

RATBURGER SALAD

David Elvar

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2009 David Elvar

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~oOo~

ONE

'...and keep whipping it until you end up with a light, fluffy mixture.'

'You mean like this, Miss?'

She looked across at his mixing bowl. What she saw did not surprise her.

'No, Jonathan Handley, I do not mean like that,' she said wearily. 'What _have_ you done, boy? Put too much sugar in it, I suppose.'

'No, Miss! Honest, Miss!'

'That's right, Miss! I saw him, Miss!' said another voice.

'Me too, Miss!'

'And me, Miss!'

They were doing it again, closing up in a barrage of voices designed to defend and defeat. They usually succeeded, too.

'Thank you!' she said firmly. 'I think Mr. Handley can speak for himself!'

The barrage ceased, stilled into its familiar wary silence. She looked down at them, at all four of them and their mixing bowls. The rest of the class looked on, as they always did when this sort of thing happened in this lesson, and this sort of thing often did happen in this lesson. They'd warned her at Teacher Training College there would be days like this, classes like this. An awkward age group you've chosen to specialise in, they'd said, stuck in a kind of limbo, no longer willing to be treated like children yet not ready to act like adults. Good luck. You're going to need it. At the time, she'd laughed...

'I know when someone's put too much sugar in,' she said as she moved amongst them, 'so don't try telling me otherwise. And you, Anthony Ryan, have used too much milk. And you, Edward Blunden, too much flour. And as for you, Alex Bristow, I can't _begin_ to think what _you've_ done!'

'Well, you did say to put two eggs in, Miss.'

'Indeed I did,' she said, dabbing at the strange mixture with a spoon, 'but only the insides, not the shells as well.'

'Really, Miss?' said Al, eyes wide with affected innocence. 'Wow! Good job you said before someone tried eating it.'

The rest of the class sniggered. Miss Palmer didn't. She swung round, rapped out a single word—

'Silence!'

—then was turning back to the four of them, each of them by himself the bane of her professional life.

'Now look, you four,' she said, 'if we've been through this once, we've been through it a thousand times: _you are going to learn cookery_.'

'Aw, do we have to, Miss?' said Al.

'Yes, you do have to. It's part of the curriculum.'

There was a chorus of 'Aw, Miss!' and 'Come on, Miss!' and 'Stuff the curriculum!' and one lone voice pleading: 'But cooking's for girls, Miss!'

'And that, Alex Bristow, is where you're wrong,' she retorted. 'What are you going to do for meals when you've grown up and left home?'

'That's easy. I'll get me mum to send something over.'

'Don't be stupid, boy! Do you think she's got nothing better to do than to wait hand and foot on you for the rest of your life?'

'Okay, I'll send out for a pizza, then.'

'Hey, order me one while you're at it,' said Jon.

'And me!' said Eddie.

'Extra pepperoni for me,' said Tony.

'Or maybe a burger,' said Al. 'I like burgers.'

The rest of the class sniggered again. It was going well. They could tell because now Miss Palmer was really shouting.

'Stop that! All of you!'

She turned back to them. 'If your attitude to life is anything like your attitude to cooking, Alex Bristow, I imagine your mother will be heartily glad to see the back of you. And as for a diet of pizzas and burgers, come back in ten years time when your body is bloated and your arteries clogged with fat and you can't climb the stairs without stopping for breath halfway up. See if you still feel the same way about them then!'

'But I like pizzas and burgers, Miss.'

'Of that I have no doubt but do they like you, that's the question. Now, you four, you can start all over again. And this time, I want to see a cake that melts in the mouth and tastes divine. Understood?'

'But we've used all our ingredients, Miss,' said Al, knowing this to be true and knowing there to be no way round it. They'd planned it well, this time.

'So you have,' Miss Palmer observed dryly. 'But what do you know, I just happen to have brought some extra along with me, just in case some careless individual suffered an unfortunate accident along the way.'

'Oh, sh—'

'Yes, Jonathan Handley, including sugar!' she snapped. 'Now, there isn't enough for all of you so you'll have to make the one cake between you. Go on! You know what to do so find a clean bowl and get cracking.'

They glanced at each other, each face a mask of something between frustration and resentment. Beaten again. And after all that effort...

TWO

Out in the playground, they retreated to their favourite corner to gaze forlornly at each other, to reflect on the lesson they had just been taught, and in more ways than one. They had taken care over its planning, had gone on to carry it off to perfection and had even managed to raise a few smiles in the rest of the class. And what did they have to show for their efforts? Another sense of failure and a sorry excuse for a cake. The one they could just throw away. The other they would have to live with.

'Well, that went well, didn't it?' Al sighed at length.

'Yeah, just like last time,' Jon mumbled, 'and the time before that and the time before that.'

'It never works,' said Tony miserably, 'even when we go out of our way to muck it up.'

'I reckon she's onto us, meself,' said Eddie. 'We can't get _nothing_ past her. Maybe we should think about giving up.'

Jon and Tony murmured faint agreement but Al didn't. He just gaped disbelief at them, at each of them in turn. This was not what he wanted to hear.

'What!' he said. 'Come on, guys, it ain't that bad.'

'It is, Al,' said Jon. 'Face it. We've tried everything under the sun and a bit more. There's nothing left.'

'Look,' he said patiently, 'she can't make us learn if we don't want to. All we've got to do is keep on making a complete foul-up of everything she gives us to do and she'll chuck us out for sure. She'll have to!'

'What, you mean like she did just then? Forget it, Al. Like she said, it's part of the curriculum so we've got to do it.'

'Stuff that!' said Al. 'If I want a cake, I'll leave it to me mum to make it.'

They laughed grimly, but this was dangerous thinking and Al knew he would have to pull something really special out of the hat to get them back on track. But what to do, that was the question. They were running out of ideas, it was simple as that.

'Come on, guys,' he said, 'we can't give up now. We've come too far.'

'Yeah and what have we got out of it?' said Jon. 'Four detentions and a letter home to our parents, that's what.'

'An' a lot of food thrown straight in the bin,' Eddie added miserably. 'My mum's getting fed up with forking out good money for ingredients and seeing nothing come back.'

'Then that's gotta say something, hasn't it?' said Al.

'Yeah but to the wrong people,' said Jon. 'It's old Palm Trees we've gotta convince, not Eddie's mum.'

'An' I still think we can do it. So come on, suggestions as to what we're gonna do next. I need some help here, guys.'

They shuffled uneasily. Ideas were not things that came easily to them: they preferred to just go with the flow, take advantage of whatever the day brought them. Actual planning was something they tried to avoid. And they could. Usually. But not this time.

'We could try putting in things that shouldn't be there,' said Jon.

'It's a start,' said Al. 'What have you got in mind?'

'Well, there's this stuff called Anchovy Essence. Me mum was telling me about it. Seems if you use more than just a couple of drops of it, what you make tastes terrible.'

'Nice idea but she might rumble that one,' said Al dubiously. 'You know what she's like for trying everything at the end of each lesson.'

'Okay,' said Tony, 'too much sugar, too much salt.'

'Even better,' said Eddie, 'how about sugar instead of salt and salt instead of sugar.'

'You mean mix them up?'

'Worth thinking about,' said Jon. 'And that is something we haven't tried yet.'

Al shook his head. 'Won't work. Let's face it, if you put salt in your tea instead of sugar, you'd know it pretty quick. No, we've got to find some other way, something she won't rumble but that's really gonna be sure-fire.'

But in the silence that followed, he knew he was asking the impossible. Hadn't they been trying to find that very same sure-fire something for what?—two whole terms now? And for those same two whole terms, they'd gone into every lesson with the latest sure-fire something tucked up their sleeves, only to have a sure-fire failure dog their steps as they left. It was, he had to admit, almost enough to make him want to give up, too. But only almost _..._

A voice cut across his thoughts.

'Look out!' Jon was saying. 'Mad Max!'

Al looked up. Mad Max. Great! Just what he needed right then. More properly known as Kevin Nigel Maxwell, it was not a name anyone called him to his face. Then, a simple Max would suffice, and with good reason: the word "bully" had long since been consigned to the sanitised glow of political correctness so the worst that could then be said of him was that he had a tendency to use his size to get his own way. As usual, he looked as though he wanted to have words with someone. And as usual, he looked as though he'd chosen their little group to have them with.

'Oi, Bristow!' he was yelling. 'You done me that cake yet?'

'What cake was that, Max?' Al replied innocently.

'You know what cake! The one for me birffday.'

'Oh, _that_ cake. Well, it's like this, Max. I did make you one, the best cake Miss had ever seen, so she told me. Trouble was, when she came to taste it, it was awful. So she said, anyway. Said it tasted so bad, she'd have to take it home and throw it in her own personal dustbin, make sure nobody else got to it. It was that bad! Honest!'

'That's right,' said Jon, catching on. 'An' she must have been really worried about someone else getting their hands on it 'cos I saw her eating a bit more when she got in her car to go home. Two whole slices, no less!'

'Yeah,' said Tony, 'it was so bad that Miss said we wasn't even to think about making cakes again until we'd got a bit more practice in.'

'A _lot_ more practice in,' Al finished. 'Another few weeks at least, she reckoned. Think you can wait that long?'

Max looked round at them all. It was said of him that the only way you could get his IQ into double figures was to add his shoe size to it. Knowing that could be useful, sometimes. Even so, they also knew they were taking a chance. One day, they'd go too far and he'd twig, and it would take some quick thinking or fast running to escape the consequences. But not today, it seemed.

'All right, all right!' he said. 'Stuff the cake. You seen that new kid?'

'What new kid?' said Al.

'Don't tell me you ain't heard! Franklinstein was on about 'im this mornin' in assembly.'

'Ah, well, that explains it. We wasn't _in_ assembly this morning.'

'Oh yeah! Skived off again, did yer?'

'Well, wouldn't you?'

Mad Max said nothing. He would skive off if he had the intelligence needed to keep himself one step ahead of the patrolling staff, but he wasn't about to admit as much and Al knew it.

'So who is he?' he went on.

'Just some kid. Come 'ere from that posh school just outside town.'

'Chapworthy College!' said Al, more than a little surprised. The place was known to him, was known to them all, if only by reputation, the exclusive private school that provided so much material for jokes against the upper crust. But— 'What would some Chapworthy College kid be doing coming here?'

'You don't know nuffin', do you?' said Max. 'It's part of some exchange scheme. One o' their kids comes 'ere an' one of ours goes there.'

'Right!' Much was now explained. 'And you want to welcome him to his new school, I suppose.'

'Got it in one. So if you see 'im, you bring 'im to me. You got that?'

'And how are we gonna do that, Max? How are we gonna bring him to you?'

'Just tell 'im I wanna talk to 'im. S'easy!'

And with that, Mad Max turned and swaggered off, sure in the knowledge that they would do his bidding to the letter, because if they didn't...

'An' don't forget that cake!' he yelled back over his shoulder.

'Him an' his cake,' Jon muttered darkly as they watched his receding bulk shove a First Year out of the way. 'I'd like to make one an' shove it right up—'

'Why can't he make his own?' Eddie said quickly.

''Cos he's too dumb to know one end of a spoon from the other,' said Al. 'An' that's means he don't have to do Cookery.'

'Maybe that's it,' said Jon. 'Maybe what we have to do is act thick. That'll get us kicked out.'

'Yeah, out of Cookery an' in with Mad Max an' his mates,' said Tony. 'An' if you think _he's_ trouble, you should see _them_.'

'An' is there really a new kid?' said Eddie.

'Suppose there must be,' said Al. 'Max may be thick but he ain't stupid.'

'An' he did say he wanted to talk to him,' Jon added.

'I bet he does,' murmured Tony. 'I don't think it's gonna be just talk, though.'

'Nah, he's looking for what he can get out of him,' said Jon. 'You know how it is: kid from posh school, lots of pocket money—he'll be good for a few quid.'

'Yeah an' he knows just how to get it,' said Al. He glanced round at his friends, sudden mischief sparking inside. 'What do you say we get to this new kid first?'

There were murmurs of assent, murmurs and a single 'Why?' from Eddie who sometimes had difficulty understanding what was going on at any one time.

'Why else? See if we can have some fun of our own before Mad Max gets to him.'

It seemed a good idea, if only because it gave them some distraction from having to think about how to get out of cookery lessons.

'So where is he?' said Jon, already scanning the playground. 'I don't see anyone I ain't seen here before.'

'Think!' said Al. 'Where would you go on your first day if you didn't know anyone?'

Understanding dawned. 'Right!'

They surged towards the main building. They knew the place inside-out, back-to-front and probably upside-down, knew every nook and cranny, every hiding place where they could escape prowling teachers or, as they suspected just then, someone who wanted to be inconspicuous.

'What does he look like?' was the first question as they burst through the swing-doors and into the corridor.

'Just look for a uniform,' said Al. 'Chapworthy College kids always wear a uniform.'

'Yeah, like we do!' said Jon, and they laughed. No one at their school wore a uniform, would even dare to wear a uniform.

'So what's he doing here?' said Tony. 'I mean, what was it? Exchange visit or something?'

'It's one of them arty-farty ideas,' said Al, who knew about these things, 'cooked up by a bunch of arty-farty teaching consultants after a boozy dinner. Like Max said, one kid from our school goes there and one of their kids comes here.'

'You mean a sort of swap.'

'That's what an exchange is, yer berk—a swap.'

'Yeah but why?'

'It's like when our French twin town sends someone over here for a few weeks an' we send someone back over there, so people get to learn how other people live an'...an' stuff like that.'

'Yeah, right,' said Tony doubtfully. 'So what can a Chapworthy College kid learn from coming to a dump like this?'

'Maybe he wants to know what it's like having to slum it for a bit.'

'Come to the right place, then, ain't he? So who do you suppose went there from here?'

'Not us, that's for sure,' said Al. 'Ain't no way they're gonna let one of us anywhere _near_ a posh joint like Chapworthy College. Hang about, I think that's him.'

They were right about the uniform. It was wearing a worried-looking individual shuffling his feet disconsolately outside a classroom. He wasn't tall, his build was slight, and his hair was unusually tidy for someone purporting to belong to this school, if only temporarily. Al found himself thinking it was probably just as well that they had got to him first: Mad Max would have had him for breakfast.

He seemed to notice them approaching and immediately looked strangely relieved about something, as though he had just spotted friends in the middle of enemy territory.

'Good morning!' he said brightly. 'I wonder if you might help me. I seem to have lost the lavatories around here. You wouldn't perchance happen to know where one might find them?'

Al looked at the others. They all looked at him, each expression saying the same thing. _Good morning? Lavatories? PERCHANCE? What have we got here?_ Then he was putting on his best yob face, adopting his best yob voice.

'I fink 'e wants da bogs, lads,' he said gruffly.

They all replied, 'Yerrr.'

'Shall we 'elp 'im find 'em, lads?'

They all replied, 'Yerrr.'

—and they stepped forward, hands raised menacingly. Suddenly, this new boy was looking a little less happy about seeing them. He backed away but there was only so far he could go before hitting solid school wall.

They ignored his protests, just picked him up, one to each arm, one to each leg. Then Al was nodding in the general direction of the toilets and they carted him off, down the corridor, round the corner, this new boy shouting things all along the way. Things like 'Unhand me, do you hear?' and 'Put me down this instant!' and 'Your headmistress shall hear of this!' They were scared. Really scared.

They rounded another corner and stopped dead in their tracks. There stood a teacher, there stood Lockyer. Lockyer who stood five feet nothing in his trendy sandals. Lockyer who had caught a bad case of religion and did not seem like he wanted to be cured. That was Lockyer. Not someone to worry about.

'What are you doing with that boy?' he demanded in his usual squeaky voice.

'We're taking him to the bogs,' said Al menacingly. 'WHY?'

'Oh...well...just be a little quieter about it, that's all.'

They went on, carting their strange load past him, the new boy shouting 'Sir!...Sir!' as they went.

But Sir wasn't listening. Sir was scurrying off rather quickly down the corridor towards the staff-room.

'Better get a move on,' said Al.

'Why, is he gonna wet himself?' said Eddie.

'Not him! Lockyer!'

'Lockyer's gonna wet himself?'

'No, he's gone to get someone!'

'Probably Crawford,' said Jon, and they groaned. Deputy headmaster with a temper to match, Crawford _was_ someone to worry about.

But they had arrived. They stopped and kicked open a battered blue door. They entered, passed the yellowing urinals and cracked sinks, and headed for the cubicles at the end. One was missing a door. They chose that one. Tony and Eddie dropped his feet, Al and Jon hauled him upright. He was protesting again, was asking something about maybe the joke having gone far enough?—but they weren't listening. Instead, Al and Jon were hauling him into the cubicle. It was a squeeze but they managed it, the protests giving way to a manic pleading as he realised what they were about to do. They ignored him as before, lifted the seat and thrust his backside down into the bowl, holding him there while they debated what to do next.

'Let's pull the flush!' said Jon.

'Ain't that a bit childish?' said Al.

'Yeah,' said Jon uncertainly, 'probably...'

'Especially for a member of this gang, in fact,' said Al.

'Er...I guess so.'

'So you ain't gonna do it.'

'Uh...no, I guess not.'

'Right, I'll do it instead!'

He twisted the handle and they bolted, all four of them, laughing and shouting, back past the sinks and the urinals, out the door and straight into—

'WHAT IS GOING ON HERE!'

—Crawford, standing in front of them and blocking their escape. Silence. Sudden, total silence. Then, from somewhere behind, a refined and faintly disgruntled murmur.

'Hooligans! I'm all wet now.'

THREE

'So, what have you got to say for yourselves?'

They were in Mrs. Franklin's office, standing sheepishly in a row before her desk. She was sitting stony-faced behind it, drumming her fingers and waiting for an answer.

They had been well and truly caught, Crawford sizing up the situation at a glance. He hadn't passed comment, just pointed down the corridor and rapped out the single word 'Headmistress!' before going to rescue their hapless victim. He, true to Chapworthy College form, had to be taken home to recover from his frightful ordeal...and to get a change of clothing. As for them, they knew what to expect. This was, after all, not the first time they had been here...

'Well?' she demanded.

They shuffled about uneasily, glanced at each other as though trying to decide what to say and which of them should say it.

'I mean, is this any way to treat a guest?' she went on. 'You do realise that anything that happens to him as a result of your actions reflects badly on this whole school.'

Still they seemed to have nothing to say for themselves. Then Al was speaking, speaking for all of them, pleading their case with a single lame excuse.

'We was only having a laugh, Miss.'

'Indeed you were!' she retorted sharply. 'But as usual, at someone else's expense!'

'Yeah, well...'

Somehow, he couldn't think of anything else to say. She shook her head wearily.

'Can't you find some way of amusing yourselves that doesn't involve harming another human being? Everyone else seems to manage it well enough, why can't you four?'

'We thought he was playing along.'

'Up to a point, he was.'

'Uh?' This was unexpected.

'Yes!' she said. 'Much as I am disinclined to believe him, he says he was willingly taking part in what he thought was some sort of initiation ceremony, of the kind much favoured at his own school.'

'He said that?' said Al, hardly able to believe what he was hearing.

'You seem surprised,' said Mrs. Franklin dryly. 'Perhaps you would care to enlighten me since this particular ceremony seems to have escaped my attention.'

'Uh...no,' said Al. 'It was just a laugh. We didn't think we'd taken it too far, that's all. Sorry if we...well, you know...'

His voice trailed off, was joined by a mumbled chorus of 'Yeah, sorry, Miss...'

For a moment, she didn't say anything, just sat there looking at them as though trying to decide what to with them. They waited with bated breath: this was always the worst part of these little interviews, the passing of sentence for crimes committed. And she had a lot of sentences to choose from.

'So,' she said at length, 'how do we deal with this? I have to take into account certain things. Not only did you do what you did, you did it to him on his first day here!—'

Al stifled the grin before it broke through. Even for them, that was some achievement.

'— _But_ there has been no real harm done, just wet trousers and hurt pride, both easily set to rights again—though it will doubtless fall to me to write the grovelling letter of apology to the parents and the school to pay the dry-cleaning bill.—'

Al liked the sound of that, Franklinstein being forced to grovel. This one had gone well.

'— _And_ since he hasn't actually made a complaint against you, insists it was just a bit of harmless fun that got out of hand—'

Al tensed. He could see it coming.

'—I suppose I have little choice but to let it go.'

YES! Damn, we're good!

' _But_ ,' she added, 'any more fun-that-gets-out-of-hand and you will answer to me. Understood?'

'Understood, Miss,' Al said for them all, said perhaps a little too eagerly. 'Whatever you say, Miss.'

'Right. Now, you might as well know that I've decided to assign our new arrival to your class—'

Uh-oh...

'—so I expect you to treat him as befits an honoured guest from another school.'

There was silence for a moment while they digested this, then Al was speaking again, giving voice to the question that everyone was thinking.

'Uh...is this because of what we...you know...?'

'If by that, you mean does my decision have any bearing on your little escapade with him then yes. He will be in your class, this will place you together, and it is my sincere hope that every time you look his way, or preferably have to _speak_ to him, you will feel thoroughly ashamed of yourselves.'

'And if we don't?'

'Then,' she said, eyeing him sternly, 'you are even more of a hopeless case than I already take you for. From here on in, in every aspect of your daily dealings with him, you will treat him with the utmost courtesy. Do I make myself clear?'

They murmured and nodded again, then turned to go, glad this was over and now wanting very much to be as far away from her as possible.

'I haven't finished yet!'

They stopped in their tracks, glancing questioningly at each other: _Now what!_

'There's something else I've been meaning to speak to you four about. Do the words _Cookery Lessons_ mean anything to you?'

So that was it. They let go a groan.

'But we hate Cookery, Miss!' said Al.

'Yes, I had rather gained that impression from Miss Palmer. Unfortunately, you don't have any choice in the matter. It's in the curriculum. End of story.'

'But Cookery's for girls, Miss!'

'Oh, you think so, do you? Well, all I can say is if you go through life with that kind of attitude, young man, you're not going to enjoy it very much. As I believe Miss Palmer has already said to you, your mother won't be there forever and baked beans can get pretty tiresome after a while.'

'Yeah but it's the things we have to make,' said Al, 'all cakes an' fancy pies an' stuff.'

'Rubbish! I know for a fact that Miss Palmer has had you doing things like trying to make an omelette, batter fish, liquidize vegetables into soup—all manner of varied and interesting dishes. Hardly the stuff of cakes and fancy pies, don't you agree?'

'Yeah but when are we gonna get around to making proper food?'

'Proper food?' she repeated, puzzled.

'Yeah, like burgers.'

'An' fries,' Jon added.

'An' pizzas,' said Tony.

'An'—'

'Thank you, that will do!' said Mrs. Franklin, interrupting before Eddie could add to this unsavoury list of culinary abominations. She sighed. 'If all you want from life is a greasy lump of tasteless pulp in a bread roll, there's a MacDonald's in the town centre. But if you want food that actually has some nutritional value and won't clog your arteries with fat then you'll listen to Miss Palmer in her lessons.'

'Yeah but—'

'No more Yeah-buts! You will do Cookery and that's that!' She paused to let that sink in. 'Now,' she went on, 'you will no doubt know of the Merit Board?'

