Oksa Pollock: The Last Hope Read Online Free
Author: Anne Plichota and Cendrine Wolf
her hand too. “We’ve just arrived in London. I’m Oksa Pollock.”
“I’m Gustave Bellanger. But you can call me Gus.”
“Well, Gus. She’s Cave-Girl,” he said, jutting his chin discreetly towards a remarkably large girl with a bad-tempered expression. “Her real name is Hilda Richard and all I’d say is that no one who’s had any contact at all with that girl is likely to forget the experience in a hurry.”
“Why’s that?” asked Gus.
Merlin sighed, looking serious.
“She’s all about ambushes, bruises and humiliation, if you get what I mean? Well, that’s life… Welcome to St Proximus!”
“I warn you, Gus,” said Oksa through gritted teeth, “if you’re not in my class and I have to be with that girl, I swear I’ll have a fit, a real one.”
“Ah, that’s the roll call,” said Merlin briskly, suddenly standing up straighter. “Let’s go nearer.”
Surrounded by the schoolteachers, Lucien Bontempi, the Headmaster of St Proximus, was perched on a small platform, tapping the microphone in front of him. His chubby cheeks and bulky figure gave him the appearance of a roly-poly clown, an impression enhanced by his apple-green tie and the orange handkerchief in the breast pocket of his jacket. However, as soon as he began giving his short speech, everyone realized that his firm, authoritative tone was in marked contrast to his affable figure.
“Next we’ll come to what you’ve all been waiting for: class allocation. As is customary at London’s French school, the three classes in every year are named after chemical elements: Mercury, Hydrogen and Carbon. We’ll begin the roll call with the youngest: Year 7.”
The names were read out one by one at regular intervals and the uniformed schoolchildren gradually formed lines. But at the end of the second list, Mr Bontempi’s voice suddenly faltered.
“Williams, Alexandre,” he called.
The Headmaster beckoned to a young boy who came over, accompanied by a very pale woman dressed all in black. Visibly upset, theHeadmaster placed his hand on the boy’s head, leant over and whispered a few words into his ear.
“Is that his son?” murmured Oksa to Merlin.
“No,” he replied. “That’s the son of the maths teacher who was found dead in the Thames two weeks ago.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Oksa, upset. “How awful—was it suicide?”
“No, he was murdered,” continued Merlin in a confidential tone. “A terrible murder. It was in all the papers.”
“Poor boy,” said Oksa, swallowing with difficulty.
Suppressing a shudder, she concentrated again on the roll call of students.
“Now, the Year 8 Hydrogen class with Dr McGraw,” shouted Mr Bontempi, inviting a tall, thin man to come and stand by his side. “Will the following students please step forward: Beck, Zelda… Bellanger, Gustave…” Gus shouted “Here!” and, giving Oksa one last look and a smile, he went over to the group gradually forming in front of Dr McGraw. Oksa’s heart was beating fit to burst. Her eyelids fluttered nervously over her large grey eyes and she felt as if the heartbeats thumping against her chest were echoing off the walls of the courtyard like the names as they were read out one by one by the Headmaster. She felt terribly alone. She looked around for her parents. They were only a few yards away. Her father was making encouraging signs to her, clenching his fists. Feeling better, she gave him a little wave. At his side, Marie and Dragomira were grinning widely. Oksa’s eyes were suddenly drawn to a movement on her gran’s skirt: for a nanosecond, she thought she saw the embroidered hinds leaping as they frantically chased each other! Her eyes had to be playing tricks on her because of the stress. How she hated feeling stressed.
“I can’t start seeing things now… please let this be over soon, let me be in Hydrogen! Please say Pollock, P-O-L-L-O-C-K
,
say it now,”
she thought to herself, closing her eyes and crossing her fingers so
“I’m Gustave Bellanger. But you can call me Gus.”
“Well, Gus. She’s Cave-Girl,” he said, jutting his chin discreetly towards a remarkably large girl with a bad-tempered expression. “Her real name is Hilda Richard and all I’d say is that no one who’s had any contact at all with that girl is likely to forget the experience in a hurry.”
“Why’s that?” asked Gus.
Merlin sighed, looking serious.
“She’s all about ambushes, bruises and humiliation, if you get what I mean? Well, that’s life… Welcome to St Proximus!”
“I warn you, Gus,” said Oksa through gritted teeth, “if you’re not in my class and I have to be with that girl, I swear I’ll have a fit, a real one.”
“Ah, that’s the roll call,” said Merlin briskly, suddenly standing up straighter. “Let’s go nearer.”
Surrounded by the schoolteachers, Lucien Bontempi, the Headmaster of St Proximus, was perched on a small platform, tapping the microphone in front of him. His chubby cheeks and bulky figure gave him the appearance of a roly-poly clown, an impression enhanced by his apple-green tie and the orange handkerchief in the breast pocket of his jacket. However, as soon as he began giving his short speech, everyone realized that his firm, authoritative tone was in marked contrast to his affable figure.
“Next we’ll come to what you’ve all been waiting for: class allocation. As is customary at London’s French school, the three classes in every year are named after chemical elements: Mercury, Hydrogen and Carbon. We’ll begin the roll call with the youngest: Year 7.”
The names were read out one by one at regular intervals and the uniformed schoolchildren gradually formed lines. But at the end of the second list, Mr Bontempi’s voice suddenly faltered.
“Williams, Alexandre,” he called.
The Headmaster beckoned to a young boy who came over, accompanied by a very pale woman dressed all in black. Visibly upset, theHeadmaster placed his hand on the boy’s head, leant over and whispered a few words into his ear.
“Is that his son?” murmured Oksa to Merlin.
“No,” he replied. “That’s the son of the maths teacher who was found dead in the Thames two weeks ago.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Oksa, upset. “How awful—was it suicide?”
“No, he was murdered,” continued Merlin in a confidential tone. “A terrible murder. It was in all the papers.”
“Poor boy,” said Oksa, swallowing with difficulty.
Suppressing a shudder, she concentrated again on the roll call of students.
“Now, the Year 8 Hydrogen class with Dr McGraw,” shouted Mr Bontempi, inviting a tall, thin man to come and stand by his side. “Will the following students please step forward: Beck, Zelda… Bellanger, Gustave…” Gus shouted “Here!” and, giving Oksa one last look and a smile, he went over to the group gradually forming in front of Dr McGraw. Oksa’s heart was beating fit to burst. Her eyelids fluttered nervously over her large grey eyes and she felt as if the heartbeats thumping against her chest were echoing off the walls of the courtyard like the names as they were read out one by one by the Headmaster. She felt terribly alone. She looked around for her parents. They were only a few yards away. Her father was making encouraging signs to her, clenching his fists. Feeling better, she gave him a little wave. At his side, Marie and Dragomira were grinning widely. Oksa’s eyes were suddenly drawn to a movement on her gran’s skirt: for a nanosecond, she thought she saw the embroidered hinds leaping as they frantically chased each other! Her eyes had to be playing tricks on her because of the stress. How she hated feeling stressed.
“I can’t start seeing things now… please let this be over soon, let me be in Hydrogen! Please say Pollock, P-O-L-L-O-C-K
,
say it now,”
she thought to herself, closing her eyes and crossing her fingers so
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