I couldn’t tell her it was about me and Jake following Granddad in the park. I couldn’t tell her anything when she was that upset.

‘How do you think it makes me look? Getting called into school like that? I had to take time off work, and you know I can’t afford to.’

I thought about saying that if she was around more it might not have happened, but she’d have gone totally mad if I had. So I just stared into the footwell, or out of the window, or fiddled with the zip on my bag – anything but look at her. The last thing she said to me was that she was really upset, and when we got home I’d have to go to my room. ‘No TV. No phone. No Fortnightly, or whatever it is, just sit and wait till Dad gets home.’

That was yesterday. Luckily for me, Dad got back too late, but unluckily for me, Mum had to take the day off to stay at home with me today. And I can tell she’s not happy because she’s downstairs slamming doors like she’s lost something. I already feel bad about Granddad, and her banging around is making me feel even worse.

I sit down at my desk and reach for my history book.

Write an account of what it felt like to be in the trenches in the First World War. In particular, think about the conditions they were living in.

I look out of the window. I should be able to do this. All I have to do is imagine I’m out in the tree with Jake, firing our cannons, sharpening our bayonets. I pick up my pen and start to write . . .

If I was a soldier in the trenches, I would be tired, and my feet would be wet

And . . . and . . . and what’s next? Think about the conditions; think about what it’d be like to watch other people die. It’d be cold and wet . . . I’ve already got that . . . And men would be shouting and screaming like me and Jake when we run for cover. But how do I write that?

I tap my pen on my desk. I tap my pen against my head. I look over our tree to Granddad’s house. I wish he’d come out. I hope he’s okay. I hope he eats tonight. I thought he just didn’t want to talk to anyone.

I look down at my book, tap my pen on the page.

What next?

What next?

It’s all in my head, but it won’t come out. What next?