They knew of the Merit Board, all right. Hanging in the entrance hall and listing who had done what and how well they had done it, they had managed with some success to avoid having their names added to it throughout their school career so far. And they planned to keep it that way.

'What about it, Miss?' said Al, not liking the direction this conversation was taking.

'Well,' she said, 'I passed it earlier and just happened to notice that everyone in your class had managed to get a merit in Cookery—'

Uh? Oh no! Please, NO!

'—except you four.'

They looked down at her, aghast. For any one of them to get a merit mark for anything would be a disaster. But to get one for Cookery, that would be nothing short of humiliation.

'And I want to see that changed,' she finished.

'Aw, Miss—!'

'Understood?'

Al cast round for some way out of this. There's always a way out, he was thinking desperately. Remember Captain Kirk on the starship Enterprise, there's _always_ a way out.

'Can't we get a merit in something else?' he said. 'Like Woodwork?'

'Cookery,' she said firmly.

'Or maybe Science?'

'Cookery,' she repeated.

'How about English? I talk English good.'

'Cookery,' she said one last time, and he knew he was out of options.

Al looked down at his feet, the battle lost, and murmured a sullen answer for them all. 'Yes, Miss.'

'Good!' said Mrs. Franklin triumphantly. ' _Now_ you may go.'

They went.

Out in the corridor, they stopped and looked at each other, wondering what they could possibly have done to deserve such a harsh punishment.

'A merit!' said Tony. 'In Cookery! I guess that mucks up us mucking it up.'

'Well, I ain't doing it,' said Jon, 'an' I don't care what Franklinstein says.'

'You ain't got the choice any more,' said Eddie glumly. 'If you don't, she'll get to hear about it.'

'She always does,' said Tony. 'I wonder who keeps grassing us up.'

'Don't need no brains to work that one out,' said Al. 'Old Palm Trees, that's who.'

'So what do we do, Al?' said Jon. 'We can't _not_ do it now an' I don't fancy doing any more of all that whipping an' battering an' stuff.'

'I don't know,' he replied miserably. 'I'll think of something.'

But silently, he had to wonder. There were things he could handle, like Mad Max on one of his bad days, or the Maths teacher on one of her good ones, or even school dinners on any day but there was nothing, _nothing_ to compare with _this_. As he saw it, the choice was simple and stark: knuckle under or else. And if they didn't then someone, somewhere, would get to hear about it. One thing they had discovered long ago was the staff's intelligence network. Another thing they had discovered long ago was a healthy respect for it.

He felt someone nudge his arm and looked up. Jon was gesturing up the corridor at someone walking towards them, someone he didn't usually wish to see and especially not then. She looked okay for girl, he had to admit, with long dark hair and clothes that clung nicely to her in all the right places. But she was still a girl and he was a guy, and the two, he knew, just wouldn't mix. Not yet awhile, anyway.

'Hi!' said Keren. 'I thought I'd find you here. Has she finished with you?'

'Word gets around, don't it?' said Al.

'It does when it involves you lot. So, what did she have to say this time?'

'What do you want to know for?' said Jon.

'I wasn't talking to you, Jonathan Handley,' said Keren sharply.

'Yeah? Well, I was talking to you. So what do you want to know for?'

'Cool it, Jon,' said Al, stepping between them. He turned to face her, to deal with her in the only way this girl seemed to understand. 'She said not to do it again. Okay?'

'Is that all? You got off lightly.'

'Yeah, well, it's amazing what a bit of charm can do to a woman.'

The others sniggered: they knew only too well just how hard that one was going to hit home.

'Well, ' she retorted tartly, 'it's a pity you can't use a little of that charm on this woman.'

Al didn't answer: they'd been here too many times before.

'What's the next lesson?' he asked instead.

'Double English, as well you know!' she snapped. 'Why? Are you going to try and find a way to mess that one up like you do in Cookery?'

'Oh, so you'd noticed, then!'

'Yes, I'd noticed. I would have to have been blind not to. What is your hang-up with Cookery anyway? It's fun, it's creative and you get to eat what you've made.'

'It's okay for you to say that,' said Tony, 'you're a girl.'

'Oh?' she said, turning to him. 'And having fun and being creative is different for boys, is it?'

'Well, yeah...I think...'

'You don't sound too certain.'

'The point is we just don't want to do it,' said Al, jumping in before his friend could dig himself into a deeper hole. 'We hate doing it.'

'If you go in with that attitude, I'm not surprised,' said Keren. 'You never know, you might be glad of it one day.'

'Yeah, that's what Franklinstein said,' Eddie murmured.

'Oh, so there was more, was there? And what else did she say?'

'Nothing,' Al said quickly. 'Just that.'

Her eyes narrowed, cold suspicion lurking behind them. 'I don't believe you. What are you trying to hide?'

'Nothing,' said Jon. 'And even if we were, do we have to tell _you_?'

She opened her mouth to speak, probably to remind him sharply just who it was he was speaking to, when the office door swung open, Mrs. Franklin flashing into its frame.

'Are you still here?' she demanded. 'Don't you have a lesson to go to?'

They mumbled something that might have passed for a Yes Miss and were gone, shuffling down the corridor in the direction of Double English, Keren striding ahead, Keren trying hard not to look as though she was actually with them.

'And don't forget,' a voice called after them, 'I want to see a merit mark for each of you on the board, a merit mark for Cookery.'

They didn't answer, just swung round a corner and out of her sight. But Keren was there and Keren was waiting for them, her eyes flashing delight.

'So that's it!' she hissed. 'A merit mark!'

'Yeah, yeah, that's it,' Al retorted bitterly. 'What of it?'

'Well, you're just going to have to make an effort now, aren't you?'

'Yeah, like I care what _she_ says!'

'She is the headmistress,' Keren reminded him firmly. Then she was dropping her voice, trying to sound a little more conciliatory, a little more understanding. 'Look, I know this is going to be difficult for you but I can help.'

'Oh, yeah? Like how?'

'Well, we could...you know...share a table.'

Al didn't answer, just stared at her, horrified by the mere thought of it. For the past six months, he'd managed to keep this girl at arm's length and now she'd been handed the perfect excuse to bridge the gulf he'd been trying to dig between them in all that time.

'Uh...thanks,' he said. 'I'll let you know.'

'Well, the offer's there if you want to take it up,' she said, then she was gone, walking quickly down the corridor as though trying to escape something embarrassing. The others crowded round him.

'Hey, you're in with a chance there,' said Jon.

'Let us know when the first date is,' said Tony.

'Can I be best man?' said Eddie.

He didn't answer. The cogs of his mind were whirring frantically as he cast round for a plan, _any_ plan that would get them off Cookery. If it was desirable before, it was now essential, even imperative. Cookery with Keren? That was one ingredient he could do without.

Even as he was thinking this, something seemed to click inside. Then he was speaking again, his voice vague with the wonder of sudden revelation.

'Listen up, guys. I've got an idea...'

FOUR

It was not an easy idea for him to explain. Or maybe it was easy for him to explain but not easy for them to understand. They could be like that, sometimes.

The time was after school and the place was Tony's bedroom, the safest time and place to talk if ever they were planning something, and they often were. And Al had outlined to them his Great Idea, the one that was guaranteed to get them out of Cookery, not just for the rest of the term or even the rest of their school careers but probably for the rest of their lives, guys! But even with that tantalising prospect dangled before them, they seemed to be having just a little trouble taking it in...

'...so what you're saying,' said Jon, 'is we play along with old Palm Trees, do all her Cookery stuff like she wants us to, but use something gross as the main ingredient.'

'Something really gross,' said Al, 'something that'll make her want to puke.'

'Well, I ain't clearing it up,' said Tony.

'You won't have to, yer berk! You know what I mean.'

'Okay,' said Jon, 'I'm with you so far. But this gross something you want to put in, what did you have in mind?'

'I've been thinking about that. What do women hate most? What makes them want to scream and run a mile?'

'My dad after a few pints?' said Eddie brightly.

They laughed. They all knew Eddie's dad.

'Apart from your dad,' Al said above the noise. 'Come on, guys, be serious. This could be important.'

They tried to be serious, tried turning their thoughts to this one Great Question in Al's Great Idea.

'Spiders,' Tony said eventually. 'My mum hates spiders. Whenever she finds one in the bath, she screams and runs and me dad has to go and get rid of it.'

'What about your sister?' said Jon. 'Is she the same?'

'Nah! When spiders see her, _they_ scream and run.'

They laughed again. They had all met Tony's sister, too.

'I don't blame them,' said Al. 'But not everyone hates spiders. I've got an aunt who lives in the country, says she don't feel safe unless she knows there's at least one or two knocking around the house, says they keep the flies down.'

'Weird!' said Jon.

'Very. Anyone else got any ideas?'

'Mice,' said Eddie. 'In all the cartoons on telly, women hate mice. There was this one on last week—'

'And I think it's only in cartoons you'll find that,' Al said gently, not wanting to hurt his friend.

'He's right, Eddie,' said Jon. 'When I was at Middle School, our class had a couple of pet mice in a cage that had to be taken home and looked after over weekends and holidays. It was always the girls who wanted to do it.'

'An' I can't see their mums being too happy about it if women really don't like mice,' Al added.

'But some women might,' said Eddie, persisting with his one good idea of the day. 'Miss might.'

Al shook his head. 'Nice try but we need something that everyone hates, something that no one would want anywhere near them. It won't work, otherwise.'

Even as he finished speaking, it came to him. He spun round to tell Jon, the one member of the gang he could count on to understand him at times like this. But Jon, too, was looking amazed, like he'd just received a sudden clout from an idea he should have seen coming all along. They shouted it together, one single word that was the Great Answer they'd been looking for.

'RATS!'

Silence. Then Tony was speaking again. He sounded dubious, uncertain.

'Rats,' he said. 'You're gonna use _rats_ in Cookery.'

'Not real ones, yer berk!' said Al. 'Weren't you listening to me just now? We use pretend ones.'

'Pretend ones,' Tony repeated slowly. 'Why not use real ones?'

'I hate to say this,' said Jon, 'but they ain't exactly the cleanest animals in the world. I mean, _I_ certainly wouldn't want to touch one.'

'Nobody would,' said Al. 'And that's what makes them so perfect for what we want to do. It's so obvious, I don't know why we didn't think of it sooner.'

'Yeah but where are we gonna get pretend rats?' said Tony. 'I mean, how "pretend" do you want them to be?'

'Pretend enough so we don't hurt no one but real enough to give old Palm Trees a fright.'

'Ah, now I get it! So when she sinks her teeth into what she thinks is a nice, juicy Cornish Pasty—'

'—she gets a mouthful of what she then thinks is really cooked rat,' Al finished for him. 'Like it?'

'Love it!' said Tony.

'Let's do it!' said Jon.

'Yeah, okay,' said Eddie, still unsure but prepared to go along with whatever the gang wanted.

'We'll need to make proper rat dishes, though,' Al went on. 'It's no good just sticking a rat in something and giving it to her. It's got to have a proper rat name.'

'You mean like RATatouille?' said Tony.

'Yeah but we can do better than that. We don't need to just stick to rats.'

'What, you mean like Irish SHREW?'

'Yeah, or a salad with MOLEslaw!'

'Hey, how about beans on STOAT?'

Now they were really laughing. This idea was getting better and better.

'Don't forget pudding,' said Jon. 'You've got to have pudding.'

'Okay, how about a dish of MICE pudding?'

'Or MINKS pie?'

'Or chocolate MOUSE?'

'Nah, that one's too obvious.'

'Okay, what about breakfast? What would you have for breakfast?'

They thought and thought but the only thing anyone could come up with was WEASELbix. Anyway, Al decided eventually, it didn't matter 'cos they were going to be cooking proper dishes, not just taking things from packets an' bunging them in the oven.

'We'll think up a few more as we go on,' he added, 'see what else we can come up with. So what do you think? Good idea or what?'

It was indeed a good idea, they had to admit that. More than that, it was a Great Idea. But as with all good ideas and Great Ideas, one small but highly relevant question had yet to be answered.

'So where are we gonna get these pretend rats?' said Eddie. 'I mean, without them, we're sunk before we even get started.'

'Yeah, that's the only problem,' Al mused. 'I ain't actually got around to working that one out yet.'

'We could buy them,' said Jon helpfully.

'Yeah? Like where?' said Tony. 'You can get stuffed dogs an' cats an' all kinds of fluffy bunnies an' things but rats? Ain't no one gonna buy a rat.'

'You got that right' said Al. 'An' anyway, what about the money? Has anyone got any?'

Three vaguely negative murmurs answered him. He hadn't really needed to ask it.

'What about if we got someone to make them?' said Jon.

'Yeah, possible. Know anyone?'

'My mum can sew but I don't think she'd go along with what we're planning.'

'You don't have to tell her.'

'Oh yeah, I just walk up to her and say _Mum-would-you-make-me-some-rats-please?_ She'd think I'd gone nuts.'

'So what's new? What about you, Tony? What about your sister?'

Tony looked up, panic in his eyes. 'What about my sister?'

'Would she do it?—if we told her why, of course.'

'Er...well...me an' my sister aren't exactly speaking right now.'

They looked at him, all of them. They knew what was coming.

'Okay,' said Al wearily, 'what did you do this time?'

'Nothing much.'

'I bet you didn't. Come on, out with it.'

'Okay, okay! I just put a plastic poo on her bed and told her the dog had been sleeping there.'

'Neat!' said Jon. 'What did she do?'

'What any big sister would do. She took one look at it, screamed and yelled at me to clear it up.'

'An' did you?'

'Too right. I just picked it up an' put it in me pocket. Went spare, she did.'

They laughed, long and loud. Big sisters could be useful, sometimes, especially when the mood needed to be lightened a little.

'Nice one,' said Al. 'But I guess that means she'll be out of it for this one.'

'Maybe not,' said Tony vaguely. 'It's her birthday next week. Maybe if we suck up to her a bit...you know what I'm saying?'

'Could be. Tell you what, let's go and see her now, sound her out, yeah?'

'If we must. She'll be in from school by now. But if anything goes wrong, see I get a decent funeral, okay?'

They bundled out of Tony's room and paused outside the next bedroom door. Taped to it was a small poster. Hand-written. Neat. It read:

WELCOME

You are about to enter a haven of tranquillity.

If you come in a spirit of peace,

harmony and friendship, please knock and enter.

But if you come with anything less than these

noble qualities in mind then

TAKE YOUR LITTLE BROTHER BUTT

AND BEAT IT!

'Is she crazy or what?' said Jon when he'd finished reading.

'You don't know the half of it,' said Tony.

'You must have really upset her with that poo,' said Al as he knocked on the door.

'Yeah, well, what else are big sisters for?'

'Well, they don't have any other uses, do they?' Al looked the door up and down, puzzled. 'No reply.'

'Try again.'

He knocked again. They waited for an answer again. And there was no reply. Again.

'She ain't in,' said Tony hastily. 'Let's go.'

'Hey, what's with you?' said Jon. 'Are you scared of her or something?'

'Me? Scared of my own sister? Yeah, right.'

'Then why are you shaking?'

'I'm cold.'

'I'm not. What about you guys?'

'Never mind all that,' said Al. 'Where is she? You said she'd be back by now.'

'Maybe she got held up on the way,' said Eddie.

'By the neck, hopefully,' said Tony.

'I heard that!'

They spun round. There was a figure climbing the stairs—female, long blonde hair, short black skirt. Tony gulped and took a step backwards. The others just gulped and looked.

'What are you doing here?' was the next question. Without waiting for an answer, she glared at her brother—hard. 'Especially you!' she added. 'If you've come to apologise, you can forget it. I don't ever want to see or speak to you again.'

'Can I have that in writing?'

'Why, you—!'

She lunged forward, hand raised. But Al was quicker, stepping between them before words could escalate into full-scale war.

'Tony's only joking,' he pleaded hastily. 'He was just telling us how brilliant you was at sewing an' stuff like that.'

'Really,' she said dryly. 'I suppose he also told you he thinks I'm charming, witty, intelligent and beautiful.'

'Well, not exactly in those words,' said Al. 'But he did say that as big sisters go, you're okay—ain't that right, Tony?'

They all looked at him. He looked about ready to throw up but he nodded just the same.

'Now why do I find all this hard to believe?' she said. 'There's got to be a catch somewhere, just got to be.'

'No, he did! Honest! That's why he brought us here, said you'd be glad to show us how brilliant you are.'

'Did he?' she said even more doubtfully. 'Well, if this is true then it'll be a first, but I suppose miracles can happen, even to him. Okay, move it and come in.'

She pushed past them and opened the door. They followed her inside. It was everything a big sister's bedroom should be: small stereo in the corner; big poster of the current manufactured boy band on the wall; a crumpled, unmade bed; and make-up in front of the mirror, lots of make-up. She stopped in the middle of the room and turned to them, arms folded, like a teacher demanding to know why they hadn't done their homework.

'Okay,' she said, 'what do you want to see?'

'Everything, really,' said Al. 'Tony says you're good with a needle. How about that first?'

'Okay,' she said slowly, 'but first, I want to know why. Why this sudden interest in sewing—and in particular, my sewing?'

This was it. He wasn't prepared for this so early on in the game but this was it. Al took a deep breath and said simply:

'We want you to make us something.'

For a moment, there was silence. Then she was speaking. Slowly. Like she didn't believe what she'd just heard.

'Make you something. Like what?'

'Er—' Too late to back out now. '—some toy rats.'

'Some _what_?'

'Toy rats,' he said again. 'We, er...we want to play a trick on someone.'

Another silence. This time, she was looking at them suspiciously, like she didn't _like_ what she'd just heard.

'This...someone,' she said at length, 'anyone I know?'

'Maybe. Maybe not.'

'I see. Well, since it's such a big secret and since, despite what you say, I think you're all up to no good, I think I can name my price for these "rats".'

'Price!' said Al. This was something they hadn't considered. 'Er...like what?'

'Well, it's my birthday next week—'

'Yeah, Tony told us.'

'—so what I propose to do is give you a list of things I want and let you decide what you're going to buy me.'

Al felt his heart sink, felt everyone's heart sink. Buy something! With what?

'Couldn't we just sing Happy Birthday?' he said sheepishly.

'Don't tell me,' she said. 'No money—right?'

'Well, it's the thought that counts.'

'Depends what the thought is worth. But you lot sing Happy Birthday? This I have got to hear.'

'Okay,' said Al. 'Ready, guys?'

They nodded uncertainly.

'Right! Here goes:'

' _Happy birthday to you._

Eat a mouthful of stew

With your finger in your ear'ole.

_Happy birthday to you._ '

They finished and waited for her to applaud. For some strange reason, she didn't.

'You horrible...beastly...boys!' was all she said instead.

'But it's what we sing when one of the gang has a birthday,' Al pleaded.

'I am not one of your gang!'

'Well, no, but—'

'Are you always like this?' she said, interrupting him. 'I mean, can't you say something nice even once in your miserable lives?'

Could they? Al looked at her standing there, all blond hair and short skirt. She was very...well...okay for a girl, he supposed. But something nice? Worth a try.

'Okay,' he said, 'I think you look a million pounds.'

'Why, _thank_ you, Alex!' she said, surprised. ' _You_ can come again.'

Then Tony was adding quietly, 'Just a pity the money ran out before it got to your face.'

'Why, you—'

They ducked as a hairbrush flew over their heads to ricochet off the wall behind.

'I should have known—' _CRASH!_ '—like you! You're all the same—' _BANG!_ '—horrible—' _SHATTER!_ '—ghastly—'

'I think we'd better got out of here!' Tony yelled as a perfume bottle whistled past his ear.

'I think you're right!' Al yelled back, and they were all suddenly bundling each other through the door and slamming it shut behind them.

'Has she always been like this?' said Al as they clattered down the stairs, the sounds of smashing and crashing receding with every step.

'Not always,' said Tony. 'Me mum says she only started getting this way after I was born.'

'That figures. But why'd you do that back there? I had her just about ready to give in and say yes.'

'Habit, I guess. Sorry.'

'Yeah, well, don't worry about it. She'd probably have got them half-done and then demanded another birthday present or something to finish them.'

'Probably. But now what are we gonna do?'

'I don't know,' said Al. 'Don't worry, something'll turn up.'

And he was right. It did.

FIVE

'Well, if you've got any better ideas, tell me.'

Al looked round at them all, hopefully but not really expectantly. They were standing in the playground, forlorn, despondent. They'd tried everything, explored every avenue, examined every possibility, but to no avail. Grandmas, sisters, cousins, neighbours—there was always some reason why any one or other of them couldn't be asked. So each and every one or other had been rejected, always reluctantly, always with an ever-mounting sense of frustration. With the list exhausted, they found themselves left with only one alternative. And it could not be said that any of them viewed it with much enthusiasm...

'Well?' he persisted. ' _Have_ you got any better ideas?'

Each of them in turn mumbled something inaudible and shook his head. No, they hadn't.

'Well, then,' he said simply. 'We've got no choice, have we?'

'So what you're saying,' said Eddie, 'is that if we want to do this, we've got to make these toy rats ourselves.'

'That's about the measure of it. I know it sucks but I don't see any other way round it.'

'In other words, we've got to learn how to sew,' said Jon. 'Yeah, right, I can just see us lot doing that.'

'And if we are gonna do it,' said Tony, 'we've got to find someone who'll teach us. And I can see that happening even more. Sorry, Al, but maybe we should just forget the whole stupid idea.'

'What! And then we've got to do Cookery for the rest of the year. You want that?'

They didn't and he knew they didn't. He pursued it, rammed home the prospect of an eternity of Miss Palmer and her fairy cakes.

'And never mind just the rest of the year, it'll be for the rest of our time at school. You want that?'

'Well...no,' said Tony. 'But how are we gonna do this, Al? I mean, look what we're up against.'

'Look,' he said patiently, 'all we have to do is stitch a few bits of cloth together an' stuff them with something that'll pad them out here an' there an' we're done. It's not as if we gotta make them move or anything like that.'

'Yeah but we've still got to get that far. Sorry but I think it's a bit more complicated than you think.'

'And we've still got to make them look real,' Jon reminded him, 'or at least real enough to fool old Palm Trees into thinking she's eaten one. That's gonna take some doing.'

'Oh, you think?' said Al. 'Remember they're gonna be covered with gravy an' stuff like that so they don't need to be anything fancy. Surely we can manage that.'

'I dunno,' said Tony. 'Like I said, sewing really is a bit more than just digging a needle into a couple of pieces of rag an' hoping they'll hold together. I should know, I've watched me mum do it enough times. We've gotta learn, Al.'

'There's books.'

'Yeah, like we've got the money to buy books,' said Jon.

'That's what libraries are for, yer berk!'

'So are you gonna walk in an' ask the librarian for a book on sewing?'

'If I have to,' said Al indignantly. 'How are we gonna do it, otherwise?'

'Get someone to teach us,' said Eddie quietly.

'We've been through that one already,' said Jon. 'An' we keep coming back to that one question— _who_?'

They fell into silence, the three of them, each lost in his thoughts. Al shook his head wearily: this was not the way he'd planned it. His Great Idea was faltering, was about ready to be consigned to the scrapheap labelled Might-Have-Beens that was the fate of so many of their ideas. They'd tried their best, he had to admit, but every last option was gone. Only one thing for it: backtrack and see if they'd missed anything along the way.

