‘Been a naughty boy then, Spottiswood?’ he grinned. ‘You’re a right bolshy little bastard, aren’t you?’
‘I’ll have the full continental breakfast, waiter, and can you make sure that the grapefruit isn’t too firm,’ said Lewis.
Corporal Smith turned on his heels without a word and left, locking the door behind.
At 8 a.m. he returned with a tin plate slopping with the brown stuff they had been acquainted with the day before. Lewis sniffed at it and decided that even fat and gristle were better than the gnawing and rumbling coming from his stomach. Smith plonked an enamel mug of steamy tea down in front of him. It looked about the same colour and consistency as HP Sauce.
Smith gave him ten minutes to clear his plate and then led him out into the drizzly wind sweeping around the play ground.
‘Right, Cadet,’ he said. ‘The Commanding Officer wants a word with you. Stand up straight and don’t answer back and you’ll be alright.’
* * * * *
Station Commander Captain (Retired) Digby Trenchwood was happy to serve his country again in this time of national crisis but less happy to be dragged away from civilian life (where he was making a packet out of something called “futures”) and placed in charge of a bunch of smelly school children.
He understood the need for discipline. He had three children of his own and had ensured they understood who was in charge from a very early age. The fact that one of them was in prison and two of them never spoke to him any more merely proved that he should have been a little firmer with them. But he wished it was some other poor sod who was babysitting these brats and not him.
Corporal Smith marched into the CO’s office, arms swinging hysterically, and came to a juddering halt in front of the desk. Lewis ambled in behind him.
‘Cadet Spottiswood, SAH,’ Smith shouted.
‘Thank you, Corporal,’ said the Captain, leaning back in his chair and sipping his morning latte. The corporal spun on his heels and marched out again in cartoon soldier fashion.
‘Oh Spottiswood. Spottiswood, Spottiswood, Spottiswood, what are we to do with you, Spottiswood? You’re a blithering nuisance, you know, Spottiswood. A big disappointment to me. This only my second day in command of this post and already we’ve got one of you little peasants who thinks they know better than their elders and betters. It’s the ingratitude that I can’t understand. The government has gone to great expense to provide you with something to do throughout the summer and you seem to resent it. It’s perverse, Spottiswood, that’s what it is. Now orf you trot and try to behave like a civilised little, er, person, alright?’
‘Smith,’ he shouted, and the door opened a crack. ‘Ten days jankers, Smith.’
Smith bounced back into the room and yanked Lewis by his collar into the corridor.
It occurred to Lewis that he hadn’t actually contributed a word to his recent conversation with the Captain. That was probably a good thing, he decided. A smaller part of his mind was wondering what jankers was. Smith soon provided the answer.
‘Jankers,’ said Smith loudly, ‘is what you get for arsing about.’ He led Lewis into the kitchen block. On one of the work surfaces was a pile of potatoes the size of a small pony.
‘That lot,’ said Smith, ‘has got peel on.’ He handed Lewis a potato peeler. ‘When I come back, they won’t have peel on. Got it?’
Potatoes is not so bad, thought Lewis, picturing all the more physical forms of punishments that he had been imagining all night.
* * * * *
At eleven o’clock, Parker, Push and half a dozen other were marched in and were presented with dish mops and yesterday’s pans to scrub. They had to smash through a couple of centimetres of congealed fat before they could start. It seemed there wasn’t a lot to distinguish jankers from ordinary duties in this camp.
‘We’ve just had double maths,’ whispered Parker. ‘Double maths in the holidays! It’s against the Convention of Human Rights.’
‘It’s a war crime,’ said Push from the other side of the room. She was immediately cuffed by the corporal with the thick brown stockings who was supervising them.
Lewis was beginning to wonder if he had got the better part of the deal.
* * * * *
They got through the day somehow. A combination of tedious lectures, impromptu lessons and exhausting drill was pepped up only slightly by an introduction to a rusting Lee Enfield No.IV Mk.I rifle. They got to pull it apart but failed to put it back together.
