistcoat. He had an equally dirty bandana tied around his neck and a pair of goggles pushed up on his forehead keeping his scruffy mop of brown hair out of his eyes. He wore a leather utility belt around his waist that was bursting with tools. His ankle boots were sturdy. His muddy trousers had a hole in the left knee.
He noticed the crowd standing wide-eyed before him. "Fresh meat?" he asked wryly, pointing the knife at the group.
"Arrived this morning," grinned Charlie.
"I shall expect a list," muttered Porter and headed towards his front door, blood dripping from his left elbow.
He turned back to face them. "I have two rules," he announced. "One: the inside of my cottage is out of bounds to everyone...without exception!" He waggled the knife towards them again in warning. "And two: I am the Caretaker of this school, not a bloody teacher. So, it is 'Clay', not 'Mr. Porter'. Got it?"
He spun and threw the knife towards the house, where it pierced one of the hanging basketballs with a satisfying 'thunk'.
And then he was gone.
"Got it," whispered a couple of the new students under their breaths.