'Tony,' he said, 'has your sister forgiven you yet?'

Tony looked up, suddenly uneasy, suddenly looking like he didn't want to answer. 'Uh...not yet. Why?'

'Because she could have helped us out, that's why. I don't suppose there's any chance she might...you know...'

'Uh...I don't think so.'

'Not even if we sucked up to her an' said sorry for yesterday?' He peered at his friend hopefully, at the only real way out of this dead-end, but his friend's look said it all.

'Not a good idea,' Tony said quickly. 'Especially after what I did last night.'

'Why, what happened?'

'You do _not_ want to know.'

'Yes we do,' said Al. 'What did you do?'

They gathered round him, expecting to hear the worst, even hoping to hear the worst. Tony just looked down at his feet.

'Let's just say it had something to do with half a tube of toothpaste and the loo brush,' he said quietly.

They glanced at each other, eyebrows raised: no doubt about it, he was as crazy as she was.

'Well, I guess that's her definitely out, then,' said Al. 'You know, when you foul something up, you really foul it up, don't you?'

'Sorry.'

'Forget it.' He looked round at his friends again. 'Come on, there's got to be a way. There's got to be someone we can get to teach us how to sew.'

Even as he finished speaking, Al felt a nudge in his ribs. He glanced up, glad for a momentary distraction from their quandary.

'Look who's here,' Jon was saying, pointing.

He looked. They all looked. It was the new boy, the one from Chapworthy College they had so rudely introduced to the school the previous day. The experience seemed to have had some effect on him for he was wandering alone by the fence, not making any attempt to communicate with anyone else, trying hard to blend in with what little background a wire fence round a playground had to offer and not making a very good job of it.

Tony sniggered. 'Shall we ask him if he wants the bogs again?'

'You leave him alone,' said Al. 'Remember what Franklinstein said yesterday. He covered for us so this must be one okay guy.'

There were murmurs of agreement, Jon adding, 'He doesn't look very happy, does he?'

'Probably feeling a bit out of place,' said Al. 'You know how it is—new faces and you don't know any of them.'

'Yeah, does look a bit lonely, don't he?' said Eddie.

'Maybe,' Al said tentatively, 'we should...you know...'

'What?' said Tony. 'You mean go and say Hi?'

'Why not? Don't you think we owe him something, especially after what we did to him? And even more especially after what he did for us afterwards.'

'Well...yeah...maybe...'

'Okay, gang vote. Hands up all those in favour of going and talking to the new kid.' Four hands were raised. 'Okay, let's go.'

They strolled over to the fence, trying their best not to look menacing. Even so, he looked up just at the wrong moment, saw them coming and backed off in stark terror. But again, he only had so far to go before all hope of escape was blocked. This time, it was the fence, and he grabbed it with both hands and held on—hard!

'It's okay,' said Al easily, 'we just wanted to say Hi.'

'Oh. Right,' said the boy, not relaxing his grip. 'Hello.'

'Yeah, that and thanks for yesterday.'

'Thanks? For what?'

'For not splitting on us to Franklinstein.'

'Franklinstein?' he repeated, puzzled.

'Mrs. Franklin,' said Al. 'Otherwise known as She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed. You know! The headmistress?'

'Oh, that. Think nothing of it. Only thing I could do, really, under the circumstances.'

'Yeah, well, thanks. Right, guys?'

They sort of mumbled something that could have been thanks without actually sounding like it.

'And sorry for the wet trousers,' Al went on. 'We just got a bit carried away. So, sorry. Right, guys?'

Another mumble, even less clear than before.

'Right, guys?' Al said again and louder.

There was a chorus of mutterings of 'Yeah, yeah, sorry an' all that stuff.'

'Apology accepted,' said the new boy. 'As you say, just a bit of fun that got out of hand. No real harm done.'

Al looked at him more closely, at this newcomer who'd acted like an old and trusted friend, an ally against the never-ending war against the scourge of every teenager's life—teachers. His first impressions had been right: this guy did not belong here. He was too refined and restrained. He couldn't imagine this cultured creature standing up and creating mayhem while the teacher was out of the classroom, or spreading ink on the seats in the girls' toilets, or—or anything, really, that they got up to in order to make the schoolday just that little bit more bearable. But for all that, he seemed okay, seemed like someone they could get along with, and that counted for a lot.

'Right,' he said, 'now that's out of the way, I guess it's time for a few names. I'm Alex—but everyone calls me Al. This haggard berk suffering from a big sister is Tony. This prize thicko who looks like he's always forgetting his own name is Eddie. And this, the only one of us with any brains except me, is Jon.'

'Delighted to make your proper acquaintance.' He started shaking hands all round. They responded uncertainly, like this was not something they were used to.

'So what's _your_ name?' said Al when he'd finished.

'I'm so sorry, most impolite of me. The name's Pike.'

'Uh...is that a first or second name?'

'Second, of course. My first is...' He hesitated, looking embarrassed. '...er...Sebastian.'

It took a moment for that one to sink in.

'Sebastian,' Al repeated slowly.

'My parents' fault,' said Sebastian Pike. 'They didn't want an ordinary name for their intended one and only offspring so they settled on something a little, shall we say, exceptional?'

'Well, they got that right,' said Al. 'I've got to say, it's gonna take some getting used to.'

'Stuff that,' said Jon. 'I ain't calling anyone Sebastian, least of all a member of this gang.'

'Oh, I'm sorry,' said Sebastian Pike, puzzled. 'I wasn't aware I'd signed up with your, er...gang.'

'Hey, you've got to be with us,' said Al. 'We'll show you what's what with the teachers, what kids to avoid, how to skive off morning assembly—all that sort of stuff.'

'All essential to the success of one's school career, of course,' said Sebastian Pike dryly. Then he was looking a little uneasy, was glancing nervously at them all again. 'Er...is there an initiation ceremony?'

They laughed. 'If there is,' said Al, 'you went through it yesterday. So how about it? You gonna hang out with us?'

Sebastian Pike shrugged. 'Why not? After all, we've been introduced, I've been initiated—yes, why not?'

'Great! You guys okay with this?'

A chorus of approval rang out, the first time he'd seen them happy all day. There was, however, one small problem still to be addressed.

'Sebastian!' Tony muttered darkly. 'Bit of a mouthful, ain't it? Can't we shorten it or something?'

'I believe one can,' said Sebastian Pike. 'I believe the correct abbreviation is Seb.'

'Seb,' Jon repeated dubiously. 'Sounds a bit foreign to me.'

'That's the first three letters,' said Tony. 'Can't we use his last three, call him Ian?'

' _I_ would have objections to that, I fear,' said Sebastian Pike.

'Bit of a problem, then,' said Al, scratching his head.

'And I may have the solution.'

'Yeah? How?'

'Well, my compatriots at my own school couldn't bring themselves to use my given name either, so they settled on a rather unique and imaginative solution.'

'Which was...?'

'They took my first initial and run it into my surname, so forming the nickname Spike. It sort of stuck, and I have to say I'm now really rather attached to it.'

'Hey, neat!' said Jon. 'I can go along with calling someone Spike.'

'Yeah, me too,' said Tony. 'Beats plain old Sebastian any day.'

'Spike,' Eddie murmured. 'Yeah, I like that.'

'Well,' said Al, 'if you're okay with that, then so are we. Spike it is.'

'I'm glad that's settled.'

'So,' said Al, 'you're here on this exchange scheme. Bit of a bummer, huh.'

'Indeed. You might say I drew the short straw.'

'Why? Didn't you want to come?'

'Let's just say I didn't have much say in the matter.'

'Oh, right! Just told you to get out there and get on with it, yeah?'

'Not exactly. You see, my being here probably has more to do with the fact that my father plays golf with my headmaster who also happens to play golf with your headmistress's husband—'

They groaned a chorus of 'Right!' and 'So that's it!'

'—so I was sort of the natural choice. Believe me, I'm not here through any intrinsic merit of my own. Or choice, come to that.'

'Do you mind being here, then?' said Al, picking up on that.

'Time will tell. It's new experience, which is always a good thing, however one feels about it at the time—even yesterday,' he added with a grin.

They laughed, felt uneasy, embarrassed. Just as Franklinstein said they would, dammit!

'Well,' said Al,' since you're here, you might as well make the best of it. Like I say, stick with us and we'll keep you out of trouble. Anything you want to know?'

'Well, as a matter of fact, I haven't actually found the toilets yet.'

'Why? Do you want to go again?' said Tony brightly.

'No,' said Spike carefully, 'I was merely asking for future reference.'

'We'll show you where they are,' said Jon. 'Just yell.'

'And about yesterday—,' Al began.

Spike shook his head. 'No more to be said. Apology has been made and accepted. The matter is closed.'

'No, I know that, it's just...I don't know...Why did you cover for us? And after what we did to you.'

'Oh, that!' He shrugged, dismissive. 'Right thing to do, really. Have to stick together and all that. I mean, teachers are the same everywhere, aren't they?'

'You got that right,' said Al with feeling.

'And it got me the afternoon off, and that in turn got me out of History.'

'Don't you like History?' said Eddie.

'Can't stand it. I mean, let's face it, there's no future in it.'

It took a moment for that one to sink in, then they were laughing again, long and loud.

'No future in History,' said Jon. 'I like that.'

'So what sort of subjects do you do at school?' said Al. 'I mean, our lessons are boring. We never get taught anything interesting. Same for you?'

'By and large,' said Spike ruefully. 'And as if that were not enough, I'm afraid our school has rather succumbed of late to the more progressive way of thinking in education.'

'Yeah, we know what you mean,' Al groaned, thinking of their Cookery classes.

'I mean, would you believe they actually have us—boys, every one of us, mind you—actually have us learning things like _sewing_?'

Silence. They stared at him, all four of them, suddenly unable to speak. He glanced from one to the other, puzzled.

'Have I said something wrong?'

SIX

But of course, he hadn't said something wrong. If anything, he'd said something right, something _very_ right...

After school, they hustled him back to Tony's house, explaining on the way what they wanted to do and why they wanted to do it. Even before they'd finished, Spike could see the plan unfolding and the part they wanted him to play in it.

He'd asked the obvious question, why there wasn't a sister/aunt/mother/ girlfriend ('Girlfriend! You have got to be kidding!') who could either teach them what they needed to know or even do for them what needed to be done. But they had explained that there was only one real candidate and then gone on to tell him—no, warn him—about her. By the time they'd finished, he could see only too well why she was out of the running before she even got started...

'I think,' he said as they climbed the stairs to Tony's bedroom, 'I'd rather not meet your sister just yet, if you don't mind.'

'I can dig that,' said Tony.

'No offence to the young lady intended, you understand. I just would rather put it off until it becomes unavoidable.'

'No problem,' said Al. 'We feel that way every day.'

'Some of us don't get the choice,' Tony grumbled.

'Yeah, it's a lousy job, having a sister,' said Jon, 'but someone's got to do it.'

'Then I want danger money.'

They bundled into Tony's room, laughing and cracking jokes about big sisters and their place in the food chain.

'Listen up, you guys,' Al yelled above the din. 'We're here to sort out our plan, not make fun of lesser life forms. So where are we gonna start?'

No one seemed about to offer any ideas. It was Spike who broke the silence.

'It seems to me,' he said, 'that you each need to decide what it is you're going to make.'

'Rats,' said Al, puzzled. 'Like we told you.'

'No, no, it's not quite as simple as that. What you have to do is make up a list of all known rodents and choose one suitable for inclusion in some sort of dish.'

'I thought rats was just rats,' said Eddie.

'Not a bit of it. They belong to the rodent family, yes, but they're only one small part of it. Widen your options, then you can tailor your dishes accordingly and give them suitable names.'

'What, you mean like sausage VOLE!' said Tony brightly.

'That sort of thing, yes. What I suggest we do is make up a list and go on from there.'

'Okay, pen and paper time,' said Al. 'Anyone got one?'

They scrabbled in school bags and managed to find a biro that worked and someone's Geography exercise book to donate a few sheets of paper. Within minutes, a short list of possibilities had made its way from such memory as they could muster and onto paper. It looked impressive, even if they did say so, themselves.

Gerbil

Beaver

Hamster

Muskrat

Stoat

Weasel

Mole

Vole

Mouse

Mice

Jerboa

Rat

Ferret

Skunk

Gopher

Squirrel

Shrew

Chipmunk

'Chipmunk!' said Eddie. 'Ain't that what you find in a fish and chip shop in a monastery?'

'Nah,' said Tony, 'that's a fish friar.'

They fell about laughing. Spike looked on, shaking his head tolerantly.

'Seriously,' he said, 'are all these actually members of the rodent family?'

'Does it matter?' said Al. 'I mean, the idea of all this is to give old Palm Trees a fright, not a nature lesson.'

'An' I bet she don't know what is a rodent and what ain't,' Tony added.

'Right on!'

'You know,' said Jon, studying it, 'there's a lot of names on this list. Do we really need to be doing this?'

'He's got a point there, Spike,' said Al. 'We could be taking this names thing too far.'

'Fair enough,' he said. 'I just threw it in for what it was worth. So what you're saying is that the finer points of rodent study don't matter, you just want to make something that looks vaguely like a rat.'

'Yeah, just rats,' said Jon. 'We can think about names after we've made what we're gonna put them in.'

'Okay, scrap the list,' said Al. 'What's next?'

'Equipment,' said Spike, 'we need equipment. Needles and thread, things like that. I take it you all have parents that are supportive of your pastimes?'

'Are you kidding?' said Al. 'Couldn't care less what we get up to, most of the time.'

'An' if I asked my mum for a needle and thread,' said Eddie, 'she'd think I'd gone bonkers!'

'Or sissy,' said Tony.

'Or both,' said Jon.

'I see,' said Spike. 'Well, that being the case, does anyone have any suggestions as to how we are to acquire them?'

'Could nick 'em, I suppose,' said Eddie.

'Serious suggestions,' said Spike.

'Actually,' said Al, 'I think he was being serious.'

'Serious suggestions that are also legal, then. How about buying them?'

'You got the money to?'

'As it happens, yes. My allowance is, shall we say, more than adequate for my needs. I dare say I could spare the requisite sum for the purchase of the necessary items.'

'You mean you'd buy them for us?'

'Isn't that what I just said?'

'Yeah, okay, that's-what-you-just-said. Thanks an' all that. So when are we gonna do this?'

'I would suggest fairly soon. Now we've actually got this rolling, we need to keep the momentum going.'

'Tomorrow's Saturday,' said Jon. 'We can go tomorrow, maybe have a burger, hang out in the new centre for a while.'

'How's that with you, Spike?' said Al.

'Let me see, now...I suppose I could decline my invitation to Royal Ascot—'

'Yeah, yeah!'

'—the Henley Regatta has never held much appeal—'

'Come off it!'

'—so yes, I think I may have a window in my social diary.'

'Glad you can spare us the time,' said Al dryly. 'Tomorrow it is, then.'

'Hang on,' said Tony, 'you're getting ahead of me here. Are you really suggesting that we walk into some sewing shop in town and ask them for needles and thread? They'll think we're—'

'Yeah, sissy and bonkers,' said Al. 'We've been through that one already.'

'Well, do _you_ fancy doing it?'

Silence. It seemed he didn't fancy doing it. In fact, it seemed none of them fancied doing it.

'We could tell them they were for someone's mother,' Spike offered reasonably.

'No chance,' said Al. 'They'd see through that one straight away.'

'Not even if that someone's mother just happened to shop regularly there?'

'Not mine,' said Eddie.

'Nor mine,' said Tony.

'My mum don't bother mending anything,' said Jon. 'Whenever anything gets torn, she just goes an' buys something new.'

'Lucky she can afford to,' said Al. 'What about your sister, Tony?'

He glanced up. 'What about my sister? She's not home, is she?'

'Relax! We just want to know where she buys her sewing stuff from, that's all. Then we could go to the same place and tell them it was for her.'

'Yeah, you could tell them it's for her birthday,' said Eddie. 'And it _is_ her birthday soon—remember?'

'I'm not buying her a birthday present!' said Tony. 'What do you think I am?'

'You don't have to _give_ it to her, yer berk!' said Al. 'You just have to tell the people in the shop it's for her. The amount of stuff she buys, they'll probably even know her.'

'An' what if she finds out next time she goes in that I've been pretending to buy stuff for her?'

'Then you tell her you don't know what the devil she's talking about,' said Spike. 'Let's face it, from what you've told me, it does rather seem that your buying things for her at all is an unlikely scenario, let alone buying sewing things for her.'

'True enough,' said Al. 'So which shop does she use, Tony?'

'Er...the big department store in the new centre.'

'Even better. Means we can just walk in without feeling stupid, find the right department and wait for a quiet moment.'

'If you say so,' said Tony uncertainly.

'I say so,' said Al.

'So,' said Spike, 'having established where we're going to buy these things, all we need to do now is determine what things we're actually going to buy.'

'What we're going to buy!' said Al. 'But sewing's sewing, ain't it?'

'Not at all,' said Spike. 'There's patchwork, there's needlepoint, there's—'

'Okay, point taken. So what you're telling me now is that not only have we got to go and buy this stuff, we've actually got to ask someone _what_ we want to buy.'

'That's about the measure of it, I'm afraid.'

'Back to square one,' murmured Jon.

'Not necessarily,' said Spike. 'Tony, I take it your sister's room is close by?'

'Right next door, actually. Why?' Then he was looking up at him, looking alarmed. ' _Why?_ '

'And what time does she normally get home from school?'

'You're not serious!'

'I think he is,' said Al. 'What time, Tony?'

He glanced at his clock. 'In about half an hour. But—'

'Right, everyone into Tony's sister's room.'

They bundled out onto the landing, Tony trailing reluctantly behind, and gathered in front of her door. The carefully worded notice had gone, to be replaced by a single sheet of A4 paper with the words KEEP OUT, YOU LITTLE JERK splashed in loud red felt-tip on it. They ignored it and pushed their way into her room.

It hadn't changed much since the last time they were there, though there were a few more marks on the walls, impact points of flying projectiles like deodorants and hairbrushes and suchlike. They couldn't begin to wonder how _they_ had got there.

'So where do we start looking?' said Al. He glanced round for an answer and noticed someone was missing. 'Tony? You with us?'

His face peered round the doorframe. 'Just about. Why?'

'Quit fooling around and get yourself in here. We need to know which drawer she keeps her sewing stuff in.'

'And how would I know that?' he hissed as he crept forward into the room. 'It's not as if I get invited in here very often.'

'Better start searching, then. And carefully! We don't want to make it look as if anyone's been in here.'

They started searching, Al and Spike checking the wardrobes, Jon and Eddie yanking open the drawers, Tony standing by the door and keeping watch.

'God, did you ever see so many clothes!' said Al, surveying the contents of one wardrobe that seemed to be bulging at the seams.

'She never wears them,' said Tony, 'just buys them.'

'Probably trying to make herself look attractive,' said Jon.

'The clothing industry's safe for a few years yet, then.'

'You really hate her, don't you?' said Al.

'Hey, what else can you do with a big sister?'

'Yeah, right. Tell me, what's the worst thing you've ever done to her?'

'Er...do you really want to hear this?'

Suddenly, all was silence. Suddenly, everyone had stopped searching to listen.

'Well,' he began, 'you know that special breakfast cereal she eats, the one for slimmers?'

'Yeah,' said Al, 'we know it. Looks a bit like Corn Flakes only in smaller pieces. Go on.'

'Well, there was this one morning when I decided to cut my toenails, and—'

'You didn't!' said Al, the realisation as shocking as it was sudden.

'—uh...actually, I did.'

They didn't say anything. They couldn't. The image he'd just painted was too ghastly for words. But there was something they just had to know.

'Er...how many mouthfuls?' said Al. 'Before she...you know...'

'Two,' said Tony quietly.

'Two,' Al repeated. 'And what did she do then?'

'I don't know, I just legged it. Must have been the only time I've ever been early for school.'

'Yeah. Right.' He glanced round at them all. 'Let's get this done and get out of here. I do not want to be around when she gets back.'

They renewed their search with vigour, Tony's revelation lending their task a new urgency. They tried drawers, they tried cupboards, they tried under her bed. But no matter where they looked, no matter how hard they looked there, they couldn't find anything even remotely connected with sewing. If their friend hadn't been so adamant about his sister's pastime, they might have begun to wonder why they were there.

Tony glanced uneasily the alarm clock on the bedside table.

'Uh...guys,' he said, his voice a little more tremulous than usual. 'I think we're out of time.'

Al looked up. 'What do you mean, we're out of time? We've got another ten minutes, yet.'

'And if she's early?'

'He's right, Al,' said Jon. 'Do you really want to risk it?'

He didn't and they were soon back in Tony's room—but only after having made sure his sister's things had been left exactly as they had found them. As Tony had said as he helped straighten her underwear drawer, no sense in antagonising her unnecessarily.

'Well, that achieved a lot,' he said as he slumped down on his bed.

'Looks like we're just gonna have to find out the hard way,' Jon grumbled.

'Looks that way,' Al agreed miserably.

'Do we have to?' said Eddie. 'We're gonna feel a right bunch of idiots walking into a sewing shop without knowing what we're after.'

'Well, have you got any better ideas?'

He hadn't. They would be flying blind, they had no choice any more. Al looked up at Spike.

'Are you really gonna come along with us, hang out with the peasants for an afternoon?'

'Of course I am! Should be most amusing.'

'Okay, outside the Virgin Megastore. One o'clock. Now, what's next in the plan?'

'Well, as I see it, the next stage is...' He hesitated. '...Um, I don't somehow think you are going to like this.'

'Why? What's wrong?'

'Well, I think you're going to have to start paying attention in Cookery class.'

'Are you serious!' said Jon. 'Tell me you're not serious!'

'Look,' said Al patiently, 'I don't know if we went wrong somewhere along the line when we explained what we wanted to do but the whole purpose of doing it is _not_ to learn Cookery.'

'No, I disagree. _My_ understanding is that you want to get _kicked out_ of Cookery, and that's not quite the same thing.'

The four of them looked at each other, puzzled and more than puzzled.

'Look,' he went on, 'from what you tell me, you're only going to get one crack at this so you might as well make it a good one. And that means going along with the lessons and making it seem as if you're knuckling under. That way, you'll lull your cookery teacher into a false sense of security.'

'I get it!' said Al. 'So when she finds out what we've done—'

'—it will have just that much more impact.'

'Hey, I like it,' said Tony. 'God, I can't wait to see her face when she thinks she's eaten cooked rat.'

'Yes,' said Spike, 'and that's another good reason for making sure you know what you're doing.'

'Yeah? Why?'

'Because apart from making them look appetising enough to eat, you'll have to learn how to cook the supposed insides of your "rats" properly.'

'Why?'

'Well,' said Spike reasonably, 'you wouldn't want to give Miss Palmer food poisoning, would you?'

A row of blank faces stared back impassively.

'Would you...?'

SEVEN

Al leaned back against the plate glass window of the Virgin Megastore and glanced irritably at his watch. Okay, so it was only 12:50 and he'd said 1 o'clock but he was impatient to get this thing under way, even more to get it out of the way.