There was more Brown Stuff for tea but this time it was accompanied by day-glo yellow jelly which had failed to set and was best tackled with a straw. Then it was “drill” on the playground, which consisted of standing in rows and lines and jumping up and down on the spot with arms flailing around like a demented wind farm. Next, they were marched to their barracks (the school hall) and told that they could play cards for an hour. They were handed instructional leaflets on subjects such as unsightly diseases and getting a mirror-like polish on your boots.
Lewis, however, was marched back to the kitchen and presented with a brand new pile of potatoes. He noticed that a small blister was appearing on his peeling thumb.
Lights Out was at nine o’clock. There would be no talking or whispering and Mr Kabanu, the best bowler in the staff cricket team, patrolled the hall with a bag full of blackboard rubbers, which he liberally showered on any miscreants, until the only sound was the creak of his Hush Puppies on the polished wooden floor. Expect for the sound of Boris Pickles sobbing quietly into his pillow which no amount of coercion could diminish.
In the morning it was showers and then Brown Stuff and toast followed by parade. They took their place on the Parade Ground (formerly known as the playground) to hear a lecture from Captain Trenchwood.
A small platform had been set up at the end of the playing fields, next to the netball nets. There stood the Captain and beside him the new School Chaplain who was about to lead the cadets in some innocuous inter-faith prayers. There was also a young man in an expensive-looking suit.
The Chaplain finished telling them how God was like a bicycle and they all sang “Onward Christian Soldiers”. The Captain stepped forward.
‘Now cadets,’ he boomed, ‘I have some splendid news for you. The Prime Minister of England is embarking on a tour of Youth Training Facilities and he has announced that this school may be, potentially, one which he may be, possibly, willing to visit.’
A flutter of complete indifference swept round the assembled cadets. Captain Trenchwood beetled his brow. ‘I can see you are all very excited about this,’ he tutted. ‘Mr Benson here,’ he gestured towards the young man, ‘will be checking us out to see that we are a suitable venue for the PM, so it’s best behaviour and snappy salutes all day, if you don’t mind. Jolly good, carry on. Dismiss the parade, Sergeant.’
They slopped away for their 15 minutes of “association”.
‘No more spuds today, Lewis?’ grinned Parker.
‘They let me out sometimes, you know.’
‘Old Jackman coming here. That’s got to be worth a mention. I’ve got a few things I’d like to say to him.’ Push nudged him in the back and said, ‘Shhhh.’ A number of the older pupils had been promoted to Cadet Officer status. They had special arm bands to denote their new rank. Some of them were detailed to patrol the school yard and it had become obvious that a few of them were specifically tasked with listening in on the conversations of the younger cadets.
‘Yeah, well,’ said Parker. ‘I haven’t seen a telly for three days.’
After midday Brown Stuff they were led away to another orientation lecture. The teacher in charge said some stuff about civic responsibility and respect and then handed them over to Mr Benson.
Benson had never seen so many Not Grown Up people in any one place before and he was a little bit nervous. Although only in his twenties, he could hardly remember his own childhood, such as it was, and regarded all young people as mutant adults who hadn’t fully formed as yet.
‘N
ow, children,’ he coughed, eying them suspiciously. ‘I know you will all be very proud that this school has been short listed for a visit by our beloved Prime Minister but there are one or two things that we have to check out before it’s all settled. Colonel Jackman is a very busy person and he doesn’t want to be bothered by a lot of people who don’t have the right attitude. So I’m going to ask you a series of questions and I trust you will give me honest answers. Firstly, who knows what the new party of government is called?’
All eyes turned to the floor to avoid being singled out. After a long pause, Stephanie White’s nerve broke and she mumbled, ‘The Adults For England Party?’
‘That’s right,’ beamed Benson, ‘the Adults For England Party.’ This was going to be easier than he thought. ‘And who can say what their objectives are?’
Now the ice was broken a few hands went up. Jamila Tonks offered, ‘The Adults For England Party want to make sure that children are under control, not like they was before.’ She gave an apologetic shrug to the row in front who had turned to scowl at her.
‘Yes, and that’s a good thing,’ said Benson, ‘isn’t it?’ Silence. ‘Isn’t it?’ he repeated.
