Once upon a legend, p.1
Once Upon a Legend, page 1
For Aunty Margery
CHAPTER ONE
‘Did you hear ANY of what I just said?’
Marcus was in the headmaster’s office, again, seated between his mum and dad, a bored expression on his face.
‘Well?’ said Mr Strickland impatiently, glaring at Marcus through his little round glasses. ‘I’m waiting.’
‘Marcus,’ said his mum, putting a hand on Marcus’s arm, ‘the headmaster is asking whether there might be a reason you keep misbehaving. Something you’d… you’d like to tell us? Something you’re upset about, perhaps?’
Marcus scowled. ‘I’m fine,’ he said.
‘You see?’ said the headmaster, throwing up his hands in exasperation. ‘This is the whole problem, right here. The boy must know he’s in serious trouble, but look at him! He just sits there, not a care in the world, like he’s waiting for a film to start. Demerits, detentions – it’s all just water off a duck’s back. I’m sorry, but I think we’ve reached the end of the road.’
‘What are you saying?’ asked Marcus’s mum, sitting bolt upright in her chair.
‘I am recommending to the governors that Marcus is suspended.’
‘Suspended?’ she echoed. ‘But… but…’
‘Oh come on!’ said Marcus’s dad with a snort. ‘Is that really necessary? All he did was move the “shallow end” sign. It was a joke – wasn’t it, Marcus? Just a bit of harmless fun.’
‘Not for Mr Figgis, it wasn’t. He lost two front teeth demonstrating a racing dive.’
Marcus’s dad stifled a laugh, and his mum shot him a stern look.
‘I’m sorry –’ the headmaster frowned, straightening his glasses – ‘do you find that amusing?’
‘Nope,’ replied Marcus’s dad innocently, struggling to keep a straight face. ‘Nothing funny about that!’ He gave his son a little nudge in the ribs and shot him a knowing wink.
‘I would remind you,’ continued Mr Strickland, reaching for Marcus’s file, ‘that this is not Marcus’s first incident. This term alone, your son has been caught…’ He opened the front cover, licked his finger and located the appropriate page. ‘Putting laxatives in the school custard, shaving the school goat, spray-painting obscene images on the staffroom door, and – let me see, oh yes – substituting potassium for sodium in one of Mrs Brightwell’s chemistry demonstrations, thereby causing a SERIOUS explosion.’
As if closing the subject, Mr Strickland shut the file and glared through his thick-framed glasses across the desk once more.
‘Trust me,’ said Marcus’s dad, chuckling, ‘when I was at school, I did a lot worse.’
‘This is no laughing matter,’ snipped Mr Strickland. ‘Mrs Brightwell’s eyebrows may never grow back.’
‘Graham, please,’ said Marcus’s mum, leaning across the desk and looking pleadingly into the headmaster’s eyes. ‘Something like this… it could really affect Marcus’s future. Just give him one more chance.’
But Mr Strickland was unmoved. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Watts,’ he replied curtly. ‘I’ve made my decision.’
‘Fourteen years I’ve taught here…’ began Marcus’s mum.
‘I don’t see that that’s releva—’
‘Fourteen years!’ Marcus’s mum said again, louder this time. ‘The last three of which, I’ve been acting Head of History, with twice the work and no extra pay. As well as running the bring-and-buy sale at the school fair and the Year Six orienteering course. Marcus isn’t a bad kid – you know that. He’s just going through a rough time. You’re sorry, aren’t you, Marcus? And you promise you won’t do it again, don’t you?’
She reached desperately across the table and grabbed Mr Strickland’s hand. ‘I know he needs punishing, Graham – but he needs help too. Maybe there’s somewhere we can send him over half-term? A week with a tutor, or camp, or…’
Mr Strickland looked up suddenly, as if an idea had occurred to him.
Marcus’s mum paused, watching him carefully.
‘Hmm,’ said Mr Strickland.
‘Hmm?’ she repeated, hopefully.
Removing the handkerchief from his top suit pocket, Mr Strickland gave both lenses of his glasses a long and thoughtful clean. Then, repositioning them back on his nose, he said, ‘Well, there is one place.’
