Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy(98)

The boys were running round the sports court kicking balls, the mothers chatting round the East Finchley steps. Suddenly, a black BMW roared right up to the school, the driver, an idiotically flashy-looking father, talking on his mobile.

Mr Wallaker strode to the car. ‘Excuse me.’

The father ignored him, continuing to talk on his phone, engine still running. Mr Wallaker rapped on the window. ‘Cars are not allowed in the school grounds. Park in the street, please.’

The window slid open. ‘Time is money for some of us, my friend.’

‘It’s a safety issue.’

‘Phaw. Safety. I’ll be two minutes.’

Mr Wallaker gave him the stare. ‘Move. The car.’

Still holding the phone to his ear, the father angrily slammed the BMW into gear, reversing without looking, turned the wheel with a screech and backed towards the sports court, straight into the heavy steel pole supporting the fence.

As everyone turned to stare, the father, red-faced, jammed his foot on the accelerator, forgetting to take the car out of reverse, and rammed the post again. There was a sickening crack and the post started to topple.

‘Boys!’ yelled Mr Wallaker. ‘Get away from the fence! Scramble!’

It all seemed to be in slow motion. As the boys scattered and ran, the heavy metal post tottered, then fell into the sports court, pulling the fence with it and landing with a terrifying bounce and crash. At the same time the car slid backwards, the front wheels still on the concrete yard, the rear wheels half over the pit of the sports court below.

Everyone froze, stunned, except Mr Wallaker, who leaped down into the pit, yelling, ‘Call 999! Weight the front of the car! Boys! Line up at the other end.’

Unbelievably, the BMW dad was starting to open his door.

‘You! Stay still!’ yelled Mr Wallaker, but the car was already sliding further backwards, the wheels now completely hanging over the drop.

I scanned the boys at the other end of the court. Billy! Where was Billy?

‘Take Mabel!’ I said to Nicolette, and ran to the side of the sports court.

Mr Wallaker was below me in the pit, calm, eyes flicking over the scene. I forced myself to look.

The heavy metal post was now wedged at a diagonal, one end against the wall of the pit and the other on the ground. The fence lay at an angle, buckled, hanging from the post like a ridge tent. Cowering in the small gap beneath the post, caged by the fallen fence, were Billy, Bikram and Jeremiah, their little faces staring, terrified, at Mr Wallaker. The wall was behind them, the fence trapping them in front and at the sides, the rear of the big car hanging above them.

I let out a gasp and jumped down into the pit.

‘It’ll be all right,’ Mr Wallaker said quietly. ‘I’ve got this.’

He crouched down. ‘OK, Superheroes, this is your big break. Wriggle back to the wall and curl up. Brace positions.’

Looking more excited than scared now, the boys wriggled themselves back and curled up, arms over their little heads.

‘Good work, Troopers,’ Mr Wallaker said, and started to lift the heavy fence from the ground. ‘Now . . .’

Suddenly, with a sickening screech of metal against concrete, the BMW slid further backwards, dislodging bits of debris, the back end swinging precariously in mid-air.

There were screams from the mothers above and the wail of sirens.

‘Stay against the wall, boys!’ said Mr Wallaker, unfazed. ‘This is going to be good!’

He stooped under the car, stepping carefully onto the fallen fence. He raised his arms and thrust the whole of his strength against the chassis. I could see the muscles straining in his forearms, in his neck, beneath his shirt.

‘WEIGHT THE FRONT OF THE CAR!’ he yelled up to the yard, sweat beading his forehead. ‘LADIES! ELBOWS ON THE BONNET!’

I glanced up to see teachers and mothers leaping out of their shock, throwing themselves like startled chickens on the bonnet. Slowly, as Mr Wallaker strained upwards, the rear of the car lifted.

‘OK, boys,’ he said, still pushing upwards. ‘Stay close to the wall. Crawl to your right, away from the car. Then get yourselves out from under that fence.’

I rushed to the edge of the fallen chain-fence, more parents and teachers joining me now. Between us we struggled to lift the buckled metal, the three boys wriggling towards the edge, Billy the last one in line.

Firemen were jumping down, lifting the fence, pulling Bikram out – the metal ripping his shirt – then Jeremiah. Billy was still in there. As Jeremiah wriggled free, I reached forward and put my arms under Billy’s, feeling as though I had the strength of ten men, and pulled, sobbing with relief as Billy came free and the firemen pulled us out of the pit.

‘That’s the last one! Come on!’ yelled Mr Wallaker, still shaking under the weight of the car. The firemen jumped under to support him, stepping on the fence, their weight crushing it down into the space where, seconds before, the three boys had been cowering.

‘Where’s Mabel?’ yelled Billy dramatically. ‘We have to save her!’

The three boys charged off through the crowd in the yard, with the air of supermen with flapping capes. I followed, to find Mabel standing calmly beside a hyperventilating Nicolette.

Billy threw his arms round Mabel, yelling, ‘I’ve saved her! I’ve saved my sister! Are you all right, sister?’