‘Yes, sir,’ muttered the class.
‘That’s right, because for too long you lot had been spoiled and indulged and it wasn’t doing you any good, was it?’
‘No, sir,’ muttered the class.
‘And who can tell me what the Seven Cs are?’
Lewis’s hand went up. ‘Is it the Atlantic, the Pacific, the Mediterranean…’
Benson interrupted. ‘What’s your name, boy?’
‘Spottiswood, sir. Lewis Spottiswood.’
Benson got out a little black book and wrote it down.
They had actually covered this in Civics the previously week and at least one person in the room had been paying attention. To everyone’s surprise it was Push. She dutifully recited the Seven Cs. ‘Clean Hands, Clean Teeth, Clean Nails, Clean Thoughts, Clean Conscience, Clean Bedroom, Clean Behind The Ears.’ She turned to Parker and muttered under her hand, ‘…and a clean pair of heels.’
‘Of course, you are all entitled to your own opinions and the government wants to hear those opinions. So does anyone think that those are not worthy and lofty goals to aim for?’
The sullen silence wafted around the classroom. ‘Anyone at all,’ Benson scanned the room.
‘No, sir,’ muttered the class.
‘Wonderful. I’m sure the Prime Minister will be delighted to visit such responsible and thoughtful citizens.’ He got up to go but before he left the room he scribbled a hasty note on a page torn from his notebook and handed it to the teacher. The teachers eyes scanned the room until they alighted on Lewis. She didn’t look particularly amused. Lewis got the distinct impression that his expertise with a potato peeler might be in even more demand in the near future.
* * * * *
And so it went. Showers; Brown Stuff; parade; exercises; training; lessons; more training; association; Brown Stuff; lectures; speeches; jumping up on things; jumping down from things; jumping on the spot; waving your arms around; Brown Stuff and jelly; Lights Out; sleep. Day in. Day out.
There was no telly. There were no books. Playing cards was the only approved recreation of any sort and it became almost a religion to them. When they got bored with Snap and Patience, they picked up the rules of Poker from some of the older kids. Lewis became quite good at it and before long he was betting his jelly against promises from fellow cadets to help him with his extra-curricular duties. Which was quite handy since his jankers had been extended to twenty days following the Benson incident. The last few days of his punishment seemed to fly by as great platefuls of potatoes were handed out of the kitchen windows and distributed to the less successful poker players for processing.
All went well until Regimental Sergeant McCabe uncovered the scam and decided that Lewis should learn the art of floor scrubbing. He was allocated a classroom with an unusually grubby, greasy wooden floor and given a bucket of soapy water and a toothbrush. McCabe, it appeared, did have a sense of humour after all. ‘Just like old times,’ he chuckled to Corporal Smith. ‘Just like old times.’
Chapter Seven
Normal summer holidays consist of about two weeks doing sod all, two weeks wondering whether you should be doing something other than sod all, two weeks of complaining about having sod all to do and one week of frantically doing all the things you should have done in the first six weeks before time is up and you are shuffled back to dreaded school in September.
After only two weeks of boot camp, the cadets were beginning to fantasise about normal school, with normal lessons, normal teachers, normal homework and normal detentions. But just when the drudgery and hardship of Flintwick Youth Correction Facility became too much to bear, events took a turn for the better. Or, at least, for the not-quite-so terrible.
A notice appeared on each classroom door announcing that Outward Bounds trips would begin in the next few days.
‘What’s that mean?’ said Lewis, peering over Push’s shoulder.
‘‘‘You will be taken on a coach to Dankstone Moor,’’’ she read. ‘‘‘Cadets will receive one hour of basic survival training from SAS experts. Cadets will then be bussed to various dropping off points on the moor and expected to find their own way back to designated pick up points.’’’
‘Well, if it gets me out of scrubbing floors…’ said Lewis.
‘Ohh, goody,’ said Push. ‘I luuuuuv Bear Grylls.’