‘Oh thank you, Graham!’ said Marcus’s mum, pushing back her chair and rushing round the other side of the desk to give the headmaster a hug. ‘We’ll try anything… thank you. You won’t regret this, I promise.’
Mr Strickland blushed and shooed her away. ‘Now, now, I’m not making any promises. We’ll have to call and see if they have room. It’s a rather… unconventional place. Their methods are… unusual, to say the least.’
‘What’s it called?’ asked Marcus’s mum.
But Mr Strickland didn’t answer. Instead, he reached for the corner of his desk, lifted an old-fashioned telephone from its cradle and dialled.
‘Mrs Pettifer, I’d like to place a call, please. To the admissions team…’ He glanced at Marcus. ‘At Merlin’s.’
CHAPTER TWO
‘Merlin’s?’ whispered Marcus’s mum with a frown as they waited for the headmaster to get off the phone. ‘Don’t you think that’s a funny name for a school?’
Marcus and his dad shrugged in unison.
‘You have?’ said Mr Strickland self-importantly. ‘That’s wonderful news… Tomorrow should be fine. I’ll confirm. Much obliged. Well then,’ he said, carefully replacing the receiver. ‘Success. Merlin’s have agreed to take Marcus for the week of half-term, see what magic they can work with him.’
‘I don’t recognize the name,’ said Marcus’s mum, a note of anxiety in her voice. ‘Is it local?’
The headmaster shook his head. ‘Wiltshire. Not far from Stonehenge.’
Marcus’s mum chewed her lip. ‘But that’s miles away! How are we supposed to get him there every morning?’
‘You wouldn’t have to. It’s residential.’
‘You mean it’s a boarding school?’ She frowned again, and looked at his dad. ‘Do you think a boarding school is a good idea right now?’
‘Oh, I think he can handle it – can’t you, champ?’ said his dad, cuffing Marcus on the shoulder, who grinned.
‘There’s a lot going on at home at the moment, Scott,’ his mum said, widening her eyes meaningfully. ‘What Marcus needs right now is stability. Not to be shipped off to some uptight boarding school in the countryside.’
‘Wait, boarding school? Would we have to pay?’ asked his dad. ‘Boarding schools are expensive, aren’t they?’
‘It’s a charity,’ said Mr Strickland icily, ‘so, no, it’s not expensive. It’s free. And to answer your question, Abigail, Merlin’s is about as far from “uptight” as it’s possible to get. The correct term, I believe, is progressive. The man who runs it, Mr Tom Sheen, gave a talk last year to the Association of Headteachers. He claims results with even the most… difficult of cases,’ he finished, shooting Marcus a frosty glare.
‘Well, if you’re sure, Graham?’ said Marcus’s mum nervously.
‘Honestly, I don’t hold out much hope. But if you’re looking for an alternative to suspension, it’s all I can offer. Now, unless there’s anything else…?’
And for the first time that week, that term, and perhaps even that year, Mr Strickland smiled.
* * *
‘What a stiff!’ exclaimed Marcus’s dad, chucking an arm round Marcus as they stepped out into the musty autumn air. ‘I bet he squeaks when he walks.’
Marcus beamed up at his dad, and they both laughed.
‘Chip off the old block.’ He ruffled Marcus’s hair. ‘I tell you, the things me and my mates used to get up to at school, you wouldn’t believe it! Hasn’t held me back. Number four industrial refrigerator salesman in the entire country, barring London and the Greater London area. And I’ve got the wheels to prove it.’
They had reached the car park, where – as if to prove a point – the sun was glinting on the silver exhaust pipe of a Harley-Davidson motorcycle.
‘Old Strickland, what does he know? Has he ever upsold a two-door fridge to a five-door? I don’t think so,’ sneered his dad, extracting his helmet from beneath the cushioned seat. ‘Could he maintain customer relationships through the simple power of a pie and a pint? Answer: no. People would be clawing for the exits.’
Marcus’s mum narrowed her eyes. ‘I’ve only just managed to prevent him getting suspended, Scott! Can you please not encourage him…’
‘All I’m saying,’ protested his dad, fastening his helmet strap, ‘is life is not all about school!’
‘But it helps if you get the chance to finish!’