As he waited, he found his gaze wandering. This was the new shopping mall, a great cavern of trade and commerce for the comfort and convenience of the local populace and, indeed, anyone else it could tempt in through its automatic doors. At least, that's what the owners would have people believe. To the four of them, it was something else. It was somewhere warm to hang out in the winter without having to spend any money. It was somewhere to meet up before sidling off to the cinema and, hopefully, a film they really weren't old enough to be watching. And it was somewhere to just stop and stare and sometimes laugh at the buying public as it went about its weekend business of running up huge credit card debts. But today, it wasn't any of these. Today was the real starting point of this conspiracy. Today was the real starting point of everything. He only hoped the outcome was going to be worth all the effort...

'Good morning, Alex.'

He started, glanced round. 'Hi, Spike. You made it, then.'

'It would appear so. Are the others not here yet?'

'Nah. Wouldn't expect them to be, either. Jon's probably not up yet, Eddie's had to do his paper round and Tony's probably got caught up in another running battle with his sister.'

'Ah, right. Do you suppose they'll be long?'

'Shouldn't be. Except maybe for Jon. Likes his bed, does Jon.'

'Don't we all,' said Spike ruefully, 'don't we all?'

'Yeah, like you say, don't we all?'

They fell into an awkward silence. This was the first time he had been alone with their new friend, and now that he was, he didn't quite know what to say to him.

'Er...are you still up for all this?'

Spike shrugged. 'Why shouldn't I be? It's a good plan.'

'Yeah, but you ain't...you know...'

Spike didn't answer, just shrugged again as though to say that he didn't really need a reason to be involved, he just wanted to be. Al sneaked a sidelong look at his friend, seemed to be trying to understand something.

'Tell me,' he said, 'why are you hanging out with us guys?'

'At the risk of sounding flippant, I believe you invited me to.'

'Yeah but why? I mean, I'd have thought once you'd done your time at our school, you'd be wanting to be back with your own friends, come the weekend.'

'And so I might. It just so happens that I enjoy your company.' He paused, a little reflective. 'Being at a private school can be pretty constricting at times. One is expected to uphold certain standards of behaviour, follow certain rules and all that. It's really quite refreshing to be conducting oneself in a manner not befitting a student of Chapworthy College for a change.'

'Yeah? Is it really that bad?'

'You wouldn't know it.'

Al let go a low whistle. 'And I thought _we_ had it rough. Sounds like they regard you as college boy first and human being second.'

'I'd never thought of it in that way,' said Spike wistfully. 'But you know, you're right, you're absolutely right...'

Al looked up. 'They're here,' he said, and they were, wending their way through the throng towards them. 'You're late!' he yelled.

'Only by a few minutes,' Tony yelled back.

'That's still late. Did anyone bring any money?'

'Just a moment,' said Spike, 'I thought I was providing the finance for this little jaunt.'

'Sorry but we can't let you do that,' said Al. 'So we decided to scrounge what we could, pool it and see what we ended up with.'

'Oh? And when was this decided?'

'Last night. After you went home. We took a gang vote on it.'

'Really! And why, since I am apparently a member of said gang, was this vote taken in my absence?'

'That's democracy for you.' Al turned and faced the rest of them expectantly. 'So, anyone bring any money?'

'A bit,' said Eddie sheepishly as he held out a 50p piece. 'Not much.'

'Every little helps,' Al smiled. 'Anyone else?'

'I raided my piggy bank,' said Jon. 'Here. Two quid.'

'You've got a piggy bank?'

'Yeah. Why not?'

Look,' Al said patiently, 'I don't know how to break this to you but piggy banks at your age ain't exactly what you would call cool.'

'Yeah, well, me nan's got some strange ideas about birthday presents. Figure it from that.'

'Oh. Right. What about you, Tony? You raid your piggy bank?'

'No, I raided my sister's.'

'Even better! How much did you get?'

He handed over a five-pound note. The others looked on in horror.

'A whole fiver?' said Jon. 'Man, are you ever dead!'

'Hey, she's got to catch me first.'

'Okay,' said Al, 'I managed to scrounge another couple of quid from me mum so that's makes...£9.50 by my reckoning.'

'Er...what about me?' said Spike. 'Shouldn't I be making a contribution?'

'Nah, don't worry about it.'

'But—'

'Look, if you want to do something, just buy us all a Coke after we've come out of the shop. We're probably gonna need it. But this part is down to us, okay?'

'Well, if you insist.' He looked round cheerfully at them all. 'So, gentlemen, shall we be getting on with it?'

They should indeed be getting on with it, they knew they should. But at the very suggestion of actually having to carry out their plan, they seemed a little uneasy, were looking down at the floor and shuffling their feet.

'Have we got to do it _just_ yet?' said Jon.

'Well, no, I suppose we have all afternoon. But I thought you wanted to get this over and done with.'

'Yeah, we do,' said Al. 'It's just that—'

'Ah. Right,' said Spike, understanding. 'Well, what shall we do in the meantime?'

No one seemed to have any suggestions. Apart from the actual buying of this stuff, they hadn't considered what they might do for the rest of the afternoon, the bulk of the afternoon. Then Spike was speaking again, offering a way out that saved face for everyone.

'How about that Coke?'

Four pairs of eyes seemed to brighten.

'You serious?' said Al.

'Why not? It was suggested of me and I did agree. So, how about it?'

'You're on! Where shall we go?'

That was one question that was not difficult to answer. In their deliberations for the design of this new shopping centre, the architects had thoughtfully provided room for five coffee bars or the like so they were not short of choice. Indeed, in their various forays there, they had managed to sample each one and had finally decided that the Italian place was best, if only because, no matter how rowdy they tried to make themselves, the counter staff always smiled, and the girl who cleared and cleaned the tables wore a _very_ short skirt.

So the Italian place it was, and they soon found themselves clustered round a single table really only designed to take two, three at a stretch but hey, who was counting? On the table were five tall glasses of Coke. Also on the table were five small plates, each bearing a large slice of chocolate fudge cake. This was not something that had been in the agreement but no one was about to argue...

'Thanks for this, Spike,' said Al as he sank his fork into chocolate heaven for a second time. The others mumbled agreement through full mouths.

'Not at all. It just looked so delicious lying there in the counter display, I simply couldn't resist it. Couldn't eat alone, not the done thing.'

'Still cost you a bit, though.'

'I can afford it. And anyway, what's the point of having money if you don't spend it?'

'Right enough. I just wish I had some of it to spend in the first place.'

'Oh, it's not so hot, having money,' said Spike. 'You can buy things with it, yes, but half the stuff you buy you don't really need, and very little of what you buy actually makes you a better person.'

'So you don't hold much with money, then.'

'Not really. Look at it this way, it's never been a problem so its acquisition has never figured highly on my list of life's priorities.'

'It does on most people's list of life's priorities, I think,' said Al wistfully.

'Indeed,' said Spike, and he added, muttering: 'Especially my father.'

' _My_ dad wants to win the Lottery on a triple rollover week an' be a multi-multi- _multi_ -millionaire,' said Jon. 'That's his dream.'

'And what would he do with such money?' said Spike. 'He certainly couldn't spend it in a single lifetime.'

'I don't think he looks at it that way. I think he just likes the idea of having it.'

'And like I say, what's the point of having it if you don't spend it?'

Jon said nothing, just shrugged: what his father wanted from life was beyond his understanding and, indeed, caring.

'So how much do you reckon _is_ enough money, Spike?' said Al.

He paused, thoughtful. 'There's an old saying,' he said. ' _Enough is as good as a feast_. And it's true. If you have enough to live on, that's all you really need. Any more is just plain greed. I have my allowance, I spend what I have, I don't go yearning for more.'

'You're lucky getting pocket money,' said Eddie. 'I have to do a paper round, an' even then, I have to give most of what I earn to me mum.'

'I didn't know that!' said Al, genuinely surprised. 'But why? Does your mum make you?'

'No, she don't make me,' said Eddie, faintly embarrassed. 'I just like to help her out with money. Let's face it, me dad ain't much use when it comes to paying bills.'

Al nodded ruefully. 'Maybe I ought to give you back what you gave me.'

'No, don't! I'm part of this gang an' I'll do my bit.'

Al wanted to respond, to argue the point, but he knew that to do so would only cause his friend further embarrassment. 'Okay, Eddie,' he said gently. 'Have it your way.'

'So,' said Spike, 'have you decided which of you is to draw the short straw?' Four faces stopped stuffing themselves to look at him. 'Which of you is to do the actual buying of this sewing equipment?' he added helpfully.

'Not yet,' said Al. 'I think Tony should go, it's his sister's shop.'

'I think Eddie should go,' said Tony, 'he brought the least money.'

'I think Jon should go,' said Eddie, 'he's the one who wanted to put it off most.'

'I think Al should go,' said Jon, 'he's the leader of the gang.'

'No decision, then,' Spike said dryly.

'We could have a gang vote on it,' said Al.

'With everyone voting for everyone else, I doubt you'd get very far. And given that, might I make a suggestion?'

'Fire away.'

'We all go.'

'What? You mean...all of us!'

'Why not? Mutual support and all that. And it'll certainly get you out of your decision-making predicament.'

'Sound idea,' said Al. 'Okay, gang vote. Who's for doing what Spike says an' all of us go?'

Five forks were suddenly being waved in the air.

'The forks have it, methinks,' said Spike.

'Yeah, vote carried,' said Al. 'We all go.'

'I just hope nobody sees us,' Jon grumbled.

'They won't,' said Al more confidently than he felt. 'They won't.'

They found the department store easily enough, found the department within the department store just as easily, and found themselves surrounded by racks of thread, rolls of cloth, displays of sewing machines and banks of drawers containing needles, thimbles, scissors and just about every conceivable sort of sundry one might need in the pursuit of joining two pieces of cloth together. They didn't like to admit it but they really didn't know where to start.

'We'd better ask someone,' Jon whispered.

'I just wanted us to get in, get the stuff an' get out again,' Al whispered back.

'Yeah, but what stuff are we gonna _buy_?'

It was a good question. They looked to Tony for the answer.

'Don't ask me!' he hissed.

'Why not?' said Al. 'She's your sister.'

'Don't mean to say I've got to have anything to do with her.'

It was a good point. In fact, knowing Tony's sister, it was probably an excellent point. Spike shook his head wearily. Time, perhaps, to take matters into his own hands. He drew himself up and marched boldly up to the nearest counter.

'Good afternoon,' he announced in a loud voice. 'My friends and I need a little assistance.'

The woman behind the counter stopped checking figures to look him up and down. Then she looked the others up and down.

'Indeed?' she said. 'Taking up sewing, are you?'

'Not at all. It's just that one of our number has a sister whose birthday it is this week. She likes sewing and we thought she might like a little something to help her in her pastime.'

They shuffled towards the counter, emboldened by Spike's display of raw courage.

'Yeah, she likes sewing,' Tony was saying as if to reinforce the point that it wasn't really for him. 'My sister. You know?'

'I see,' said the woman. 'And what sort of sewing does she do?'

'Toy animals!' Tony said quickly. 'She likes making toy animals.'

It was indeed a quick answer and a good one given that that was effectively what they were making. The woman nodded understanding.

'I see,' she said. 'And what is she most in need of just now?'

'Er...everything,' said Tony.

'Everything,' the woman repeated. 'You mean she's just starting out.'

'No, she's just getting short of stuff.'

'Really,' said the woman like she was not believing them. 'Well, there are consumables like thread and material, I'll grant, but things like needles don't really wear out.'

'No, she needs needles,' said Al. 'She definitely needs needles.'

'She does, does she?' The woman leaned on the counter, looked them over as though this was going to be a long haul and she wasn't going to enjoy it. 'Why don't you tell me exactly what it is she's doing and I'll give you what I think she needs? So, she's making toy animals. What sort of toy animals?'

'Er...rats,' said Al uncertainly.

There was a long silence while the woman digested this.

'Rats,' she said eventually. 'She's making toy rats.'

They nodded. She studied them for a moment longer then stood bolt upright, looked now as though she just wanted to be rid of this lot as soon as possible.

'Right,' she said briskly, 'she's making toy rats and she needs everything. First, she'll need a book of needles—'

She swung round, yanked open a drawer and pulled from it a small packet.

'—Next, some thread. Brown? To match the colour of the rats' fur? Or is she making black rats, like the ones that carried the plague?'

'No,' said Spike, 'brown will be fine, thank—'

'Excellent! Brown it is. And what about material for the fur? Natural or synthetic?'

'Er...which is best?'

'Not much difference. Try some brown felt. Looks the part and even begins to smell the part if you don't wash it. How many rats is she planning to make?'

'Four?' said Al. That, at least, he could be certain of.

She reached for a roll of brown material, picked up a ferocious-looking pair of scissors and sheered off a metre-wide strip.

'That should be enough,' she said. 'Now, are we done?'

'Er...yeah, I think so,' said Tony.

'Right, that'll be...' She began ringing up figures on the till. '...£4.75, please.'

Al handed over his five pound note. She took it, found the change, almost threw their purchases into a bag and handed it to them. The she was leaning on the counter and looking down at them as though she never wanted to see them here again.

'Good day,' she said through gritted teeth. 'I hope your friend enjoys her present.'

They mumbled their thanks and backed away, not daring to turn their backs on her until they were out of sight. They almost ran for the exit, glad to be away from her, glad to be away from the whole shop.

'Man, am I glad that's over!' said Al as they strode down the concourse towards the Italian place and another round of Cokes—this time, courtesy of the money they had left. 'You know, I think she thought we were mad,'

'No,' said Jon, 'I think she thought Tony's sister was mad.'

'Well, she is, isn't she?'

They laughed, felt the last knot of tension being finally untied.

'But we've done it, that's the main thing,' said Al. 'We've got all we need to get started. The next step, Spike, is down to you.'

'Yes,' he said quietly. 'As you say, the next step is down to me.'

EIGHT

'OW!'

Al plunged his thumb into his mouth, tasted blood and wondered for the second time that afternoon if this really was such a Great Idea, after all.

'Are you all right?' said Spike.

'No! Stucka needoo immee fum!'

'Would someone care to elucidate?'

'He said he stuck his needle in his thumb,' said Jon. 'What's up, Spike? Don't you understand plain English?'

'Sorry. Need new batteries in the Universal Translator—you know how it is. Is it bad?'

Al yanked his thumb out and squinted at it. 'Nah, just a bit painful, that's all.'

'Well, just be more careful. It's like my sewing teacher said: you treat the needle as you would a girl, as something deserving of a little respect.'

'Yeah?' said Tony. 'He's obviously never met my sister.'

They laughed, went on with their sewing. The sooner they got this over with, the sooner they could get down to doing something more worthwhile.

They were in Tony's bedroom, had been there since getting in from school. It was their first sewing lesson, and not wishing to use for practice the material on which they had spent so much money and embarrassment, they had all managed to quietly borrow some scraps of material from somewhere. All except Eddie, who had just come straight out and asked his mum for some. And his mum, being his mum and therefore not even remotely interested in what he might be up to, just handed some over. No questions asked. Sometimes, there were advantages in having less-than-loving parents.

As for the rest of them, Al's had come from his mother's rag-bag, the sack of odd bits of material she used for dusters and mopping up spillages and the like. Jon had raided his clothes drawers, his own mother having the annoying habit of never throwing anything out even after it had long since ceased to fit him. One old T-shirt was enough. And Tony? He'd raided his sister's clothes drawers. Her favourite denim skirt should be enough, he reckoned. He also reckoned his days on this Earth were now seriously numbered.

'Right!' said Spike. 'Let's have a look at what you've done.'

They handed him their bits of sewn material. And they were just bits at this stage, to give them, as Spike had said, the feel of the needle and some practice at stitching.

'Not bad,' he said as he surveyed their handiwork. 'You've all got the general idea but...'

'But what?' said Al. 'It looks okay, don't it?'

'Indeed it does. But remember that this is only what we call tacking, just rough stitching to hold the material together before we get to the proper stuff. And you have to admit that what you've done here is _very_ rough.'

'Yeah? And?'

'And unless you want your rats to fall apart with the first fork being stuck into them, you'll need something a little more substantial to keep them together.'

'An' I thought it was just gonna be a case of a few stitches here an' there,' Tony grumbled as he held up the remains of his sister's skirt.

'Far from it, I fear,' said Spike. 'If it's going to be done, it's got to be done properly.'

'He's got a point, guys,' said Al dejectedly. 'No use us making them if they ain't gonna do the job. So what do you suggest?'

'Something called a backstitch. It's fairly simple and strong enough for your purpose, provided it's done properly.'

'Provided it's done properly,' Al repeated dryly. 'And you really think we're up to that?'
'Of course! Here, let me show you...'

He picked up a needle and a scrap of rag. Then, explaining each step as he went, he passed the needle through the material three times in the same place to form an anchor point and started sewing. It looked easy enough. He sewed a full stitch, then doubled back and inserted the needle half a stitch length back, then forward another full stitch, back another half-stitch...forward a full stitch...back a half-stitch. And so he went on—forward...back...forward...back—until he had a neat line of overlapping thread running along the rag.

'There you are!' he said, holding it up for all to see. 'Backstitching in one easy lesson.'

They clustered round, squinting at it as though he'd just performed some amazing magical trick.

'Nothing to it when you see it being done,' said Jon, a note of awe in his voice.

'And that being the case, I suggest you get cracking and see for yourselves how easy it is.'

They got cracking. It was easy, too. Even Eddie was managing to create a line of stitching that looked reasonably straight, even perfectly straight if he bent the material a little.

'This is going okay,' he said, obviously more than a little pleased with himself.

'Indeed it is,' said Spike, looking over his efforts and actually managing to find something to admire. 'You learn quickly.'

'Hey, thanks!'

'What about the rest of us?' said Al, not wanting to be left out. 'How are we doing?'

Spike cast a glance over each of their rags. 'Not bad,' he said approvingly. 'Not bad at all. You all seem to have caught on very quickly. Keep going. Get some practice in while you can.'

They kept going, all four of them bent over their work like they'd found a new career and wanted to make the best of it.

'Guess what, guys,' said Al. 'We're...' He hesitated, glanced questioningly at Spike. 'What do you call people who do sewing?'

'For a living?'

'Yeah, what do you call people who do sewing for a living?'

'I believe the correct term is seamstress,' said Spike.

'That's us, then. We're all seamstresses.'

'Sorry to disappoint you,' said Spike, 'but I rather think not.'

'Well, okay, so we ain't doin' it for the money but—'

'Oh no, it's not that. If you were female then you'd be a seamstress. But seeing as you're male, you'd be a tailor.'

'I thought a woman tailor was a tailoress.'

'No,' said Spike patiently, 'seamstress.'

'So then a male seamstress isn't a seamster.'

'Look at it this way, I don't somehow think you'll find the word in a dictionary.'

'Never use them,' said Tony. 'Dictionaries, I mean.'

'Philistine! A greater storehouse of knowledge would be hard to find.'

'Yeah, well, you _need_ to use them, don't you?' said Jon.

'Do I, now! And why should that be, I wonder.'

''Cos of the way you talk. You need all them words 'cos you talk different to what we do.'

'Really? I can't say I'd noticed...'

'Oh, come on!' said Al. 'You listen to you an' then you listen to us. You talk totally different. Personally, I think you do it on purpose.'

'I probably do ham it up a little, I have to admit,' said Spike wistfully. 'Why? Does it cause you any problems?'

'Nah, we all do it from time to time. We did it when we shoved you down the bog that time, talked as rough as we could.'

'Yes, I rather thought you did. I couldn't believe that anyone could really speak in such a way.'

'My dad does,' said Eddie brightly. 'Sometimes, he talks so bad, me mum don't understand a word he's saying.'

'Yeah but that's only when he's drunk,' said Jon.

'No, no! He does, he really talks like that! Sort of cuts bits off his words an' stuff like that.'

'It does happen,' said Spike ruefully. 'And with increasing frequency, I'm rather afraid. There's a term for it, I believe: Estuary English.'

'Estuary English,' Al repeated, puzzled. 'Why estuary?'

'Because the speech is like the water you find in a river estuary—shallow, not very clear and flowing lazily through a wide mouth.'

'Yeah, that's me dad all right,' said Eddie.

'Such disrespect,' said Spike. 'Do you really harbour such negative feelings towards your father?'

'You ain't met his dad,' said Al.

'Yes but even so...'

'An' you should see him when he's drunk,' said Jon.

'But—'

'Or had his dole cut off,' said Tony.

'No, my dad ain't much,' said Eddie, interrupting them all. 'He spends more time on the dole than he does in work, an' what money he does get, he spends more in the pub than he does on us. So no, I don't like him much.'

Al looked across at his friend bent over his sewing, feeling genuine pity for him. Eddie didn't have much going for him. He wasn't especially bright or good-looking. And on top of all that, it seemed he had his family to contend with. People who should be there when he needed them but were not, never would be while they submerged themselves in the only meaningless existence they knew or even aspired to, and that was probably the greater tragedy. But he had his friends, the three of them—no, now the _four_ of them—and that, he knew, they all knew, would always make up for a lot.

'What's _your_ dad like, Spike?' he said, wrenching his gaze away.

'What is my dad like?' He repeated the question slowly, as though pondering how best to answer it. 'Well, he doesn't get drunk, doesn't get his dole cut off and he enunciates perfect English.'

'That don't exactly tell us much. Come on, what's he like, what's he really like?'

'Probably much like your own fathers in many ways, I should guess, always under the delusion that they know best.'

'Don't we know it?' said Jon. 'If my old man found out about even half of what I get up to, he'd do his crust.'

'You're lucky to even get the chance to do something in the first place.'

'Why?' said Al. 'Does your dad keep you under his thumb or something?'

'Let's just say that nothing escapes him.'

'That bad, huh?'

'Yes, I sometimes wonder if he ever remembers he was young himself, once.'

'Some people are born old, that's what me nan says,' said Tony. 'They never know what it's like to act like a kid, they're too busy trying to be grown up.'

'Wise words,' Spike mused. 'You would do well to remember them.'

'So what about your teachers?' said Eddie. 'I've always wondered what teachers at a posh school were like.'

'My teachers? Much the same as teachers everywhere, I imagine, always under the delusion—'

'—that they know best,' Al finished for him, and they laughed.

'I think they are the way they are because of what they have to teach,' said Spike. 'It can't be much fun churning out the same nonsense lesson after lesson.'

'Yeah, it's crap, all right,' said Al. 'Don't know why they bother, half the time.'

'I have an older cousin,' said Spike, 'left school a few years ago and went on to college then university. He's working now—something in the City, I believe—and he told me not so long ago that he's never used most of what he was taught in school. Basic numeracy and literacy skills, yes, but nothing else of any real consequence.'

'Makes you wonder why we need to go to school in the first place,' said Eddie.

'Oh, as a learning institution, school's fine in theory. It's what they teach in it that's so often questionable.'

'What does your cousin reckon on that one, Spike?' said Al. 'What does he think they should be teaching us?'

'He has clear ideas on the subject. School should indeed teach us how to read and write and add up, but it should also be preparing us for life, for the world we live in.'

'He got that one right,' said Jon. 'Don't see me ever needing the History and Economics of Cocoa Production in Africa for any job I'm likely to get.'

'You were taught _that_?'

'In Geography. For a whole term.'

'Then I imagine you all know what I mean. No, my cousin would much rather we were taught things like modern politics, comparative religion, economic theory—the kinds of things that might help make us better able to understand the world and form our own judgements on it.'