* * * * *
On Saturday they were herded onto rickety old green-painted buses. The seats smelt of urine and the upholstery had bits of metal poking out in inconvenient places. By virtue of their names being quite close alphabetically, Lewis, Push and Parker were grouped on the same coach. It had yet to occur to the military mind that splitting up such obvious troublemakers was an option. They bagged the back seats until they were forcibly ejected by bigger kids. They had to sit in front of one of the teachers who kept a beady eye on them throughout the journey.
Parker started counting the number of tanks and other military vehicles they passed until the teacher leaned forward and suggested that that kind of thing wasn’t encouraged anymore.
After two hours, they turned off the main road and up a gravely farm track. Pulling above the tree line, they could see the empty moors stretching for miles ahead of them. When the dust from the bus in front parted, they could see a complex of low farm buildings nestled under a row of oaks in a sort of dip in the moors. A sign said, “British Army Cadets Survival Training Centre”.
It was about midday so the first thing they were required to do when they disembarked was to sit on the low stone walls surrounding the camp. They were handed a little plastic tray and a plastic fork apiece. On removing the tin foil covers they discovered some grey chalky-looking cakes and some green mushy blobs. They were both Brown Stuff flavoured. ‘Yummy,’ said Parker and he stuck his thumb up to the corporal who was dishing out the trays.
The morning mist had burned away so they stayed outside in the courtyard, seated on folding chairs in the dappling shade of the oak trees. A sergeant emerged from the farmhouse and stood beside a trestle table in front of the group. He looked like a proper, fit soldier with a proper, fully-fitting uniform. Push smirked a bit.
‘Right, you lucky lads,’ he said, indifferent to those female faces staring back at him. He picked up an object in turn from the table besides him. ‘This is a compass. This is a map. This is a water container. And this is a knife. Together they are going to save your lives,’ he announced. ‘Except we can’t give you the knives for obvious reasons.’
For the next hour he described how moss only grew on certain sides of trees (but forgot to mention which side and why it was relevant), how you could get a life-saving drink from a natterjack toad (forgetting to mention that there weren’t any on Dankstone Moor) and how the knives they weren’t allowed to have could help you make a useful shelter using only g
rass and a copy of the Financial Times.
‘The first law of survival is you should always stick together. An army marches at the pace of the slowest,’ he announced proudly. ‘That is, of course, unless one of you is being an annoying little prick, in which case you get dumped.’
At the end of the hour he banged his fist down on the table and said, ‘Right. Is that all clear? Questions. Now.’ No body had any questions. Nobody had a clue what he was on about. ‘Clear as mud,’ said Parker.
They were each given a piece of paper, which could have been described as a map, a plastic compass and a plastic water bottle. They shuffled back onto the coaches and a teacher went down the aisle handing out black blindfolds
‘You wot?’ said Push.
‘Just put in on, Patel,’ said the teacher. ‘Don’t want to spoil the surprise, do you?’
The coach did a lot of bumping and lurching so they guessed they were going along rough tracks. All except for Lewis, who had slightly misapplied his blindfold and could see vaguely out of the window. After what seemed like a geological era or two they skidded to a halt and the teacher declared that it was time for them to take off their blindfolds. Push had an itchy red rash around her nose where the nylon had been rubbing.
‘Bloody brilliant,’ said Parker. ‘Middle of bloody nowhere,’ as they filed out into the bright sunshine.
Without any ceremony the soldiers, the teachers and the busses retreated back up the track and the twenty, so-called cadets were left standing in a huddle and wondering what to do next. Push surveyed the horizon. There was nothing but bracken, ferns and softly-rolling featureless moors in every direction. Occasional stumpy trees broke up the scenery but there was nothing to suggest where they were or where they should go.
A girl called Lydia, who fancied herself as something of a natural born leader, took control. ‘That,’ she pointed, ‘is south. Because that’s where the sun is and it’s just after midday. And this is the direction the map should go.’ She turned the paper round until the north on the map matched the north on the plastic compass she was holding on the palm of her hand. ‘And that,’ she announced to anyone who was listening, ‘is Head Quarters. That’s where we have to get to.’ She peered at the scale on the map and decided that it was approximately 15 miles across open country.