‘Sure, sure.’ His dad sounded bored now as he swung one leg over the bike. ‘Gotta learn to play the system, kid. Make it work for you. And next time –’ he winked – ‘don’t get caught!’ He flicked a switch on the handlebar, and the motorbike’s engine gave a throaty roar.
‘Wait!’ Marcus’s voice had come out louder than he had meant it to – much louder – and as both parents turned to look at him, the boy felt his face flush red. His dad turned the engine off.
‘You’re not going?’ said Marcus. ‘Just, I thought we were going for dinner?’
‘Sorry, kid. Got to dash. Work is crazy at the moment. This week I’m in Nuneaton, Milton Keynes… Carlisle on Wednesday. Pure madness.’
‘Right,’ said Marcus, kicking at the ground.
‘Now behave at this place, won’t you?’ His dad placed a hand on his shoulder.
Marcus nodded and forced a smile.
‘Good man,’ said his dad, giving him a mock punch on the chin. ‘See you, Abi!’
The second his dad pulled away, Marcus’s face crumpled, the smile fading as he watched him disappear around the corner.
‘You okay, love?’ asked his mum quietly as they walked back to the car.
Marcus rearranged his face into a scowl, crossing his arms tightly across his chest, as if he was trying to keep himself from breaking apart. ‘I’m fine,’ he said, climbing in and slamming the car door behind him.
CHAPTER THREE
‘You’re lucky the headmaster didn’t call the police,’ said Marcus’s mum as they drove home. ‘You won’t get another chance like this. Marcus, are you listening to me?’
But Marcus wasn’t listening. One of the few benefits of having parents that didn’t live together was that you got your own phone, and he’d looked up a photo of Merlin’s.
It seemed ordinary enough: a jumble of old-fashioned red brick buildings, linked by lawned areas and paved walkways. But there, right in the middle of it all, was a strange-shaped grassy mound. It was tall and oddly imposing among those ordinary-looking buildings, as if it had landed there by mistake. A gravel path spiralled all the way round and up, and a flagpole sat proudly on its tarmacked top, surrounded by scrawny bushes and strangely shaped trees.
‘Is that Merlin’s?’ asked his mum, glancing over. ‘What does it look like?’
Marcus shrugged. ‘Pretty average.’
He tapped the screen. In the next photo, a twinkly-eyed, moon-faced man with curly salt-and-pepper hair sprang into view, wearing a strange-looking ceremonial robe.
‘Great,’ said Marcus, scowling.
His mum stole another glance at the screen as she pulled up on the drive. ‘Oh wow.’ Her eyes sparkled in amusement. ‘Am I seeing that right? Is he dressed as… Merlin?’
Something about his mum’s reaction suddenly made Marcus’s blood boil.
‘I can’t believe you’re doing this to me!’ he blurted, getting out of the car and storming off towards the house.
His mum shouted after him. ‘Well it’s better than being suspended, isn’t it?’
Marcus stomped down the hall to the kitchen, where he stood seething at the sink, running water into a glass and watching it spill over and over.
He looked out of the window; then immediately wished he hadn’t.
Colin was in the shed at the bottom of the garden, where he always was, tinkering with something or other, usually a part for his stupid old car, Betsy, which broke down every other week. Colin spotted Marcus, and waved at him eagerly. Marcus looked down again, pretending not to have seen him, but his mum’s new partner never took no for an answer, and within moments he was heading up the path to the back door.
Marcus turned to leave, but his mum entered from the hallway.
He was trapped.
‘How did it go?’ asked Colin, wiping his greasy hands on his overalls. He looked anxiously between Marcus and his mum, trying to read the signs.
‘We live to fight another day,’ said his mum. ‘Just.’
Colin’s face creased into a big soppy smile. ‘Marcus, that’s brilliant news!’
Marcus scowled, refusing to meet Colin’s eye.
‘Marcus is off to a place called Merlin’s, over half-term. A progressive school in Somerset.’
‘I see,’ said Colin. ‘Could be worse, I guess. When do you start?’
‘Tomorrow,’ said his mum. ‘I’ll drive him there in the morning.’
