Justin Richards - Thunder Raker

Miss Jones is responsible for teaching Class 3D the ordinary everyday subjects like Maths and English and History. She’s newly-qualified, quiet and unassuming. Like Miss Jones, all the subject teachers at Thunder Raker Manor are fully qualified and at the very peak of their profession. Many of them are former agents and spies, so together they bring a wealth of experience to the school.

Mr Cryption—teaches Codes. He’s tall and thin and no one understands anything he says.

Miss Fortune teaches Assassination. Her classes always seem to be a few pupils short—they get sent on errands or asked to help fetch something, and never come back…Note, though, that Class 3D is too young for Assassination, which is only taught in the Sixth Form.

Sir Westerly Compass is in charge of Tracking Skills. He’s always late for class, and his lessons are often moved at short notice.

The Major—that’s all he’s ever called—is in charge of Sabotage Training. He has an enormous moustache and he’s rather accident prone. Everything he touches breaks—even the plate he gets his school dinner on…

Mrs Nuffink teaches Surveillance. Don’t mess around in her class—she’s got eyes in the back of her head. No, really.

Camouflage is supposed to be taught by Mr Trick. But no one can find him.

The Chaplain is Reverend “Bongo” Smithers, a former fighter pilot more interested in war stories than Bible stories. He also teaches PE. Ruthlessly.

Peace of Mind

So whatever your parental requirements or security clearance, you can rest assured that Thunder Raker Manor will provide a first class education for your child in every respect. We can’t tell you how much the children enjoy being here. No, really—we can’t. It’s an official secret.

Alfie’s dad had a very ordinary name. Loads and loads of people had exactly the same name. In fact, one of those people who had the same very ordinary name was the Prime Minister.

And that was how the misunderstanding happened.

When Alfie’s dad got a new job and the whole family moved house, Alfie’s parents wanted him to go to the very best school in the area, a school where he would be happy and would learn lots.

One morning, while Alfie was eating his cornflakes and his mum was making toast, Alfie’s dad came home from work. This was not as strange as it might sound, because Alfie’s dad was a postman so he started work very early and finished when Alfie and his mum were just starting their day.

Alfie’s dad dropped his postman’s cap on the table beside Alfie’s cornflakes and declared, “I’ve found it.”

“Your cap?” Alfie asked. “I didn’t know you’d lost it.”

“No,” said Dad. “I have found your new school.”

The cornflakes in Alfie’s mouth became a

spray of soggy breakfast that spattered across Dad’s cap. “School?!”

“You have to go to school,” Dad pointed out. “Ask your mother.”

“Mum?” Alfie said.

“You have to go to school,” Mum said. “Ask your dad.”

Alfie sighed.

“What’s the school like?” Alfie’s mum asked.

Alfie’s dad sat down and helped himself to a slice of toast. “It’s a strange looking place. I didn’t realise it even was a school until this morning. Their post comes in a special sealed bag. I just hand it to a man in uniform at the gate. He has a hat too, very official.”

“Where is it?” Alfie asked.

“On his head, of course,” said Alfie’s dad.

“I think he means the school,” Mum said. “Not the hat.”

“Oh. It’s just up the road. The big old house behind the electric fences and security gates.”

“I thought that was a government place,” Mum said. “Secret.”

“No,” Dad assured her. “It’s a school. I know that because their special post bag is labelled ‘Thunder Raker Manor School’.”

“Weird name,” Alfie said. But he wasn’t surprised: he’d seen the big house Dad was talking about and it was pretty weird too. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to go to a school that had security gates and electric fences round it. He was a quiet boy who liked to keep himself to himself and not cause or get into trouble. Security gates and electric fences sounded like trouble.

“The man at the gate says it’s the best school of its kind in the country, maybe in the world,” Dad said proudly. “And it’s in our neighbourhood. And I think we should send Alfie there.”

“But it looks weird,” Alfie said, very quietly.

Dad didn’t seem to hear him, and Mum was buttering more toast. “Good,” she said. “The new term starts next week, so I’m glad that’s all sorted.”

That afternoon, Alfie’s dad wrote a letter. He addressed it to The Head Teacher, Thunder Raker Manor School. The next day he would slip the letter into the special post bag before he handed it to the man at the gate.

Alfie’s dad signed the letter with his name—his very ordinary and not at all unusual name that he just happened to share with the Prime Minister. And because Alfie’s dad knew that his name was very ordinary and not at all unusual, he put in brackets after it the letters “PM”, for Post Man, so that the Head Teacher would be sure to know who the letter had come from.

And that’s how the misunderstanding really got going.

“Come in, come in,” called Mr Trenchard, the head teacher of Thunder Raker Manor, when Miss Jones knocked on his door. He peered at her suspiciously over a pair of wire-framed spectacles. “Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m Miss Jones.”

Mr Trenchard gave a funny sort of cough. “Never heard of you. What do you want?”

“You sent for me, Mr Trenchard.”

He tried looking at her through the spectacles, in case that made any difference. “Why would I do that?” he said.

“I teach Class 3D,” Miss Jones said patiently. This was not the first time Mr Trenchard had claimed not to know her. “Miss Jones, remember?”

Mr Trenchard considered this. “Are you wearing a disguise?”

“No.”

“Is that beard real, then?”

Miss Jones frowned. She was a young lady who considered herself to be rather attractive. “I don’t have a beard.“

“Ah, so it’s a false one then. Oh, no, hang on, my mistake.” Mr Trenchard pulled off his spectacles and examined them carefully. “Bit of fluff on my glasses.”

He gave them a polish on the sleeve of his jacket. “There, that’s better. Now, I’m glad you’re here, because I’ve had this letter,”—he picked it up and waved it about vigorously—“from the PM—the Prime Minister. So it’s probably very secret. Best way to deal with secrets, I find, is to forget them straight away. I used to practice that when I was younger, you know. I got to be terribly good at forgetting things. Do it all the time now. Just goes to show what practice can do.” Mr Trenchard nodded happily. “I’m good at forgetting things too,” he said proudly.

“So what does the letter say?” Miss Jones asked.

Mr Trenchard looked blank.

“The letter in your hand, from the PM,” Miss Jones said.

“Ah, yes, very important.” Mr Trenchard brandished the letter excitedly. “The Prime Minister wants us to take a new boy, a lad called Alfie. Must be a pretty special chap if the PM has written personally to tell us about him. He will start next week when the new term begins.” Mr Trenchard clicked his tongue. “Didn’t realise the old term had ended actually,” he muttered. “Oh well. Anyway, yes. Alfie—he’ll be in Class 3D. Don’t suppose you know who teaches that class?”