‘He’s a good cricketer,’ Clancy offered.

Mrs Hoffernan smiled. ‘My husband will be delighted.’

They would move into town for Benjamin’s schooling, for at least the first year or two, though Clancy would need to go back often to see to the property, and Rose needed the stars for a ceiling now and then, and to see and do things he knew enough now not to question.

When he was older perhaps, Benjamin could board with the family of one of his friends. Clancy bought a house — just a cottage, small enough not to need servants — a little way out of town, and a bicycle, a gift to his son for his schooling.

There was no uniform. But Benjamin had new shorts, a new hat, new boots, new shirt, his hair freshly cut by the barber who cut Clancy’s hair now and did not raise objections to his son’s presence in his shop. Nor did Mrs Lee at the Stores when she helped Clancy choose the new clothes, and then gave Benjamin a bag of lollies to take home.

Rose did not accompany them. Once Benjamin was established at the school, she planned to go to church and, when all were used to her there on her husband’s arm, perhaps even join the Literary Society. Clancy had found over the years that more-educated people were the most tolerant of dark skin.

Benjamin spent half an hour combing his hair on his first school morning, packing and repacking his school case with pencils and coloured pencils and the book for sums and the book for writing. Clancy suspected that all he’d be using would be slates for the first few months, or even years, but he wanted his son to have everything.

He saw him to the school gate on the bicycle. Mrs Hoffernan must have seen them from her window, for she met them at the school gate. ‘Good morning, Mr Clancy. And you must be Benjamin. Come, and I’ll introduce you to your teacher and some of the boys.’ She took his hand and led him through the mob of children, many of whom were staring at the dark boy. Or, possibly, at his shining new bicycle. Benjamin could give them rides . . .

Ben’s hair was just as neat when he walked up the path that lunchtime, though the front wheel of the bicycle was bent; he was pushing the bike along on its back wheel. Clancy had been snoozing over the newspaper — a luxury, a newspaper that was less than a month old. The boy’s face was tight, expressionless. ‘I’m sorry about the bicycle, Dad. It was like it when I went outside again. Mr Hoffernan asked me to give you this.’ He handed his father a note, put down his bag, then went to his room and shut the door.

The handwriting was perfect copperplate.

Dear Mr Clancy,