Colin nodded, taking it all in. ‘Well, if you’d like some, er, light relief before you go, Marcus, I’m, um, going down to the air museum later,’ he said gently, putting a hand on Marcus’s shoulder. ‘If you’d like to come, see the planes? Betsy seems to be up and running again, so I could drive us there in about—’
‘No thanks,’ said Marcus, shrugging Colin’s hand away. ‘I wouldn’t be seen dead in that pram-on-wheels.’
The smile faded on Colin’s face.
‘Marcus!’ shouted his mum. ‘You come back here right now!’ But Marcus had already pushed past her down the hall and was heading for the stairs.
‘Don’t you walk away from me!’ she yelled. ‘How DARE you be so rude to Colin!’
She ran down the hallway after him. ‘You know, me and your dad have been separated for over a year now… you need to accept this, Marcus. Marcus!’ She shouted up the stairs. ‘In fact, I wasn’t going to tell you this, but…’
Marcus paused on the landing. He spun round.
‘Colin has asked me to marry him. And I said yes.’
Time slowed. For a moment, Marcus just stood there at the top of the stairs, staring down at his mum, fuming. Then – without a word – he marched off to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.
Seething with fury, he snatched up his rucksack, the one Dad had bought him that time they went camping, and began rummaging through his drawers, pulling out clothes and stuffing them into the bag. He picked up the framed photo from his bedside table: the one of him and his mum and dad on holiday in Portugal, grinning like idiots, outside that pizza place they had all liked so much. Now the only time the three of them were together was when Marcus was in trouble.
There was a knock on the door.
‘Go away!’ Marcus shouted.
The door opened anyway, and the tiny face and bouncing blonde pigtails of Minnie, Colin’s daughter, peeped round it.
‘Did you get expelled?’ she asked, taking a few nervous steps into the room. ‘Maybe you can come to my school instead?’
‘How many times…’ began Marcus softly, ‘do I have to say…’
Minnie took a step back.
‘… DON’T COME INTO MY ROOM!’
Minnie shrank away from him, backing out of the room and shutting the door behind her.
For the briefest of moments, Marcus felt a twinge of regret. Minnie was only little, after all, and she didn’t mean any harm. But then he looked at the smiling faces in the photo again, and something ran cold inside him. Shoving the frame deep into his bag, where nothing could touch it, he made his parents a solemn vow.
I’ll kick up such a stink at Merlin’s, he thought, smiling bitterly, that both of you will have to come and get me.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘Look! Stonehenge!’
Marcus’s mum pointed out of the car window excitedly. She cast a glance across at Marcus, who ignored her.
They’d left home after lunch, and for the last hour and a half they’d been following a long, straight road as rain misted down from the drab grey sky, and endless boring green fields rolled sluggishly by.
‘Can you see it?’ pressed his mum.
Reluctantly, Marcus shifted his gaze to the horizon, where a crowd of soggy tourists were staring at a bunch of big stones.
‘Yep,’ said Marcus.
‘Well? What do you think?’
Marcus shrugged.
His mum shot him a look.
Marcus puffed out his cheeks. What was there to say? ‘It’s nice?’ he offered.
‘Nice?’ She twisted to face him. ‘Cupcakes are nice. Coloured paper clips are nice. Stonehenge is mysterious. It’s magical. It’s… otherworldly. You know it’s more than five thousand years old?’
Marcus didn’t answer.
‘Some of the stones came from as far away as Wales. But in those days they had no cars or cranes; they hadn’t even invented the wheel – so they wouldn’t have even had a horse and cart. Can you imagine? One of the great mysteries of that period is how those stones that came from so far away ended up here, in this field, where they still stand today.’
Marcus rolled his eyes, tuning out as his mum prattled on and on.
At least Colin wasn’t here to egg her on.
The pair had met when his mum had taken her class to Guildford Air Museum to learn about the Battle of Britain, when the Royal Air Force had fought the Luftwaffe in the skies above Southern England. Colin, who looked after the planes there, had given a talk, telling them all that one of the planes at the museum, a yellow Tiger Moth, had been used to train pilots for that very battle! Marcus’s mum had been entranced, and the rest, as they say, is history. Lots and lots of boring, ever-so-detailed history.