'Maybe there's some reason why they don't,' Al offered.

'Ah, now, one of my friends has a theory about that. He considers that we're taught what we're taught in order to make us fit to serve as a cog in someone's great machine and no more. Factory fodder, he calls it.'

'He could be right,' said Jon. 'If you started to think for yourself, you might start to understand things your boss probably wouldn't want you to.'

'Or the Government,' said Al, 'don't forget the Government. After all, it's them what sets the curriculum.'

'Hey, now we're getting into conspiracy theories,' said Tony.

'And who's to say it ain't true, even so? Ain't you ever wondered _why_ we have to learn the stuff we're told to learn? There could be a reason for it.'

'Well, it's what my friend thinks,' said Spike, 'for what it's worth.'

'Since we're talking about your friends,' said Al, 'what are they like?'

'Again, pretty much the same as yours, I imagine, with the same hopes and dreams, and the same fears.'

'You mean they've got big sisters, too!' Tony quipped.

'Some. But none, I'll wager, quite like yours.'

'That's a relief,' said Al with feeling. 'So what else can you tell us about them?'

Spike thought for a moment, as though he was having some difficulty finding the right words.

'Nothing much, really,' he said at length. 'Nothing of any real value, anyway. You'd have to meet them to get a real idea of what they're—'

He stopped, gazing blankly into space. The others looked at him, then at each other, wondering if being with them had finally got to him.

'You okay?' said Al.

'Yes,' he said vaguely. 'Yes, I'm fine. I have just had the most extraordinary flash of inspiration.'

'What, use a sewing-machine?' said Jon, holding up his piece of rag and looking at it ruefully.

'No, no! My friends!'

'What about them?'

'You want to know what they're like, why don't you all come and meet them?'

They glanced at each other again: yep, being with them _had_ got to him.

'Are you serious!' said Al. 'What makes you think they'd want to hang out with guys like us?'

Spike sighed. 'You know, this snobbery you suffer from is really most tiresome.'

'Snobbery! Me! But it's them what's got the money!'

'And who is creating the social barrier because of that money?' said Spike reasonably.

Al needed a moment to take that one in. 'You mean... _I'm_ the snob in this one?'

'It cuts both ways. There are those in the world who take a positive delight in acting like a slob, who refuse manners or cultured behaviour in any shape or form.'

'I see we're back to me dad,' said Eddie.

'I'm not saying, of course, that you're anything like a slob,' Spike went on, 'but just because someone seems to have a little more in the way of material wealth than you or speaks with a little more refinement, is that any reason to avoid them? After all, they're just the same as you underneath.'

'You mean when they fart, they still make a smell,' said Jon.

'Succinct, if a little coarse. But I'm serious, come and meet them. I'm sure you'll find the experience most instructive.'

Al looked round at them all, they at him. Then they were nodding and murmuring vague agreement.

'Fine,' said Spike. 'I'll take it as settled, then. Just leave it to me to arrange it.'

After that, there didn't seem to be much left to say. A silence descended over them as they went on with their sewing. It was Tony who broke it.

'Spike,' he said, 'when you called me a Philistine just now...'

'Ye-e-s.'

'...well, what _is_ a Philistine?'

Spike smiled. 'Look it up in a dictionary.'

NINE

'Now, remember what I told you,' Spike warned. 'Pay attention in Cookery this morning.'

They groaned.

'Do we have to?' said Jon.

'If you want to lull Miss Palmer into a false sense of security then yes. Sorry and all that but that's the way it is. Remember, if you want her to sample your creations, you have to make them look and taste worthy of the effort.'

'He's right, guys,' said Al. 'If we want to pull this off, she has to do what we want her to do.'

'Exactly!' said Spike. 'So, all eyes and ears this morning. Okay?'

'Yeah, yeah, okay,' said Jon. 'It just don't seem right, that's all, doing the exact opposite of what we've been trying to do for so long.'

'You'll get used to it.'

They passed into the classroom and their lesson. Miss Palmer was already there. She didn't speak, just watched them warily as they took their places.

'Now that we're all finally here,' she said, 'perhaps we can get started. Now, as I intimated last week, this lesson will be concerned with the finer points of making a sponge cake.'

She paused, waiting for the inevitable groan, but none came.

'What, no howls of protest?' she asked sarcastically. She looked pointedly at Al. 'Not even from you, Alex Bristow?'

'No, a cake's okay, Miss,' he said.

'I'm so glad you approve. And what has brought about this sudden change of heart?'

'Me mum's just bought a dog.'

'Your point being?' said Miss Palmer, puzzled.

'It'll eat anything, even what you teach us to make.'

The class burst out laughing. Al glanced at the others. The look said it all. Nice one!

'Yes, very amusing,' Miss Palmer was saying above the laughter. 'And it's not how I teach it but how you learn it that counts. So, to cake making—and in particular, sponge cake making. The first thing you have to remember with a sponge is getting air into the mixture, and the best way to achieve this...'

She droned on enthusiastically about the technicalities of folding the mixture as opposed to mixing it. Al stifled a yawn and glanced at the others. Eddie seemed to be paying attention, but with Eddie, as many teachers knew only too well to their discomfort, paying attention and taking it all in were not quite the same thing.

Jon, too, wore an expression of rapt attention, perhaps too rapt for his liking, and he hoped his friend wouldn't blow it by playing his new role _too_ well.

As for Tony, well, he wore that same faintly haunted look they had come to know so well, legacy of a continuing war with no hope of peaceful resolution. As a result, no one could ever tell what he was thinking. That could be useful, sometimes.

That left only Spike. He had always afforded their various teachers the courtesy of at least looking interested in what they were saying, and this time was no exception. He just stood there silent, part of all this but not part of all this, their Trojan in the camp and ace up their sleeve. It didn't matter what expression he wore: Miss would never suspect him of anything.

'...Now, this time,' Miss was saying, 'rather than pairing off as usual, I want each of you to tackle this one on your own. Folding is an art and one that can only be mastered with a degree of practice. And some of you,' she added, looking pointedly at Al again, 'will need rather more than others. Okay, get cracking.'

Al reached for a mixing bowl and began to set his ingredients out in a neat row beside it. Flour, margarine, milk, eggs, sugar—it was all there, just what was he expected to do with it? He thought he remembered something about starting with the marge and sugar so he lobbed them into the bowl and set about them with a fork, mashing them together into a faintly creamy paste that looked as though it might be right. He hoped so, anyway.

So what was next? Eggs. He cracked one over the side of the bowl and dribbled its contents onto the paste then checked to see that no pieces of shell had escaped to cause a nasty surprise later. This he repeated with the other egg then swirled them into the paste until it looked no longer faintly creamy but faintly gooey.

That left only the milk—no, the milk and the flour, both to be added and mixed in small quantities until the right consistency was reached. But just what _was_ the right consistency?...And how did he know when he'd made the right amount of mixture, when to stop adding?...And then there was all this folding stuff Miss had been going on about...And—

'Having problems, Alex Bristow?'

He blinked, looked up. 'Uh...what makes you think that, Miss?'

'You seem to have come to a complete stop, that's what.' She stepped round the table to stand beside him, to look down at the bowl and his efforts so far. 'So what are you waiting for?'

'Uh—' Think, you fool! '—I'm not sure if this is right, Miss. Looks a bit thin to me.'

'As if you would know!' She picked up the fork and gave the mixture a couple of swirls. 'It's fine—always assuming, of course, that you've left the shells out this time.'

'Yeah, I've left them out, Miss.'

'You're slipping. So what comes next?'

'Er...the milk and flour?'

'Very good!' she said sarcastically. 'And what brings you to that brilliant deduction?'

''Cos that's all I've got left.'

'I knew there had to be simple explanation. Okay, let's see you add the milk and flour.'

Panic! Sudden, gut-wrenching panic! He knew he'd have to pay attention to her in class, like Spike had said, but he hadn't banked on her paying attention to him.

'Uh...you mean now, Miss?'

'Now is as good a time as any. Why? Do you have a problem with this particular point in the space/time continuum?'

'Uh...no...I just—'

'Don't tell me,' she said, 'you weren't listening!

'Yes I was—!'

'God, I knew it was too good to be true!' She grabbed the bowl, yanked the fork out and tossed it onto the table then rapped out a single word. 'Watch!'

She slopped a little milk into the marge and egg and sugar goo then picked up the flour and sprinkled a light dusting over it. Then she picked up a plastic spatula and, holding it like a knife, cut down the centre of the mixture, turned the spatula on its side and sliced under one half and folded it over into the cut. Then she turned the bowl through 90 degrees and repeated the operation. And so it went on—flour, cut, fold, turn, flour, cut, fold, turn—until the mixture began to look a little less gooey, a little more solid, even a little more like a cake mixture was supposed to look. She stopped and looked down at him.

'There! Do you think you can manage that?'

Without waiting for an answer, she dropped the spatula into the bowl and walked off, leaving him to stare down at it in wonder. She'd made it look so easy! But could he manage the same? Only one way to find out...

He sprinkled some flour into the mixture. Careful...Not too much. Then he took the spatula in his hand and sliced the mixture in just the way he'd seen Miss do it. Was that right? It certainly looked the same as when Miss did it, he had to admit. So how about if he just slid the spatula under...and lifted it...and folded it _Plop!_ right over on itself, right into the middle of the cut. Just as Miss had done. Even exactly as Miss had done. Damn, I'm good!

You know, he thought as he swivelled the bowl for a second try, this is easy...

Out in the playground, they crowded round Spike, looking hopefully at him and waiting for him to pronounce judgement on their efforts.

'Well? How'd we do?' Al asked for all of them.

He frowned. 'Well, apart from Alex's little dig at Miss Palmer right at the beginning of the lesson—'

'Hey, it had to be done.'

'—I think you did very well. All of you. You will observe that Miss Palmer seemed surprised at your not disrupting her lesson for a change. That's a start and a good one.'

'Yeah, we didn't exactly go over the top, did we?' said Jon. 'Just gave her a little lip an' stuff.'

'Well, now I think about it, you probably do have to keep up the cheek and back-answering. Lose those and she'll likely start to wonder what's going on.'

'I'm all for that,' said Al. 'An' what about what we made? Was that okay, do you reckon?'

'Actually,' said Spike, 'I have to say I was most impressed by your efforts.'

'Yeah?'

'Indeed. Even Edward managed to produce something that did not turn out with the consistency of a house brick.'

'It weren't nothin',' said Eddie sheepishly. 'I just did what Miss told us.'

'Even so, if I didn't know any better, I'd have said you were all accomplished students of your art.'

They shuffled about uneasily, embarrassed by these unaccustomed words of praise.

'So, that's that part of the plan up and running,' said Al, wanting to change the subject. 'We've got the sewing part of it going. We know what we're going to put in the rats—'

'Do we?' said Jon.

'—Yeah, we do. Mince, remember?'

'When did we decide that?'

'Miss told us we're going to be doing things with mince over the next few weeks and to come prepared. Weren't you listening?'

'Sorry, old habits die hard.'

'I can dig that,' said Al. 'So she teaches us how to cook mince an' we do just what she wants us to. Then we use it against her—yeah?'

'You know,' said Spike, 'there's a certain delicious irony in that.'

'You said it. Okay, what else?—Oh yeah, I remember! Spike, we're doing okay with the rats' bodies an' that but what about the legs and eyes? What are we gonna use for those?'

'I had already given the matter due consideration. For the eyes, you'll be using small, black buttons; for the legs, small pipe cleaners suitably bent into shape.'

'Buttons!' Tony groaned. 'Oh God, not another trip to that department store! If my sister ever finds out—'

'Fear not,' said Spike, 'I can bring some from my mother's supply. She's rather fond of sewing, herself. She won't notice if a few suddenly vanish. As for the pipe cleaners, we can get those from most corner shops.

'Excellent stuff,' said Al. 'Okay, is there anything else we haven't thought about?'

'I've been wondering something,' said Eddie. 'When we do this for real, how are we gonna slip our rats into our dishes without her noticing? Nobody's said anything about that yet.'

'I've been thinking about that,' said Al. 'The way I see it is we've got to distract her in some way, maybe even find some way of getting her out of the classroom for a few minutes. Any ideas?'

'One of us could have some sort of accident,' Jon offered.

'I've already thought about that one. Trouble is, which one of us should it be? I mean, whoever's gonna have this "accident" will be taken to the secretary's office for treatment—you know what this school's like for covering itself—an' then they'll miss out on all the fun.'

'True enough,' said Jon, 'but I don't see any other way.'

'Well, are _you_ gonna be the one?'

'Uh...no.'

'Exactly!' Al looked at Tony and Eddie. 'What about you guys?'

A shaking of heads was all the answer he needed.

'So, no takers and I don't blame any of you. Like I said, good idea but out of the running.'

'If I might be permitted to interject at this juncture,' said Spike, 'you seem to have overlooked one major possibility.'

'Yeah?' said Al. 'Who?'

'Me! Perhaps it should be me to be the one to have this little "accident".'

'You? Are you serious?'

'Why not? After all, it's not exactly fraught with danger and she'd probably suspect something if it was one of you.'

'You mean she'd smell a rat,' said Eddie brightly, and they fell about laughing.

'Well, if you're sure,' said Al. 'I didn't ask you 'cos I didn't want to get you in any deeper than you needed to be, you being on this exchange thing an' all that.'

'I rather think, actually, that I'm already in this little escapade up to my neck and beyond,' said Spike. 'And as the saying goes, one might as well be hung for stealing a sheep as a lamb.'

'Okay,' Al shrugged, 'I guess that's sorted, then. Now, anything else?'

No one answered. There should have been more to discuss but everyone was silent, was silent and looking over Al's shoulder at something behind him. He spun round, expecting to see a teacher standing there eavesdropping. But it wasn't a teacher, it was someone else, someone to make him almost wish it _was_ a teacher.

'Oh, hi, Max!' he said. But Max didn't answer. Max just pointed angrily at Spike.

'I thought I told you lot to bring 'im to me!' he said.

'Him? Oh yeah, so you did. Sorry, we sort of forgot.'

'I bet you did. Well, maybe I should give you summink to make you remember in future, then.'

Suddenly, Max was advancing on him, Al backing away with every step. He needed help. And it came. But from the unlikeliest of quarters.

'Please introduce us,' Spike was saying brightly. 'Always a pleasure to make the acquaintance of your compatriots.'

Mad Max stopped advancing to look Spike up and down. 'Wot'd you say?' he said blankly.

'I said I'd be delighted to make your acquaintance. Any friend of Alex must surely be a worthy addition to one's social circle.'

'Wot?'

'He says he's pleased to meet you,' said Al, seizing on this lifeline his friend had thrown him.

'Then why didn't 'e just say so?' Max turned to face Spike squarely, to tower over him threateningly. 'You got a lot o' fancy talk in you, mate, you know that?'

'Do you really think so?' said Spike, affecting innocent surprise. 'Well, my verbosity may surpass the norm for this educational establishment, I'll grant, but not to any marked degree. I mean, one makes oneself understood, surely.'

Mad Max didn't answer, just stood there trying to make sense of something, but whether of Spike or merely what he was saying, they couldn't tell.

'So,' he went on, 'may I introduce myself? The name's Pike, Sebastian Pike, though everyone seems to call me Spike—a sobriquet much more to my liking, be it added.'

He held out his hand. Max took it tentatively, as had the others before him. And like those others, he seemed unsure what to do with it.

'Yerr an' I'm—I'm Max,' he said uncertainly.

'I take it that that is not your given name,' said Spike.

'Nah, I got others. I don't use 'em, though.'

'Indeed. Max and Spike—one might almost say we have something in common, ours names being perverted thus.'

''Oo are you callin' perverted?' Max shouted. He stepped forward, fists clenched.

'No offence, old boy,' said Spike, standing his ground and not looking in the least bit intimidated. 'Just a figure of speech and all that.'

'Yeah?...Well, don't you go doin' any more figurin', okay? I don't like it.'

'A shame,' said Spike. 'I was so enjoying our conversation, too.'

'Uh...you was?' said Max. This was something new to him, someone actually wanting to speak to him.

'Indeed. I mean to say, it isn't every day one encounters such a masterly command of the English language.'

'Uh?'

'Oh, yes! Such barbarous desolation of structure, such economy of use of even the most basic tenets of grammar—a veritable feast to the auricular senses.'

'D'yer really fink so?' said Max, sounding as though he was thoroughly enjoying all this apparent flattery. Then he was hesitating, was stepping forward again, fists clenched as before. ''Ere, you ain't takin' the piss, are you?'

'As though that were a wise move,' said Spike. 'No, be assured you have the eloquence of Philistine.'

'Cor, fanks, mate!' said Max, his face lighting up. 'See yer later.'

He walked off, an unusual spring in his step. The others crowded round Spike, unable to believe what they had just witnessed.

'He fell for it!' said Jon. 'He actually fell for it!'

'Yes,' said Spike, 'it's remarkable what a few well-chosen words can achieve in an unpleasant situation.'

'Do you suppose he knows what a Philistine actually is?' said Al.

'I doubt it. I frankly doubt that he'd even know his own name without checking the nametag in his underpants from time to time. Strange friends you have.'

'He's no friend of ours,' said Tony.

'No friend of anyone's, come to that,' said Al.

'Which probably explains why he is the way he is.'

'Talking of friends,' said Al, 'didn't you say we'd be meeting yours some time?'

'So I did! How are you all fixed for Saturday?'

'I think we're okay,' said Al, glancing at the others. 'Can you arrange it?'

'I can arrange it. Saturday it is.'

TEN

'How are your legs, Jon?'

'Still there when I last looked.'

'Berk! What I meant was are you up for this?'

'If I wasn't, Al, I wouldn't be here.'

They were sitting astride their bikes, sitting astride them and waiting. They'd been there some time now, the edge of their estate the agreed meeting place, the hour of 1 o'clock the agreed time. But though the two of them were there, the others were not, and this rankled a little.

'Where are they?' Al said testily. 'I told them to be here by one this afternoon, not tomorrow morning.'

'Well, you know what Eddie's bike is like,' said Jon. 'Something's bound to have fallen off and needed putting back on.'

Al nodded understanding, knowing only too well the truth in that. With no money to buy a bike and no hope of earning any, Eddie had done the next best thing and built one. They'd helped out between them, of course, let him have what parts they could spare and he'd scrounged or stolen the rest. The result, while it would never win the Tour de France, worked well enough. After a fashion. With so many parts from so many sources, things had the habit of working loose. There was always something that needed attention...

'Better do something about those brakes,' he murmured reflectively.

'You mean before he kills someone?' said Jon, hearing him.

'Or himself.'

They heard a shout and looked up to see two bicycles coasting down the hill towards them. They were slowing, one more quickly than the other, that other accompanied by the sound of much scraping of shoe on tarmac. It scraped right on past them, eventually coming to a stop down the road. Al watched dispassionately: _definitely_ better do something about those brakes.

'Hey, that was great!' said Tony, his face flushed with the thrill of speed. 'Is it like that all the way to Spike's?'

'I hope not,' said Eddie, who'd wrenched his bike round and was wheeling it back to join his friends. 'Me mum's only just bought these trainers.'

'Relax,' said Jon, 'I know this road. Up and down all the way. An' no down as long or as steep as that one.'

'Where have you two been?' said Al. 'It's way past one.'

'Uh...sorry,' said Tony. 'That's me.'

'Alarm trouble?'

'No, sister trouble.'

'You don't want to hear this,' said Eddie. 'He's told me what happened an' you do not want to hear it.'

'Yes we do,' said Jon. 'What did you do to her this time?'

'I left another dog poo on her bed.'

'Man, are you ever original!' said Al. 'Did she fall for it again?'

'No, she picked it up.'

'See? You can only fool them once with a trick.'

'Yeah but this one wasn't quite the same trick.'

Al said nothing. He could almost see it coming.

'You see,' Tony went on, 'this time, the dog poo was a real one.'

Silence. They were all staring at him. Even Eddie, who'd heard this ghastly tale already. Then Al was speaking, giving voice to what they all were thinking.

'I think we'd better get out of here,' he said. 'Brains here just started World War Three.'

They needed no second bidding and were soon rolling, pedalling like fury away from the familiar housing estate that now seemed to spell certain doom and towards the welcoming unknown of the countryside.

'Is it far?' Al puffed as he struggled to keep up.

'About four miles,' Jon puffed back.

'Why are we going so fast?' Eddie yelled from somewhere behind.

'Ask him,' said Jon, nodding ahead. 'Oi! You with us?'

Tony looked back from his bike. 'Come on! You want to get there or what?'

'Slow down!' Al yelled. 'We got all day, ain't we?'

Tony slowed down to allow them to catch up.

'What's the matter?' said Al as he drew level. 'Afraid she's gonna magically appear behind us?'

'You never know with her,' said Tony.

'Why?' said Jon. 'Has she got a bike?'

'No, a broomstick.'

They laughed and settled down to an easier pace. The day was fine, with bright blue sky marred only by the odd puff of white, and it was warm. This was not the first time they had been out cycling together. Many a day in the summer holidays had been spent panting up hill and freewheeling down dale, their time their own, their destination often barely considered. It was enough to be out and about and in each other's company.

'Hey,' said Jon, 'remember the time we rode out to that village an' found that doctor's surgery?'

The others grinned: they remembered all right. It was a day much like this one and they'd set out to the south of the town, a previously untried area that begged exploration. They'd stumbled across this village, ridden through it once and found nothing of interest, then ridden through it a second time and still found nothing of interest, and they'd begun to wonder how the people here could possibly survive without a shopping mall to hang about in or a burger joint to eat in.

It was as they were sitting there astride their bikes and discussing this when they saw it, the most curious sight of a traffic cone on the flat roof of the doctor's surgery. How it had got there, they didn't know, but being public spirited, they decided they couldn't possibly allow it to remain there. So they climbed up onto this roof and retrieved it, and having retrieved it, they discovered something rather interesting about traffic cones: they came in two parts, the inner solid part that keeps it upright and the outer flimsy part that reflects car headlights. And that outer flimsy part, Al quickly discovered, made a rather fetching hat.

So they rode around this village-without-a-burger-joint for a while, Al with his makeshift hat perched on his head like some crazy dunce's cap. And they would have continued to ride around had it not been for the sudden sight of a police patrol car bearing down on them. Al had no time to remove his dunce's cap but the car swept past without stopping, the driver just looking at them.

'It's okay,' Tony had said, 'he ain't interested in us.'

But he was wrong. The car got to the end of the road and swung round, went past them again...and stopped. Someone in a uniform got out, a uniform that was not entirely unknown to them in their various travels.

'Afternoon, lads,' it had said. 'Out for a bike ride?'

It was an obvious question so they gave the obvious answer. Then the uniform had pointed to Al's head.

'Nice hat. Where'd you find it?'

'Oh, just...somewhere.'

'So it doesn't actually belong to you.'

'Er...no,' Al had said. 'I guess not.'

'Then I suggest you put it back where you found it.'

Put it back, they'd mused when he was gone. Okay. Fine. They went back to the doctor's surgery, found the rest of the traffic cone, reassembled it and climbed back up onto the roof. It was only as they were making ready to climb back down that they'd noticed a rather familiar uniform looking up at them...

