Ribblestrop by Andy Mulligan

cap. He smoothed his tie and stood rigidly to attention.
    â€œCould you dish out that pile of papers, Anjoli? Watch out for the mud, it’s a bit slippy. Now, the tune may be familiar . . . You’ll soon pick it up. The only problem . . .” The headmaster tried to extend the accordion bellows; they groaned open lopsidedly. A rather mournful note blurted over the children. The sleeping orphan was laid on the oven; everybody else stood up straight. “Can you sing that? Together . . . ?”
    It was surprising how loud fourteen voices could be when they all pitched in as one. They all hit roughly the same note, though Henry was a very deep bass in comparison to some of the shrill eight-year-olds. The headmaster was encouraged.
    â€œFirst line, after me . . . Don’t be shy! Ready?
    Ribblestrop, Ribblestrop, precious unto me;
    This is what I dream about and where I want to be.
    The words may change, but this is the first draft. One, two . . .”
    The accordion bleated again and the choir sang, peering at the song sheets, which were faint in the gloom. Perhaps the tune was indeed familiar? Whatever the case, the couplet was roared as if at a soccer match; it was more of a chant than a song.
    â€œVery good!” shouted the headmaster. “Stop! Stop. Now: there’s only two more lines at present. More to come, so let’s try what we have . . . Listen please:
    Early in the morning, finally at night,
    Ribblestrop, I’ll die for thee, carrying the light.
    Or possibly, fighting the good fight , we’ll see which one fits best. Can we try it together—ready?”
    Before he had finished, someone tried to sing. There was laughter, and a small orphan clutched both hands over his mouth anddanced with delight. He was pulled back by the oldest. The headmaster whined out the note again and the choir piled into the last two lines. Without being asked, they swung back to the start and sang it through again.
    â€œMy word, that really is excellent. No more verses yet, so feel free to submit ideas. Shall we just try the chorus? Captain, we may need a little more rum, I see some children have finished—we’ll need a tot for the toast. You must wait for the toast, children. After three. One, two . . . sorry.” The accordion was collapsing again and the headmaster had to hoist it up with his knee. It gave an injured gurgle, then its one, plaintive note. “Ready? Three times through. One and two and one-two-three!”
    Three times came and went: the song had a momentum of its own, and by the time Captain Routon had refilled the glasses, the verse had been sung a full fifteen times, the word “Ribblestrop” howled like a war cry.
    â€œOh my dears,” said the headmaster. He had tears in his eyes. The pallets had toppled him into the mud, and he stood ankle-deep. “Sing like that,” he said, “and the world is ours. I have been waiting so long for this day. We stand together as a school—enough at last for a soccer team! Enough to build a dream.”
    It was almost dark. Candlelight was reflected in every child’s eye.
    â€œThis is our first evening,” said the headmaster. He spoke quietly now, because the children had come closer. “So we will drink to our school and to our hopes. Just a small sip, children: alcohol is a dangerous, addictive drug, but it will help us mark this important moment. Nelson dished it out at sea and it kept spirits high in the trenches.”
    They raised their glasses and pursed their lips.
    â€œNever look at our school and say, ‘Why?’ Look to your dreams, and say, ‘Why not?’ To Ribblestrop Towers!”
    â€œRibblestrop Towers,” said the children.
    â€œWe are a family now. A band of brothers. Look around you and look up.”
    Every head looked up.
    â€œCan you see through the plastic sheeting? Can you see through