'Yeah,' said Al wistfully, 'that was a good day.'

'We were lucky, though,' said Jon. 'Do you suppose he believed us?'

'What, when we told him we was only doing what he'd asked us to do? Well, look at it this way, he didn't exactly arrest us, did he?'

'No, he didn't that. Just took our names and addresses and sent us on our way.'

'I was almost pissing myself for weeks after that,' said Eddie. 'Every time someone knocked on our front door, I thought it was the local bill come to pick me up.'

'Yeah, well,' said Al, 'we know better now, don't we?'

There was a chorus of Yeahs and You bets. Al pushed harder on his pedals.

'Come on!' he yelled. 'I'll race you!'

Three bicycles seemed to surge forward in response as they tried to keep up with their leader. They raced down narrow lanes lined with hedgerows, across deserted road junctions without even slowing, panted up one long hill, walked their bikes up the next then reached the summit and stopped. In the valley below lay their destination.

'We're there,' said Jon.

'About time, too,' said Tony with feeling.

'You said it!' said Al. 'Last stretch and it's downhill all the way. Let's go.'

They went, racing down that long gentle hill and into the village, past the thatched cottages and wooden fences, past the rose gardens and ivy-covered trees. And there, standing by the village green, was Spike. They swung into line, one behind the other, and coasted in to a perfect stop before him. Except, of course, Eddie who sailed past and dragged to a halt just short of the village pond.

'You made it!' said Spike, genuinely pleased to see them. 'And all that way!'

'No distance,' said Al, climbing off his saddle. 'Nothing compared to what we've done in the past.'

'Well, I'm delighted you're here. Did you have a good journey?'

'Had worse,' He glanced round at the village lining the green, at picture-perfect cottages and a total lack of movement. 'Quiet, ain't it?'

'It is that. Sometimes a little too quiet.'

'I believe it. So where are your friends, the ones you wanted us to meet?'

'Oh, they'll be along presently. I sent them off to the village shop to stock up on food and drink.'

'Food and drink,' Eddie repeated, wheeling his bike back from the pond. 'Any burgers?'

'Sorry, only cake and Coke. Will that do?'

'Ignore him,' said Al. 'Of course it'll do.'

He shivered as he finished speaking, glanced over his shoulder. But there was nothing there. Nothing but silence and stillness. It certainly was quiet here. And he wasn't used to it.

'So what are we gonna do this afternoon?' he said, dragging his gaze back.

'Do?' said Spike. 'Well, I hadn't actually thought we'd do anything. It's a pleasant afternoon, we have sustenance on its way—why don't we just sit and talk? I mean, we don't actually have to _do_ anything, do we?'

'Sounds good to me,' said Tony, lying back and stretching out luxuriously on the grass.

'I'm with the brother,' said Jon. Eddie just shrugged and went to join them. Al shook his head.

'I can't handle this,' he said. 'I mean, when we're in town, there's loads of stuff to do.'

'Most of which one has to pay for,' said Spike. 'And the only reason it's provided for you is because someone is after your money. Believe me, there's no altruism in the entertainment industry.'

'I can dig that,' said Jon, lying flat on his back to take the sun. 'Come on, Al, it'll be good to do something that don't involve games arcades.'

'Yeah, I guess so.' He slumped down on the grass. 'It'll be a change not having burgers, too, I guess.'

'But I like burgers,' Eddie grumbled softly.

'Well, you got cake instead,' said Al. He looked up at Spike. 'Where have your friends got to?'

Spike didn't answer. He didn't need to. Strolling down the road towards them were three figures, all about their age and all laden with what seemed to be half the stock of the village shop.

'Uh...who's paying for this little lot?' said Al uncertainly.

'Oh, we all chipped in,' said Spike lightly. 'As our guests, you must allow us to treat you.'

It was an offer they simply couldn't refuse, not least because none of them had thought to bring any money along with them.

The three newcomers joined them. Introductions were made, hands pumped all round. There was Craig, Andrew (Andy, please) and Geoff. Each of them spoke with that same refined cadence the gang had come to know so well. But if they were expecting airs and a sense of aloofness, they were to be pleasantly surprised. The three of them just sat down and began handing out food and drink, and Al quickly found he was just one of eight guys out for a picnic, talking about things in general, nothing in particular. And it seemed he was in for something of a shock...

'Your dad's a _what_?'

'A Refuse Collection Operative,' said Andy. 'Don't tell me you've never heard the term before.'

He hadn't and he couldn't somehow bring himself to admit that he hadn't. Then he noticed Spike grinning broadly and something seemed to click inside.

'Ah, this is a wind-up—right?'

'Not at all,' said Spike. 'Andy's dad is just what Andy says he is, a Refuse Collection Operative—dustman to you and me.'

He swung round, startled. 'You're joking! You go to a private school and your dad's a _dustman_?'

'Absolutely. He wanted me to have a good education so he decided I was going to have one.'

Al let go a low whistle. 'It must be costing him a fortune.'

'A pretty penny, I'll grant. But my mother also works and they live simply—council house in town, no car, no holidays—so they manage.'

'Obviously.'

For all his experience of the world so far, this was something new to him. He looked across at Eddie listening in rapt awe to Craig while ploughing through his second steak-and-kidney pie of the afternoon, and he wondered about his parents. His father a more frequent visitor to the pub than the Job Centre. His mother cold and unfeeling, there to provide meals but little else. And here was this dustman, with all his pride and dignity channelled into one noble end, that of working his hardest to give his only son the very best start in life he possibly could. It wasn't right: his friend deserved more. Come to that, probably a lot of kids deserved more, but with parents like Eddie's around, they would not be getting it. There was, it seemed to his young mind, no justice in the world...

He dragged himself back to reality, glanced sheepishly at Andy.

'So why the Refuse Collection Operative bit?' he said. 'Why not just tell me he's a dustman?'

Andy laughed. 'It's what the council like to call him. That is, believe it or not, his official job title.'

'Weird.'

'Weird but not unknown,' said Spike. 'It seems to be endemic in adults, making oneself out to be more than one actually is.'

'You said it,' said Al. 'Why do they do it, do you suppose?'

'Wish I knew,' said Andy. 'Craig's father is a bit like that.'

Hearing his name, Craig looked up. 'Someone call?'

'Your father,' said Spike. 'What does he do?'

'He's actually a Quantity Surveyor but that's not what he does. He's in Management and likes to let everyone know it.'

'You don't sound too impressed,' said Al.

'I'm not. He spends more time at his golf club than he does at home, he bullies my mother into going to dinner parties with company cronies she can't stand, and he insists I associate with only the "right" people—whatever _that_ means.'

'Right,' said Al. 'Is he really as bad as you say?'

'Absolutely. You only have to watch him to see that. At home, in his office, on the road—he has to be in charge, has to let everyone know he's in charge. But I know for a fact that no one takes a blind bit of notice of him.'

'No one?' said Al.

'No one,' said Craig. 'Even his so-called friends look at him and think _What a jerk!_ When it comes down to it, and he just won't see this, the only person my father is impressing is himself.'

They laughed grimly. Al said nothing: the mood was getting a little morbid for his liking.

'Anyone know any good jokes?' he said brightly.

'Yeah, me,' said Tony. 'Have you heard the one about...'

And so it went on, well into the afternoon, trading jokes and laughter, backgrounds and dreams. It was only when the shadows began to lengthen and after another trip to the village shop for more supplies that Al thought they ought to be taking their leave.

'Well, I've got to say,' he said as he swung back into his saddle, 'this has been the best afternoon we've had in a long time.'

'Glad you enjoyed it,' said Spike. 'I know we did.'

'I'd like to second that,' said Andy. 'If nothing more, we have a few new jokes to tell.'

'Even a few new _dirty_ jokes to tell,' Craig added, and they laughed again.

'Have a good journey back,' said Spike. 'See you Monday.'

'See you then,' said Al. 'See the rest of you guys some time, too.'

They pedalled away to a chorus of goodbyes, each of them feeling they had somehow participated in their own version of an exchange visit. They had laughed a lot and learned a lot more, and somehow, they would never look at the world in quite the same way again. And more importantly than all of that, they'd found that you don't need games arcades and burger joints in order to have a good time. Sometimes, all you need around you is a long afternoon and a few good friends...

ELEVEN

'God, my legs ache!' said Al as they walked up the corridor towards class.

'What is it?' said Spike. 'The ride out to me on Saturday a little too much for you?'

'Reckon it must have been. Funny, it wasn't as far as we've done in the past.'

'Out of condition you are, my friend.'

'Yeah, I must be at that. What about the rest of you guys? How are you doing?'

'I'm okay,' said Eddie.

'Yeah but you do a paper round every morning.'

'I'm all right,' said Tony.

'Yeah but you get exercise running from your sister.'

'I'm okay, too,' said Jon.

'You're just born lucky!'

'And I'm fine,' said Spike brightly.

They stopped in the middle of the corridor, rounding on him, glaring at him.

'Sorry,' he said. 'Couldn't resist it.'

'Next time,' said Al as they continued on their way, ' _you_ can cycle out to _us_.'

'Cycle be blowed. I'll just get Jeeves to run me down in the Roller.'

'Yeah, you do that. I s'pose you want us to be good boys in Cookery again?'

'That would be a good idea, I think you'll agree.'

'Still don't seem right,' Jon grumbled. 'I miss trying to muck it all up.'

'Like I say,' said Spike, 'you'll get used to it.'

'Yeah but—'

'Sshh!'—Al.

They stopped, all of them, looked at him. He seemed tense, alert.

'What wrong?' whispered Tony.

'Franklinstein! Just around the next corner.'

They listened. It was Franklinstein, too, her voice low, barely audible, speaking with the same quiet authority they had come to know only too well.

'Who's she talking to?' was the next low question.

'If you just listen, we'll find out.'

'...will certainly have my approval to take action if things don't improve,' she was saying. 'Just give it another week and we'll review the situation.'

'Thank you, Headmistress,' said another voice, one that was equally well known to them.

'Palm Trees!' Tony hissed unnecessarily.

'Sshh!' Al hissed back.

'Speaking of things improving,' said Mrs. Franklin, 'how are The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse?'

'The who?' whispered Al.

'I think she means you four,' Spike whispered back.

'Early days yet,' said Miss Palmer. 'I've had the pleasure of their company only once since you had your little word with them but I think they're beginning to settle down.'

'Hmm. I must admit I've heard nothing untoward from any of the other staff but I wouldn't put it past those four to be plotting something.'

'I'm not so sure. I hear that that exchange student has been spending time with them. Perhaps he's having some positive influence on their behaviour.'

'Them having a negative influence on him, more likely. Well, time will tell. Let me know if you have any more problems.'

'I'll certainly do that, Headmistress. Thank you.'

The voices stopped, leaving one sound of footsteps tapping smartly down the corridor in the direction of the Cookery class and another of a door being opened and closed softly. They crept forward and glanced round to check that the coast was clear.

'Was she talking about us?' said Tony.

'You can bet your sister's best blond wig she was,' said Al. 'Didn't you hear her saying something about Spike maybe being a good influence on us?'

'I sincerely hope I'm not,' said Spike.

'An' what's all this four horsemen bit?' said Eddie. 'What's that all about?'

Al went to answer, to say he didn't know, but Spike cut him short.

'Ask in Cookery,' he said earnestly. ' _Ask in Cookery_.'

'But...why?' said Al, puzzled.

'I have an idea. Just do it.'

They sauntered into the classroom, not late but also not trying to give the impression that they were hurrying.

'Glad you could find the time to join us,' said Miss Palmer dryly as they took their places. 'Now, has everyone come prepared?'

A vague murmur rose in reply.

'As enthusiastic as ever, I see,' she said. 'Now, before we get down to it, does anyone have any questions?'

Al raised a hand. That was his cue. 'I do, Miss,' he said.

'Yes, Alex Bristow.'

'What are The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse?'

For a moment, she seemed taken aback. It wasn't something related to Cookery and she would normally have thrown it out without even consideration, let alone answer. This time, she didn't, and they could pretty much guess why.

'That's an unusual question,' she said instead. 'Where did you hear the term?'

'Oh, I just...heard it. So what are they?'

'They're—'

'Perhaps you might permit me, Miss Palmer?' said another voice.

Miss Palmer snapped round to look at Spike, blinked back the shock of someone in her class actually offering to help her.

'Yes,' she said vaguely. 'Yes, all right, Sebastian. Tell us, what are The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse?'

'They are the mounted personifications of the four great plagues sent to burden mankind.'

'Just so,' said Miss Palmer. 'And what are those four great plagues?'

Spike glanced at Al before replying. The look said it all.

'Time, Death, War...and Cookery Teachers.'

The whole class burst out laughing. Al grinned across at his friend. That was awesome!

'Yes, Sebastian, very amusing,' said Miss Palmer above the laughter. 'Now, perhaps you will kindly give us the correct fourth horseman?'

'Certainly, Miss Palmer. It's Famine.'

'Correct. Famine. Singularly appropriate for this Cookery class, don't you think?'

It might have been a joke had it not been so tragically true. Either way, no one seemed to be laughing any more. She sighed and went on:

'Right, let's get down to it, shall we?'

They got down to it. As they already knew, they were doing something with mince today. It seemed Miss Palmer liked mince. Indeed, she had almost hinted as much when she listed the things that could be made with it, things like Shepherd's Pie or Spaghetti Bolognese or Chilli Con Carne—why, the list was almost endless. All told, she finished, a most versatile ingredient. Vastly underrated. Must be on a good whack from the mince industry, they all agreed later.

'...so,' she went on, 'any suggestions as to what we make with it today?'

She looked round the class. No one seemed about to offer any suggestions.

'Come on, someone must have some idea. What about you, Alex Bristow? You seem more than usually fond of the sound of your own voice this lesson so let's hear you exercise it in a more fruitful direction.'

Al just gazed at her blankly. 'Er...Er...'

He glanced round helplessly. No one was looking at him, no one ready to jump in with a surreptitious rescue, no one except...Spike? He was mouthing something, something that looked vaguely like the words—

'Shepherd's Pie!' he blurted. 'Let's try making Shepherd's Pie.'

'A sound suggestion,' said Miss Palmer, 'if a little unadventurous. I also seem to have neglected to ask the class to bring along potatoes for this lesson.'

'Yeah an' I forgot to bring a shepherd.'

'That's enough, Alex Bristow,' said Miss above laughter for the second time that morning. 'No, Shepherd's Pie is out.'

'We can make the meat bit, though, can't we, Miss?' said Jon.

For a moment, she seemed nonplussed, as though this was something that hadn't occurred to her.

'We could,' she said slowly.

'And it's simple,' Al persisted.

'It would have to be simple for you lot to make a success of it. All right, Shepherd's Pie it is—but without the pie. Pair off as usual.'

Al glanced round. Normally with any lesson that required their working in twos, the four of them would pair off together, but since Spike had joined the gang, they'd decided to take it in turns, one of them left out to pair off with whoever happened to be available. This time, it was Al's turn, and there seemed to be no one left. He didn't mind: there were, after all, worse ways to spend a cookery lesson. Then someone was stepping into view right in front of him. His eyes seemed unable to focus for a moment, as though unwilling to acknowledge what they were seeing.

'I don't have anyone,' said Keren, 'and neither do you, so how about you and me...you know...?'

Panic! He glanced about desperately, his eyes darting this way and that in the hope of finding someone else and therefore some way out of her clutches.

'I've already checked,' said Keren, 'and there is no one else. It's me or nothing.'

'Thanks,' he said. 'I'll take the nothing.'

She went to respond but another voice broke in first.

'What's going on here?'—Miss Palmer, bearing down on them like a battleship under full steam.

'Oh, nothing,' said Keren lightly. 'Alex here has just kindly offered to pair off with me.'

'Has he now?' said Miss Palmer suspiciously. 'I suppose he also offered to clear up afterwards, too.'

'Well, a _gentleman_ would, it's true.'

'I ain't no gentleman,' said Al.

'Never a truer word have you spoken, Alex Bristow,' said Miss Palmer. 'Go on. You've got your partner, now get on with it.'

They got on with it. With a sigh and much slamming down of ingredients on the table, they got on with it. Al was cross, and probably more with the one that had allowed himself to be tricked than the one that had done the tricking. This would not, he vowed silently, ever happen again.

'You slice the onion,' said Keren. 'I'll get the mince ready.'

'Miss ain't told us to slice any onions,' he growled. 'Ain't told us to slice anything, come to that.'

Keren sighed wearily. 'Weren't you listening earlier? Meat on its own can be a little bland. It needs flavouring. And onion is good for flavouring.'

'So's chocolate. You want me to chop up some of that as well?'

'Don't be ridiculous! Who'd ever think of using chocolate?'

'MacDonald's do.'

'In their burgers?'

'Well...no,' Al said grudgingly. 'Sprinkled on their ice cream, actually.'

'Well, then.'

Round One to her. While she busied herself with unwrapping their two portions of mince, he took the opportunity to check on how his friends were getting on. Tony was partnered with Spike who was arranging their ingredients in a neat row in order of use, while Jon was patiently explaining to Eddie that you don't put heat under a frying pan before you put oil in it.

'Hey, are you with me?'—Keren, standing before him with two opened trays of mince.

'You want something?' he said sullenly.

'Well, a pan warming over some heat might be useful.'

He reached round for a pan, slammed it down onto the cooker, sloshed some oil in it and yanked the heat on.

'Satisfied?'

'And the onion?'

Damn! The onion, he'd forgotten about the onion! He grabbed one and proceeded to chop it into thin slices. When he'd finished, he threw the knife onto the table and leaned on his hands, looking like he wanted to slice her up next.

'Onion,' he growled.

She looked down at it lying in several uneven slices on the chopping board. For some strange reason, she did not seem particularly impressed.

'It might be nice if you'd peeled it first,' she observed dryly.

'God, you're never satisfied, are you!'

'I might be if you put a little more thought into what you do.'

'Yeah, well, maybe I don't feel much like thinking right now.'

'I give up.'

'Yeah, go on, Keren, give up. Quit while you're behind.'

She went to answer but was suddenly turning away and busying herself. Al glanced round, saw the reason why. Miss Palmer was bearing down on them again, a look of thunder on her face.

'What's going on here?' she was demanding. 'Is Alex Bristow giving you any trouble, Keren?'

'Not at all,' she replied triumphantly, folding her arms and looking pointedly at him. 'Actually, _Alex Bristow_ is being really rather useful.'

Miss Palmer glanced from one to the other, like she again didn't believe what she was being told here.

'Your English grammar needs attention, Keren,' she said eventually. 'The words "Alex Bristow." and "useful" never appear together in the same sentence. Carry on.'

And with that, she was thankfully gone, leaving Al and Keren to glare coldly at each other.

'You heard her,' she said. 'Another onion, if you please.'

Al didn't answer, just reached sullenly for another onion. This time, he peeled it.

The lesson that followed was not one of the best he'd ever known. It was bad enough being paired off with Keren but he found himself having to talk to her, and worse than that, having to listen to her, even to take advice from her, dammit! How high should the heat under the pan be?...Is this onion supposed to be turning brown?...How much salt should I add? And from time to time, she would be checking on him, glancing into the pan as though trying to find fault or sniffing at it as though trying to detect burning. Not once did she say anything, though, just reached for a bottle or a jar, added a dash of this and a few drops of that, then left him to it for a few minutes more. Until the next time.

'I think this is ready,' he said eventually, grudgingly.

Keren glanced over from chopping up parsley. 'Looks that way, doesn't it? Okay, turn it out onto the plate.'

He turned it out onto the plate. It lay there steaming, looking oddly as though it was waiting for something else to be added, though he couldn't begin to think what. Then Keren was carefully placing a sprig of parsley on it, arranging it just so, like she wanted it to be the pinnacle of all they'd achieved that lesson.

'What's that in aid of?' he asked, puzzled.

'Just a little finishing touch.'

'Ain't it finished already?'

'Presentation is just as important as taste,' she said firmly. 'Make it look good and people will want to eat it.'

'And what if they're just plain hungry?'

It was a reasonable question, one to which she did not seem to have a reasonable answer, but Miss Palmer was clapping her hands for attention.

'Right! Everyone finished?...Good. As usual, I shall make a tour of the tables and sample each and every dish. Forks at the ready, please.'

As she made a start, Al took the opportunity to check how the others had done. Tony and Spike seemed to have made the better effort. Their mince at least looked cooked whereas the soggy mass residing forlornly on the plate belonging to Jon and Eddie looked as though it could have done with a little more turning in the pan. Miss seemed to think so, too. When she came to it, she just prodded it a little with a fork, glanced ruefully at its two cooks and went to the next table without further comment.

Then, all too soon, Miss Palmer was standing by his table, his and Keren's table. She seemed to like what she was seeing.

'Well, this is a pleasant surprise,' she said. 'Properly cooked, well-presented—which of you created this culinary masterpiece, as if I need to ask?'

'It was a joint effort,' said Keren before Al could open his mouth to disclaim all responsibility.

'Really! Look out the window, you'll see the pigs ready for take-off.'

While the class were laughing again, she took a forkful and placed it gingerly in her mouth. As she chewed, her eyebrows leapt up in appreciative surprise.

'You know, this is actually rather good. Do I detect Worcester Sauce, Keren?'

'Just a dash, Miss. Just adds that little extra zing.'

'Indeed it does.' She looked directly at Al. 'And what did _you_ add—apart from a large measure of disinterest?'

'Actually, Alex Bristow was very helpful,' said Keren, jumping in again before he could speak. 'Asked all the right questions, too.'

'Did he now?' she said wryly, placing her fork back on the plate. 'Well, since you're such a positive influence on him, perhaps you and he should consider spending future lessons together.'

Yeah, right, he thought as she moved on to the next table. He glanced at Keren. Keren glanced away, seemed suddenly to be busying herself with dirty dishes and washing-up liquid. He hated having to admit it but being with her had actually taught him something about cooking, and especially about cooking mince. Without knowing it, she had actually helped them along the way with their plan...

TWELVE

'You know, these are going okay,' said Tony during their next sewing session. 'They're really beginning to look like rats.'

'As indeed they should,' said Spike, 'given the work you've put into them. Have you given more thought to the "insides" yet?'

'I thought Al had sussed that one,' said Jon. 'You know! The mince?'

'I've been thinking about that,' said Al, 'and I'm not so sure now. When we did that mince last lesson, it got me thinking that maybe it didn't look enough like rats' guts.'

'I disagree,' said Spike. 'I think it's perfect. After all, we're not looking for a portrayal of reality here, just the merest suggestion.'

'And you think we can do that with mince? How?'

'Well, as we saw, when one cooks mince, it turns from red to a kind of greyish-brown. It still looks meaty, it's just the wrong colour for your purpose.'

'So what we've got to do is cook it then put the red back in—right?'

'Right. Does anyone have any ideas?'

'Why not just leave it raw?' said Tony. 'Tell Miss it's the way the French eat mince.'

'I hardly think so,' said Spike. 'I think even the French would draw the line at raw mince.'

'Why? They eat snails.'

'One species alone,' Spike said patiently, 'with lots of garlic. Now come on, we're not here to discuss the eating habits of our European neighbours. Ideas, please, for putting the redness back into cooked mince.'

'What about ketchup?' said Jon. 'That should do it. Add a bit of taste, too.'

'Possible,' Spike mused. 'Very possible.'

'Well, let's go and find out,' said Al. 'Tony, has your mum got any mince?'

'Are you serious?' he said.

'Why not? No use in trying it on the day only to find it don't work.'

'Indeed,' said Spike. 'A dummy run, as it were, would certainly prove rather useful at this juncture.'

Tony shrugged agreement. 'Okay,' he said. 'Let's go and see.'

They abandoned their rats and clattered downstairs to the kitchen, Tony glancing about furtively as they went.

'Look in the fridge,' he said quietly.

'What are you whispering for?' Al replied loudly.

'Sssh! She'll hear you!'

'Who?'

'Her!'

'But she ain't here!'

'She will be. Home from school. Any minute now.'

'Getting paranoid, you are..' He yanked the fridge door open. 'Now, where's this mince?'

Between them, Al and Tony rummaged amongst the sausages, eggs, cheese and something faintly green in a plastic tub that they weren't too sure about.

'She should have some,' Tony was saying, 'she usually does.'

'Does she always keep so much food?' said Spike as he gazed ruefully into the fridge.

'You wouldn't know it! Me dad reckons she spends half her life an' all his money in the supermarket. An' you should see what she buys! Half of it we don't eat.'

'I don't reckon you could eat it,' said Al. 'Like the stuff in that tub. What _is_ it? I ain't ever seen anything like that before.'

'I think it's a pâté of some sort,' said Spike, peering at it dubiously.

'What, that colour?'

'I think it's a _mouldy_ pâté of some sort. And I think you should consider throwing it out before someone mistakes it for being edible.'

Tony stepped on the pedal-bin and tossed it in. Even as he did so, Al was yelling excitedly.

'Got it!'

He pulled from the back of the fridge a cling-film covered plastic tray of something red and bloody that looked as though it had been half-chewed by someone and spat out in disgust. In this state, it looked perfect for their purpose. Unfortunately, it was also quite uneatable. Something would indeed need to be done with it.

'Right,' he said, taking charge, 'frying pan.'

Someone thrust a frying pan into his outstretched hand.

'Now a little oil.'

Someone handed him a plastic bottle of cooking oil.

'Now we add some heat, wait for it to warm up a bit, then lob the mince in,' said Tony triumphantly. 'Nothing to it, really.'

'I think you've forgotten something,' said Al, remembering his lesson with Keren.

'Like what?'

'Onion, you fry some onion first?'

'Oh, right. I wonder if me mum's actually got onions.'

It was, of course, a stupid question. They found them in the larder, and while the oil was slowly warming over a low heat, they set about peeling and slicing half an onion, holding it under running water as they did so (An old trick, Spike had said, stops you crying), and soon, sliced and diced onion was sizzling gently in the pan.

'How long do we cook it?' said Eddie. 'Anyone know?'

'Until it's soft,' said Al. 'About five or six minutes, and try not to let it brown.'

They waited until it was soft, Al prodding and turning it with a wooden spatula in just the way Keren had told him.

'Hey, look at me!' he said as he prodded. 'I'm a chef!'

'No you're not,' said Jon, 'you don't have the hat.'

'Why do chefs wear them big hats?' said Eddie.

No one seemed to know. Then Spike was saying tentatively, 'It's in case they turn out a duff meal.'

They stopped cooking, turned to look blankly at him.

'Because if it's that bad,' he went on, 'they can just take it off and be sick in it.'

'Is that right!' said Eddie.

'Of course it isn't,' said Al. 'He's having you on, aren't you, Spike?'

'A jest that somewhat missed its mark, I fear,' he admitted sheepishly. 'I rather think my humour is lost on you fellows, sometimes.'

'Either that or we're just plain thick.' He peered down into the pan. 'I think this is ready. Where's that mince?'

Tony thrust it his way. He picked it up and carefully turned it out into the hot oil, making it sizzle and spit and send up heady wafts of fried onion.

'Okay,' said Tony, 'how long for this?'

'Brown it first,' said Al, 'then give it a good ten minutes on a medium heat. But first, a little seasoning.'

'Seasoning!' said Eddie. 'What's seasoning?'

'Salt and pepper. Do we have any?'

It was, of course, another stupid question. Someone found some, and Al was soon shaking what he considered to be just the right amount into the pan.

'Now we can cook it,' he said.

'Hope you make a better job of it than we did with ours yesterday,' said Eddie glumly.

'Yeah, I thought Miss didn't seem too impressed. What did you do wrong?'

'Just about everything,' said Jon. 'It weren't cooked enough, that's for sure. There were still some red bits on top.'

'Didn't you turn it?'

'Uh...no. Nobody told us to.'

'Well, that's why,' said Al. 'You can't cook the top from underneath so you have to turn it. Then when the red bits turn brown, you know it's cooked.'

'What about the insides?' said Jon. 'How do you cook the insides?'

'You break up the mince with the spatula, check for any more red bits. If there are, just turn them into the oil and let them brown. Watch.'

He shovelled his spatula under the mince and flipped the whole bloody mass over. The underneath was browning nicely, just as it had done yesterday in the lesson. Then he was breaking it up, revealing more red just waiting to change colour. These could wait a while.

'See?' he said triumphantly. 'It's easy when you know how.'

'You know,' said Tony, 'you're really into this, aren't you?'

'Not really. It's just a question of remembering what happened in the lesson.'

'I'm surprised you managed it with Keren breathing down your neck like that,' said Jon. 'You know, you never did tell us how things went with her.'

'Believe it or not, most of what I'm doing now is down to her. She didn't know it at the time but she really taught me a lot about cooking.'

'Yeah, we know, don't we, guys?' said Jon. 'When teacher's pretty, schoolboy listens.'

'It weren't nothing like that,' Al yelled above the jeers. 'We was just doing something with mince an' that's what we most need to know just now.'

'Coincidence, eh, Al?' said Tony, nudging his arm knowingly.

'Actually,' said Spike, 'you don't know how right you could be about that.'

'Yeah? How do you mean?'

'Well, when you stop and think about it, _I_ came along at just the right time.'

'What, with all your knowledge about sewing and stuff?' said Al. 'Yeah, one heck of a coincidence, you've got to admit.'

'But that's how things seem to work out,' said Spike. 'You desperately want or need something and it usually turns up in one form or another. You just have to be sufficiently vigilant to recognise it.'

'Sounds a bit weird. But do you really think it's like that, that it works that way?'

Spike shrugged. 'It's my experience, for what it's worth. Every problem I've ever had, every unwanted situation I've ever been faced with, there's always been some answer just sitting there waiting to be found.'

'Still sounds weird.' He peered at his friend sidelong. 'Where do you get all this stuff from?'

'School,' Spike replied simply. 'We're encouraged to get out there and do a little digging around. In a nutshell, we're taught to think for ourselves. Can be quite interesting, too, sometimes.'

'Yeah? Like how?'

'Learning the lessons of history, for one thing. Helps you stop making the same mistake twice...or more.'

'You mean like in wars,' said Eddie.

'Got it in one.' Spike paused, thoughtful. 'It's like I said, education shouldn't just be about fitting you out for your place in industry after you leave school, it should also be about fitting you out for life.'

'But that's the problem with going to our sort of school,' said Al. 'All you get taught is how to add up and where to put the commas an' full stops.'

'Pity. I can't help but feel you're missing out on an awful lot.'

'Yeah, well, maybe we'll start studying all this stuff you're talking about when we've left school.'

'You wouldn't be the first,' Spike murmured. 'You would not be the first.' He looked down at the pan. 'Is it ready yet?'

Al checked. 'It looks ready. Look at it this way, I can't see any red bits.'

'And it's had a good few minutes,' Jon added.

'Then it must be,' said Spike. 'Do you have that plate ready, Anthony?'

'Right here.'

'Okay, Alex, let us see what we've managed to create between us.'

They turned it out on the plate. As it sat there steaming, it looked just as it was supposed to look—mince cooked with a little onion.

'Don't look very exciting, does it?' said Jon.

'No, it don't,' said Al, 'and this is where we start doing things with it. Where's the ketchup?'

'Here,' said Tony, sliding a red bottle along the table to him.

'Thanks. Now, just a little, just to give it some colour.'

'You gonna mix it in?' said Eddie.

'No,' said Spike. 'That would just turn it from brown to mucky orange.'

'Just a few blobs here and there, then,' said Al. 'That's what we need.'

'Make it streaks,' said Spike. 'It'll look even better with streaks.'

Al tried it, trailing thin curly streaks of red over the mince. It looked pretty good.

'Now stir it ever so slightly,' said Spike.

Al rummaged it gently with a fork, fusing mince and ketchup in little swirls. By the time he'd finished, it looked even better.

'Looks okay, don't it?' he said.

'Very realistic,' Spike agreed. The others nodded approvingly. 'So which of us is going to try it?'

They all looked at each other but no one seemed about to volunteer.

'Come on,' he went on. 'The idea is to get Miss Palmer to take few mouthfuls of what turns out to be cooked rat. And the more mouthfuls she takes, the better. So it has to taste right and that means one of us has to—'

He never finished. The kitchen door slammed open, a figure suddenly in its frame. Long blonde hair. Short black skirt. For some reason perhaps best known to himself, Tony started shaking.

'What's going on here?' it demanded.

No one answered. She looked them all up and down, as though trying to decide what to do with them, then her gaze fell on Spike.

'Who are you?'

'He's a friend of ours,' said Al, jumping in before he could reply. 'He's on an exchange visit from Chapworthy College.'

'Is he now? So what's he doing hanging around with a bunch of losers like you?'

'Learning ten good reasons for not having a big sister,' murmured Tony.

'I heard that!'

'Actually,' Spike broke in, 'I'm sort of helping them with a little project. The name's Pike, by the way. Sebastian Pike—though everyone calls me Spike. Charmed to make your acquaintance.'

He held out his hand. She took it. Hesitantly. But she took it.

'Well, at least you know how to treat a lady,' she said, tossing a warning glance at her brother. 'So what's this project you're involved in?'

'Just a little cookery practice. We thought we'd try a little something at home before our next lesson. The result you see before you.'

She looked down at the steaming plate. 'You made this?'

'Well, not me alone. Bit of a joint effort, really.'

She sniffed at it, her face lighting up in surprised appreciation. 'You know, it actually smells quite good. What's in it?'

'Just mince and onion, a little seasoning and some tomato ketchup to give it a bit of an unusual slant. We were just discussing who was going to try it when you appeared.'

'So who lost?'

'No one yet.' He hesitated, gazed curiously at her. 'I don't suppose you'd care to...'

'Me!'

'Why not? You look like a lady of refined taste and I'm sure we all would be delighted to defer to your opinion. Besides which, if only one person were to try it, it would only be fair if it were not one of us.'

She looked at him, then at the others, then at her brother. 'Is what he said is in this really in this?' she asked coldly.

He nodded quickly.

'No hidden extras?'

He shook his head just as quickly.

'Well,' she said, looking down again at the tempting plate, 'I _am_ hungry. Oh...okay, I'll try it. Fork!'

Someone produced a fork as she sat down at the table. Spike and Al glanced at each other: if it passed a test like this then they were home and dry. If not, they'd better think about leaving town.

She picked up the fork, dug it gently into the mince, then raised it to her mouth.

'Well,' she said, 'here goes.'

The first forkful passed her lips. She sat there chewing for a moment, then nodded slowly.

'You know,' she said, digging the fork in for a second time, 'this isn't at all bad. In fact, it's really rather good.'

Al and Spike glanced at each other a second time, both thinking the same thing: _YES!_

'Flavoursome without being overwhelming?' said Spike.

'You bet!' she said going for a third mouthful. 'God, what did you put in this?'

'Only what we said, just in unusual proportions.'

'Well, take it from me, it works. You can cook for me any time.'

'Thank you!' said Spike. 'Well, I suggest we leave you in peace to finish your meal. We'll be back down later to do the dishes. See you then, perhaps.'

She didn't answer, her mouth full, just waved her fork in their general direction and actually _smiled_.

Back in Tony's bedroom, they could hardly believe their luck.

'We did it!' Jon was saying. 'We actually did it!'

'She turned up at just the right time,' said Eddie, faintly amazed. 'Coincidence or what!'

'Coincidence nothing! said Spike. 'It's like I was saying: when you need something badly enough, it always seems to just turn up out of the blue.'

'She was quite reasonable about it, too,' said Al. 'Must be the way we treated her.'

'That's a new one,' said Tony, 'being nice to a big sister. It'll never catch on.'

They fell about laughing. Spike turned to Al.

'I think we're ready,' he said simply. 'What say you?'

Al nodded agreement. 'I think we are, too.'

THIRTEEN

Al took a deep breath and looked round at the slowly filling classroom. This was it, the big day, the one they had all been working so slowly and sometimes so painfully towards.

He was early, which was unusual for him for any lesson but doubly so for Cookery. As he placed his small bag of ingredients on his table, he quickly and furtively checked that his newly finished "rat" was tucked safely out of sight. It was, and of all the various aspects of their plan, this was the most important. His rat, all of their rats, needed to be kept hidden until Miss discovered it. Hopefully, not before her first mouthful.

As he stood there waiting, he wondered not for the first time if they really should be going through with this. Maybe Franklinstein did have a point, maybe they would one day need to know how to cook more than just a boiled egg, and he wasn't sure he could do even that. But no, you couldn't go through life insuring against things that only might happen...and MacDonald's would always be in business, whatever Franklinstein might think of their burgers...and...and anyway, this was gonna be just _awesome_.

More of the class were beginning to drift in, throwing a nod his way if they were friends, a disinterested glance if they weren't. Then Jon was walking through the doorway, looking oddly pleased with himself, as though he was looking forward to something.

'You ready?' Al whispered. Jon nodded. 'You sure you got all the right stuff?'

Jon nodded again. 'What about you?' he whispered. 'You still up for this?'

'Are you serious? I can't wait to see the look on old Palm Trees' face when she finds she's been eating—'

'What are you two up to?'

They started, swung round.

'Oh, it's you,' Al breathed, relieved.

'Yes,' said Keren, 'it's me. You were expecting someone else?'

They didn't answer, just stood there trying hard not to look guilty. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

'You're up to something, aren't you?' she hissed.

'Are we? What makes you think that?'

She nodded to his bag of ingredients on the table. 'That. Since when did you start bothering to bring the proper stuff into Cookery?'

'Since old Franklinstein had a go at us about it, that's when.'

'And I suppose you expect me to believe that.'

'Believe what you like,' Jon broke in. 'It's the truth.'

'Yeah, like you've always done as you're told when a teacher has told you. You're up to something, I know you are, and I bet the rest of your little gang are involved in it as well.'

'Stick around and find out,' said Al.

'Oh, don't you worry, I intend to,' said Keren, turning on her heel. 'Take it from me,' she called back over her shoulder, 'I'll be watching you very carefully. All of you.'

'Do you think she'll be any trouble?' said Jon when she was gone.

'Nah! She just wants in, that's all.'

'You gonna let her?'

'Bit late for that, ain't it? Look out, here come the others.'

Tony, Eddie and Spike were all sidling into the classroom, each clutching his own bag of ingredients, each glancing furtively about.

'Okay, Alex?' Spike whispered.

'Fine,' Al replied quietly. 'Just stop looking like you're all planning to blow up the classroom or something. You got your...you know?' They nodded. 'Right. Now, like we planned, you keep everything out of sight until Spike does his stuff.'

They nodded again. Al looked at Spike, wondering again.

'Are you still up for this? I mean, you've done enough for us already. If you want out now, we can get by.'

Spike shook his head. 'Having seen your delightful Miss Palmer in action, I frankly doubt that. No, we go ahead as planned.'

'Okay, then. As planned. Right, you guys, better get to your tables. And remember, we'll only get one shot at this so don't blow it.'

They said nothing, they just scattered, each to his own table as Miss Palmer marched in.

'Good morning, class,' she trilled as usual as she swept by. As usual, they didn't respond. She stopped in front of her desk to gaze round at them all. 'I trust we have all remembered to come prepared this week?'

A low murmur and a few vague nods greeted this.

'Really?' she said, sounding half-surprised. 'Even you, Alex Bristow?'

She looked at him meaningfully. He looked back.

'Wouldn't miss this one for the world, Miss,' he said.

'Good,' she said uncertainly. 'Good. Right, then, class, as I'm sure you'll remember from last week, this lesson I want you to invent a dish of your own using some of the techniques you've learned. Has anyone had any thoughts?'

She stood there expectantly but if anyone had had any thoughts, they certainly weren't telling her.

'Come on!' she said. 'Someone must have had _some_ idea! What about you, Alex Bristow? Since you appear to have come fully prepared for once, you must have something specific in mind.'

Al groaned inside. Of everyone there, why did she have to go and pick on him?

'Er...it's a surprise,' he said quickly.

'Really. Is the surprise that it'll actually be edible?'

A titter ran round the glass. Al just smiled.

'Let's just say, Miss, that you won't be forgetting it for a long time.'

'I can hardly wait. Well, since Alex Bristow's dish is covered with secrecy as well as the best gravy I will have ever tasted, I suppose we'll have to hear from someone else. What about you, Keren? What can we expect from you?'

While Keren started telling the class what she was planning to make and how she was planning to make it, Al glanced round at the others. A dish she would never forget? She didn't know it yet but she was about to get more memorable dishes than she'd bargained for.

Jon, for instance, was ready and just itching to be getting on with his, something he was calling _RATsa Pasta_ , which was a kind of Spaghetti Bolognese. He'd been thorough in finding out just what went into a bolognese sauce and had brought along things like tomato puree and mushrooms and all the right herbs. He'd even brought along some grated Parmesan Cheese. For the topping, he'd said. Just to finish it off, he'd said. Before it finishes Miss off, he'd said.

Tony wasn't far behind him in the imagination stakes. He'd been studying his mum's cookery books and come up with his own idea, _Mince-au-gRATin_ , which was basically a layer of melted cheese over mince...with a layer of something else underneath. That's what gratin meant in French, he'd boasted knowledgeably, a layer of melted cheese over something. He'd then gone on to say that he'd got into an argument with his sister over how you pronounced gratin. _She'd_ said that although it was spelt grat _in_ , it was actually pronounced grat _an_. _He'd_ said How-would-she-know-She-was-only-a-dumb-sister-What?-Could-she-speak-French-now-or-something? As it happened, she could, or at least enough to know how to pronounce _gratin_. So she'd won, he'd had to admit, but he'd got his own back by tying a noose round her favourite teddy bear's neck and hanging it from her bedroom ceiling. He was lucky to still be alive, really, he'd added...

Eddie, as ever, was struggling gamely along with the rest of them. They never expected much of him and he never expected to deliver. Even so, he'd managed to come up with something called _RATts'n'Tatts_ , which was basically mince and potatoes put together a bit like Shepherd's Pie...but without the shepherd and with something else.

As for Spike, he wasn't part of the plot and had elected to do things properly. So he'd gone to town with Sweet and Sour Meatballs with rice. They couldn't believe the ingredients he'd said he'd be bringing in, things like garlic, root ginger, red wine vinegar, dry sherry, red and green peppers, soy sauce and loads of other bits and pieces to give it that final touch. When they asked him why he was making such an effort, his answer was simple: to make it look good when the time came for his little "accident", to make it look as though he was taking things seriously and wasn't just play-acting. Anything less, he'd reasoned, and Miss would probably suspect something. He was probably right, too...

Miss Palmer's voice cut across his thoughts, bringing him back with a bump. Keren had finished speaking.

'Right, class, time to be getting on. I'll be floating around if anyone has any questions.'

Al glanced round at the others one last time. They nodded once in reply, each saying the same thing: here we go.

The next part of the lesson was simple. They spread their ingredients out on their tables in some sort of order and tried to make them into some sort of sense. For Al, this meant pouring breadcrumbs into a bowl and breaking an egg over them, then stirring the whole mixture together with a fork until he had a satisfyingly soggy mess. Next came the onion—a medium one, like the recipe said. He topped and tailed it, peeled it, sliced it then chopped the slices into small cubes. These he then added to the soggy mess.

Next was the parsley. He wasn't sure about parsley, didn't know what you used it for. But the recipe said parsley so he'd brought along parsley, and he sliced it and chopped it and threw the pieces into the mess, too. Then one level tablespoon of tomato ketchup...a level teaspoon of salt...a generous shake of black pepper...a quick stir to mix it all together...and it was done. Just as easily as that.

That left only the mince. He looked at it oozing blood in its plastic tray, bits of mangled animal corpse passed fit for human consumption—though exactly which bits, he didn't really want to know. Strange but he was beginning to see why people turned vegetarian. He unwrapped it and turned it out into the bowl then stirred it round and somehow managed to turn his soggy mess into a soggy bloody mess. At this stage, it wasn't looking very appetising. Even so, he had to admit he was enjoying this, and he then had to further admit that it felt a little weird. Ever since he'd started this lousy class, he'd fought it, kicked against it, tried his level best to do his utmost worst. And now, here he was, taking care over what he was doing, actually wanting to make something that looked and tasted good. Strange, he thought, how things sometimes turn out...

'I'm glad to see you taking your work seriously at long last, Alex Bristow,' said a voice. He looked up. It was Miss Palmer, standing behind him and looking over his shoulder at his efforts so far.

'Yeah, well, it ain't like I'm gonna be doing this forever, is it?' he mumbled.

'Don't you believe it! You might one day be glad that you learned these few basic rules of cookery.' She paused to cast an appraising glance over the soggy mess in the bowl, the remaining ingredients spread over the table. 'So what are you making?'

'Like I said, Miss, it's a surprise.'

'And one you're determined to keep from me until the last possible moment.'

'Got it in one, Miss.'

'Well, I have to say you've got me intrigued. Are the ingredients fresh?'

'Like I killed them only yesterday, Miss.'

'I think you mean picked them, Alex Bristow.'

'I know what I mean, Miss.'

He said it quietly, almost half to himself, but she didn't respond, just shook her head wearily and passed on by. Another of his sordid little jokes, no doubt.

He looked across at the others. They all seemed to be ready to start cooking. Jon had his pasta ready in a pan and his sauce ready for heating. Tony had his mince ready and was just making up the cheese sauce to pour over it. And Eddie had managed to peel and slice his potatoes without cutting his fingers off. All in all, he'd done quite well, really.

He looked across at Spike. Try as he might, he couldn't even begin to tell how he was doing. All those ingredients, all that preparation...pity it was all about to be wasted.

People were lining up to use the cookers now. It was now or never if Spike was going to do his stuff. The plan was for him to "accidentally" drop a spoon into his sauce and make it seem like he'd splashed some of it in his eye as a result. And while Miss took him along to the secretary for some First Aid, he'd be giving his eye a good rubbing to make it water, just to make it look good. And while she was away, they'd be adding their special ingredients to their dishes. Simple, really.

Even as he was thinking this, Spike looked up, looked across at him. Al glanced round—no sign of Miss—and sidled over to his table.

'Ready?' was all he said.

'It's now or never, methinks,' Spike whispered back. 'Are all of you ready?'

Al glanced round at the others. They were all watching him, almost as though waiting for some sort of signal.

'Looks like it,' he whispered back. 'You're still sure about this?'

'I believe you've asked me that once already this afternoon. I've always fancied a career in acting. This will give me the chance to get a little practice in.'

'Okay, it's all yours.'

He slipped back to his table and started rummaging his soggy mess around again. The next time he looked up, he decided, it would be to the sound of Spike's yell of pain as something "splashed" into his eye. It didn't quite work out that way.

The next thing he was actually aware of was Keren's voice commenting to someone about all those fantastic ingredients and asking where _did_ he get them from? He looked up to see Keren standing just where she shouldn't be, next to Spike and talking to him, a bowl of steaming water on the table in front of him. This wasn't in the plan. Without even stopping to check where Miss might be, he was back at Spike's table in a flash.

'What are you doing here, Keren?' he hissed. She turned to him, puzzled.

'Is there some reason I shouldn't be here?' she asked.

Just at that particular moment, he could think of a hundred. 'What do you want?' he said instead.

'What do I want?' Keren repeated shortly. 'If it's any business of yours, Alex Bristow, I was just asking Sebastian here how long I should soak egg noodles in boiling water to soften them.'

She gestured at the steaming bowl and block of something that looked like fossilised spaghetti beside it.

'Doesn't it say on the packet?'

'I haven't got the packet. My mum just sent me in with some she had spare. Why? What's it to you who I ask, anyway? Getting jealous or something?'

'Jealous! Dream on, lady!'

They stood there glaring at each other. If Spike was troubled by this exchange, he gave no sign. He just leaned on the table and watched them both.

'If I may interject at this point,' he said carefully, 'as far as I recall, one needs to soak egg noodles for about four minutes or so. That will usually suffice.'

'There you are,' said Al, 'four minutes. So now you know, what are you still here for?'

Keren glared even harder at him. 'What do you mean _What are you still here for?_ '

'I mean you can get back to your own table now, can't you?'

'I'll soak my noodles where I want!'

She didn't mean it to sound ridiculous but it did, and all she could then salvage from her embarrassment was to snatch up the block of fossilised spaghetti and almost throw it into the steaming bowl. Even as she did so, Al could see it coming, could see the near-boiling water splashing out in a graceful arc, out of the bowl and right over Spike's hand, still spread on the table as he leaned on it in amused tolerance.

Spike needed no acting ability for the yell that followed. The whole class seemed to freeze, all eyes suddenly turned their way. Miss Palmer was beside them in an instant. She sized up the situation in a single glance.

'Under the cold tap!' she snapped. 'Take the heat out of it!'

She almost dragged him to the sink, yanked the tap on and thrust his hand under the stream.

'How did it happen?' she yelled back over her shoulder.

Al and Keren looked sheepishly at each other, wondering just who was going to own up first. Then Spike was speaking, the decision made for them.

'My own stupid fault, Miss Palmer,' he was saying. 'I was just showing Keren and Alex the artistry of egg noodles in their uncooked form and I'm afraid I got a little careless.'

'Did you, now?' said Miss Palmer dryly, glancing back at the pair of them. 'Well, I only hope they were worth the pain. Come on, let's have a look at you.'

She pulled his hand out from under the tap and squinted at it.

'You were lucky,' she said. 'Not a full burn, just a bit of a scald. We'd better get some sort of dressing on it, though. The rest of you,' she added, turning to the class, 'get on with what you were doing. I'll be back presently.'

As she hustled Spike towards the door, he glanced back at Al and gave a single nod that meant nothing and said everything, and Al understood.

'He covered for us,' Keren said blankly when they were gone. 'He _covered_ for us!'

'You wouldn't know how much,' Al said bitterly. 'He's like that, and he deserves better than idiots like us around him.'

She murmured something vague and went back to her table, pausing only to pick up her bowl of softening egg noodles on the way. Then the others were gathering round him, each wanting to ask the same question. But one glance from their leader said it all: they had come this far, they should see it through. Their friend had, after all, intimated as much.

FOURTEEN

They didn't know how long it took to treat a-bit-of-a-scald so they had to be quick. For the others, it was simple: they just had to cook something and cover their rats with it. For Al, though, things weren't quite as simple.

He was making burgers, and because he was making burgers, he then had a small problem: just how did he hide his rat under what was really just a few large lumps of cooked mince? The only way round it he could think of was to scrounge something from the other guys, some pasta, some potato, some cheese sauce—anything that would do the job. What he did not want happening was Miss seeing the rat before she was supposed to, before she'd had a mouthful of what it had been served with. It was going to take some doing. He only hoped he could pull it off.

He stole a quick glance at the door—no sign of her yet—and set about making the most important meal of his life.

First, he sprinkled flour over his hands to stop the mince sticking to his fingers. Next, he sprinkled some over the top surface of the table to stop the mince sticking there, too. Then, slowly, carefully, he tipped his soggy mess out of its bowl.

He looked down at it, made a quick calculation. About four good-sized burgers, he reckoned. It would be enough. Another quick check to see that Miss wasn't back yet then he was dividing his mixture into four almost equal-sized portions. The time had come to set in motion his backup plan. As well as his rat, he'd also brought along a few strips of the felt they'd used for fur, and these he planned to add to each burger as he shaped it ready for frying. That way, Miss would not only see rat, she'd also (hopefully) think she'd eaten rat.

He whipped out his strips of "fur" and pressed one into each of his four portions of mixture. Then he was moulding and patting them into burger shapes, taking care to cover each strip. He was finished. All he had to do now was cook them.

There was a cooker free. He found a frying-pan, heated a little oil in it and, when he thought it was just hot enough, carefully placed his four burgers in it. He watched as they sizzled, wanting them to come out just right. Miss would be tasting them, and more than anything else in the world just then, he wanted her to taste and taste and _taste_. He let them cook for a few minutes and turned them over. He would be doing the same until they left the pan, cooking and turning, turning and cooking, and every few minutes so that the insides were thoroughly cooked through without the outsides getting the chance to burn. It seemed to be working.

Even as he stood there thinking this, he was aware of someone standing beside him. He looked up. It was Keren, still looking a little sheepish.

'Do you suppose he'll be all right?' was all she said. He did not need to ask who she meant.

'If he is, it'll be no thanks to you,' he said shortly.

'Oh, come on! It wasn't all my fault!'

'As good as,' he muttered.

Silence. He glanced down at her. She looked utterly desolate, and he felt something soften inside. For the first time in all the time he'd known her, he found himself feeling sorry for her.

'He could have been hurt, you know,' he went more gently. 'Really hurt.'

'I know,' she said quietly. 'I guess I just let you get to me, that's all.'

There was another silence between them, but this time awkward, embarrassed. Then she was speaking again, but more, he guessed, to break the moment than anything else.

'What are you making?'

'What does it look like?'

'Looks like burgers of some sort but—' She pulled up short, very intent on the contents of the frying-pan. 'What's that?'

Al looked down. Oh, no! In keeping them turning, he'd managed to uncover a scrap of fur. It was only small but it was there, trailing away quite clearly from the meat that was supposed to be hiding it. He flipped the burger over again and covered it. He wasn't nearly quick enough. When he looked at Keren again, she was glaring coldly at him.

'You really are up to something, aren't you?' she whispered.

'And if I am?'

'What? What are you up to? Are the others in on it, too?'

How could he deny it? 'Yes, we're up-to-something—okay? But you say one word and I'll make sure Miss finds out what really happened to Spike. Got it?'

Keren didn't answer, just turned on her heel and stomped off. When next he glanced her way, she was back at her table, ignoring him and busying herself with her egg noodles. He could live with that. He looked down again at his burgers. If he could keep the one with the fur showing upside down, he would be okay... _if_ he could keep it upside down. And with Miss prodding and poking it while she did her usual tasting, that could not be guaranteed.

But at least they looked done, and with the time they'd spent in the pan, they should be. He removed them from the heat and shovelled them onto the plate. They looked just fine, smelt even better, but he was not finished yet.

He took them back to his table, to set them down while he rummaged around in his bag. It was still there, right where he'd been hiding it all this time, the final ingredient in his creation. He placed it on the plate and stacked his burgers around it. That was when things started to fall apart. No matter how he tried to stack them, no matter which way he tried to place them, his four good-sized burgers would not, _could_ not cover his rat. And even worse, whatever he could scrounge from the other guys, it wouldn't be anywhere near enough to do the job that his burgers couldn't.

For the first time since they started, he felt panic rise up inside. What was he going to do? He tried again, placed all four burgers crossways but that didn't work. They just kept falling to one side or the other to expose large tufts of what looked wonderfully like brown fur. He stood back, unable to accept that this was happening to him, and after all their planning, all their efforts!

He froze then, sensed someone standing behind him again, standing behind him and looking over his shoulder like before. _Miss!_ He just knew it was her, knew he'd been rumbled, knew that all their hard work had been for nothing again. Slowly, unwillingly, he peered round. But it wasn't Miss, it was Keren, staring down at his plate, a faintly puzzled look clouding her face. Then she was glancing up at him, seeming to understand something.

He expected her to speak, to berate him for his immaturity and half-hearted anarchy. But she didn't. Instead, she just went back to her table, picked up two small plates and came back. She set them down, moved his burgers aside and started spooning stuff onto his plate. She was covering his rat, covering it with egg noodles, the same egg noodles that had been the cause of so much grief. Then she was moving his burgers back into place and spooning from the other plate a mixture of what looked like small cubes of cheese, cucumber and tomato, surrounding the noodles and covering his rat even more.

She finished, stood up, looked at him one last time and went back to her table, all without a word. Al stared after her. All that...! And after the way he'd...! He shook his head in faint disbelief. He couldn't work her out, couldn't work her out at all. Maybe, he thought, he should get around to spending some time with her, after all.

But that was later and this was now. He took another look at his plate. Not only could he now not see his rat but he had to admit that his whole dish looked pretty good. Better than that, it looked good enough to eat. He just hoped Miss would think so, too. He was to find out sooner than he expected.

She was back, marching in and clapping her hands for attention. Spike was not with her.

'Right, class, look at me! You will all no doubt be delighted to hear that Sebastian Pike is fine. It was indeed just a small scald that is being treated by the secretary even as we speak. Has anyone else had any _accidents_ while I've been away?'

She gazed round at their blank faces. No one moved. No one even seemed to be thinking, except for Al who didn't like the way she'd said the word _accidents_. Did she suspect something?

'Well, that's something, I suppose,' she went on. 'I assume we've all finished cooking?'

A vague general murmur rose in reply.

'Right, get your tables ready. As usual, I'll visit each one of you in turn, see what culinary delights you've managed to concoct.'

They got their tables ready. That, at least, was simple. They just had to clear the things they'd used out of the way, give the table a quick wipe over with a damp cloth and place their creations right in the centre, knife and fork ready beside them. _Presentation_ , Miss Palmer called it, _the final touch_. And this time, just this one time, Al wanted to make a good job of it.

Miss Palmer clapped her hands together once more. 'Ready?'

Everyone was ready.

'Right,' she said, looking round at the whole class, 'who shall we start with first...?'

She let her gaze wander over them all, as though selecting a victim for some sort of punishment. Then it stopped, and it took a full moment for Al to realise that it had come to rest on him.

'This is a rare occasion, class,' she was saying. 'Alex Bristow and his happy band of would-be chefs have actually managed to turn out a meal. And since this is such a rare occasion, I think theirs should be sampled first.'

Al watched as Miss threaded her way through the tables towards them. Suddenly, the others were edging towards him, as though there might be safety in numbers. Al knew only too well how they were feeling just then. This was it. No going back now. But he also knew deep down inside that they had passed that moment long ago.

'So,' she said, 'four _cordon bleu_ creations await my delectation. Who's first?'

Al went to offer his dish by pushing his plate forward, but Miss Palmer waved it away.

'Not so fast,' she said as she picked up a fork. 'I'm saving yours till last, Alex Bristow, because I always save treats till last. So what else do we have here? What about yours, Anthony Ryan? What have you made?'

'Er...it's called _Mince-au gRATin_ , Miss.'

'Incredible! You've even managed to pronounce it properly. What made you decide on it?'

'The rat in the _gratin_ , Miss.'

'Very funny! You know as well as I do that _gratin_ is a French word and means _with cheese_. Nothing to do with rats at all.'

She plunged her fork into the mince, stirred it round a little and lifted out a mouthful.

'Not bad,' she said as she chewed thoughtfully. 'The mince is perhaps a little overcooked but the cheese comes through strongly. Yes, an interesting combination.'

She put her fork down and moved to the next table.

'So, Edward Blunden, what about you? What have you made?'

' _RATts'n'tatts_ ,' Eddie replied simply.

'With minced up rat in it, I suppose,' said Miss Palmer dryly. 'Well, if you were hoping to put me off trying it, think again.'

She shoved her fork into it, sliced through the crisp layer of mashed potato and into the mince beyond. This time, she chewed a little longer before pronouncing judgement.

'It's okay,' she said at length. 'The mince is cooked just right and I love the way you've crisped up the potato layer, but the whole thing could have done with a little more seasoning.'

She moved on to Jon's dish. With all those pasta twirls draped loosely round his rat, this was the one where she was most likely to make the big discovery. And Al didn't want her to make the big discovery with Jon's dish, he wanted her to make it with his.

'So what's this one?' she asked as she prodded it with a fork. 'No, don't tell me, something to do with rats again—right?'

Jon nodded eagerly. 'It's called _RATsa Pasta_ , Miss.'

'Is it, indeed! I think you all have a warped sense of humour.'

She lifted a forkful to her mouth, mince and pasta all twirled in together, and stood there chewing it thoughtfully again.

'Yes,' she said at length, 'the tomato's there and you used mixed herbs, yes?...'

Jon nodded again.

'...But probably a little too much. And as with Edward's dish, it needs just a touch more seasoning.'

She moved on to Al's table. He stood there waiting, willing her, wanting her to take the biggest mouthful she could take of delicious, succulent, juicy rat. But she just stopped in front of his table, folded her arms and looked pointedly at him.

'More rat,' she said wryly. 'It just has to be. Don't disappoint me, Alex Bristow, tell me it's more rat.'

'Got it in one, Miss,' he said.

'I thought as much. So, what's it called?'

Al went to answer, then stopped, blinking dumbly. He'd had a name all thought out but it didn't seem to fit any more, not since Keren had added her contribution. Then it came to him, a flash of inspiration that fitted so well, it might have been almost made for it.

' _RATburger Salad_ ,' he blurted out. 'It's called _RATburger Salad_.'

'I should have known,' she muttered, prodding his plate with a fork. He watched, faintly alarmed. If she stirred the egg noodles any more...but she stopped, was speaking again.

'Tell me,' she was saying, 'your warped sense of humour and the fact that you're just trying to stop me tasting this aside, why call it a ratburger when there's no rat in it?'

Quick as a flash, he answered. 'Why do you call a hamburger a hamburger? There's no ham in it.'

'True. I hadn't thought of that.'

'Yeah, well, you're only a teacher, ain't you, Miss?'

'Thank you, Alex Bristow, that will do.'

She sliced through the first burger with her fork, twirled a few noodles onto it and lifted it to her mouth. This time as she chewed, her face seemed to light up in an expression of amazed appreciation, as if she was actually _liking_ what she was eating. She swallowed, that look of surprise still on her face.

'You know,' she said as she took another forkful, 'this is actually very good. Good balance of herbs with the meat...'

She was chewing again as she spoke, refilling her fork as she did so.

'...and the seasoning is just right...'

Another forkful, another mouthful.

'...and whatever gave you the idea of using egg noodles? Unusual choice but inspired...'

She reached her fork down for the last piece of the first burger. As she raised it, she stopped, and Al could see it, a strip of something that looked suspiciously like fur hanging from her fork. Had she seen it? Had he been rumbled? It seemed not.

'You know, class, this is what cookery is all about,' she was saying. 'Creating something tangible from what seems like a motley collection of totally diverse and unrelated ingredients.'

She raised the fork to her mouth. This is it, thought Al, but he was wrong. She stopped, went on.

'A pinch of this, a dash of that and who knows what you might come up with.'

She raised her fork one more time, only then to stop one more time. Al felt like screaming _Just shut up and eat, you stupid woman!_

'I only wish you could all try this marvellous creation of Alex Bristow's but as you can see, there's not enough to go round and I'm being very greedy.'

She raised her fork one last time in an exaggerated display of tasting Heaven and started chewing. Al just stood and watched. It took maybe a few seconds for her to realise that something was not quite right. She stopped chewing, a puzzled frown on her face. Then she was spitting her mouthful back out onto her fork—looking down at it—trying to work out what it was. In the cooking process, it had absorbed the juices from the mince. It no longer looked like just a piece of felt.

Miss Palmer squinted at it more closely, then at Al's dish. In stirring it around, she had uncovered the rat's head. It, too, looked more than just a few bits of cloth sewn together, its false eyes staring balefully at her from under its blanket of egg noodles. She tore her gaze away, glanced again at the other three dishes she'd just tried. Then at Al. Then at all four of them. And she seemed to understand.

Tony reckoned later they must have heard the screams out in the corridor. Jon said Nah, they must have heard them in the staff-room!

Actually, they were both right.

FIFTEEN

'So, what have you got to say for yourselves this time?'

They were back in Mrs. Franklin's office, standing in a row before her desk while she sat behind it, drumming her fingers again and waiting for an answer. It was just like before, everything was just like before. But this time, there was something extra. This time, their dishes were on the desk, arrayed in baleful accusation before them. She'd been studying them for some time before she spoke, dabbing at them with a fork, lifting the corner of Al's rat and peering underneath. She had not looked very pleased about what she was seeing.

'Well?' she said again.

'It was just a bit of fun,' Al ventured.

'Yes, I seem to recall we've had a conversation already about your sense of "fun",' she retorted dryly. 'Well, this time, you've really excelled yourselves. You do realise that Miss Palmer has had to be taken home and Mr. Lockyer has had to take on the next Cookery class.'

They stifled a grin. Lockyer didn't know one end of a sausage from the other. That class would be in for a _great_ time.

'First things first, I suppose,' she went on. 'Why did you do it? I take it that this was meant as some kind of protest at being made to do Cookery?'

'Sort of,' said Al. 'We thought if we did something really gross, we'd get ourselves kicked out.'

'Did you, now! Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you but as I said at our last meeting, Cookery is _on_ the curriculum, you are subject _to_ the curriculum, and never the twain shall part.'

'Uh?'

'You do Cookery, come what may. So tell me, just out of interest, how did you manage this?'

'We learned a bit of cooking,' said Jon, 'like you wanted us to.'

'Yes and it's a pity you couldn't have put that learning to a more constructive use. But what I meant was these—these _rats_. Where did you get them?'

'Uh...we made them.'

'You made them! How?'

'It was easy,' said Al. 'First, we tack-stitched the bits of cloth together—'

'—just into a rough shape,' said Tony, 'an' then we did a proper back-stitch to make the bits really strong—'

'—so's they wouldn't fall apart,' said Jon. 'An' for the eyes, we used small buttons. Attaching them, that was the hardest part.'

'No it wasn't,' said Eddie. 'Putting the tails on without the stitching showing, that was worse.'

'Nah, the legs! Nothing to get a needle into.'

'No, it was the...er...'

They trailed off into silence, very aware that Mrs. Franklin was watching them with studied interest, a faint smile creasing her lips.

'Most informative,' she said, 'but again, that wasn't what I actually meant. What I really wanted to know was who taught you how to sew?'

Silence. They just stood there, glancing at each other uneasily but determined to say nothing.

'I see,' she said. 'The ancient and misguided code of not ratting on a mate, eh?'

Her choice of words was unfortunate, and they burst out laughing.

'Yes, thank you,' she said. 'The English language is full of unfortunate little traps, as I am sure you will come to learn. Now, as to my question...actually, I already know you made them _and_ who it was who taught you.'

'Uh...you do?' said Al.

'I do. Sebastian Pike asked to see me—his hand, you will doubtless be glad to learn, is fine—and he wanted it known that he played a large part in your little plot. He also admitted acting as stooge while you set things up for Miss Palmer to discover, even if that part didn't quite go according to plan.'

'He did that?' said Al.

'He did. Very honourable of him, don't you think?'

Al certainly did think. A good friend he'd become, a very good friend, indeed.

'What are you gonna do to him, Miss?' he asked quietly.

'I've sent him home. He'll be going back to Chapworthy College _post haste_ , a report about him and his part in this whole sorry episode close on his heels.'

They nodded glumly. Somehow, things weren't going to be quite the same without that refined accent around.

'What are you gonna do to _us_?' was the next question.

'I've been thinking about that,' she said ominously. 'There are a number of options open to me, as I'm sure past experience will remind you. Detention?—'

They felt a sneer coming on. A good excuse for another laugh, detention, if only because it was usually Lockyer who took the class.

'—Or a letter home to your parents?—'

Oh yeah? And what notice would _they_ take? Glance at it, mutter _Don't do it again_ and go back to watching the telly, that's what.

'—Or even extra homework. But since you hardly do any, anyway, I don't see the point. So I've decided on something really special for a punishment.'

Al glanced at the others uneasily. 'Uh...you have?' he said.

'I have. I've decided to award each of you a merit mark.'

It took a moment for that one to sink in, then they were erupting into a chorus of protests.

'Aw, come on, Miss!'—'We was only having a laugh, Miss!'—'That's why we did it, Miss!'—'So's we wouldn't get a merit for Cookery, Miss!'

She held up a hand for silence. 'I think you misunderstand me,' she said. 'The merit mark will not be for Cookery but for _Sewing_.'

They blinked disbelief...realisation...then sudden, utter horror. 'What!' Al almost screamed. 'But you can't do that, Miss!'

'I can,' she said, 'and I have. Even as we speak, your names are being added to the board.'

'But—but everyone will know we've been doing...sewing!'

'Well,' she said reasonably, 'you have, haven't you?'

'Yeah but—'

'But what? You made the effort to learn the techniques, you then applied that learning in the making of your "rats", and you retained enough of that learning to give me that brief but very informative little rundown just now. I think that deserves some recognition, don't you?'

They stared at her, dumbstruck, somehow unable to move.

'So,' she went on, smiling sweetly, 'unless there are any further questions, you may go.'

They shuffled out of her office and into the corridor. There, kids were milling round, break-time obviously upon them. And that could only mean—

'Everyone's gonna see it,' said Al.

Even as he spoke, two girls from another class passed by, pausing to glance their way and start giggling. Any other time, they might have ignored it, put it down to maybe one of the girls fancying one of them, but not now, not this time. They felt embarrassed, felt small and helpless, felt the shame burning their ears.

'What are we gonna do?' Eddie wailed.

'If my sister gets to hear about this, there'll be no stopping her,' said Tony glumly.

'Never mind your sister,' said Jon, 'it's Mad Max you've got to worry about. An' here he comes.'

It was Mad Max, too, swaggering towards them, a big grin lighting his stupid face.

'Oi, Bristow!' he yelled for the whole corridor to hear. 'I got 'ole in me sock! Gonna mend it for me?'

He passed on by, laughing loudly at his own joke. There would be more in the days to come, they knew, and not just from him. Suddenly, the whole school seemed to be their enemy. But then Al was staring after him, his eyes narrowing like a cat that had just spotted dinner. He had a hole in his sock, did he? The most unpopular boy in the school had a hole in his sock. Well, there was more than one way to stitch someone up.

'Listen up, guys,' he said. 'I've got an idea...'

~oOo~

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