‘What did the Ribenas have in them?’ he demanded.

‘Plum gin.’ She put her face in her hands. ‘Lester has enough stored under the stairs to hospitalise a rugby club.’

‘How much have you had?’

‘Only a splash, but the man makes it navy strength.’ She looked at him through her fingers. ‘You’d think a closet alcoholic could hold her booze, but I had one lousy glass and look at me.’

‘When did you last eat?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘There’s your answer. That and the fact your measure was probably a half-pint mug.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ She buried her face in her arms. ‘Christ, I’m a terrible mother.’

‘Let’s cancel the school, shall we?’

‘God, no! I’m bloody doing this!’ she shouted into her sleeves.

‘Then I’m driving you,’ he told her wearily, standing up again. ‘And don’t blaspheme.’

‘Were you once ordained or something?’ Her voice was still muffled.

‘I’m no priest, Pax, I told you that.’

‘So the altar boy has an alter ego?’ Her face lifted, incredulous. ‘Luca the lush who gets the plum gin vibe.’

‘I get all of it, Pax,’ he said, holding out a hand to help her up.

‘And if I don’t want your help?’

‘That’s no longer an option.’

13

The sliding glass screen in the front reception area of Compton Magna’s small primary school was still polka-dotted by the nervous fingerprints of parents signing in late pupils that morning. Manning it, head teacher Auriol Bullock was moist with anticipation beneath her ruffle-necked Boden. An inch of white creeping into her burgundy bob, eyes outlined twice in kohl like a circle around a misspelling, crimson lipstick bleeding into old smoker’s creases, Auriol bore the ghost of the glamour that had won her two handsome husbands, a leading role in the Broadbourne Amateur Dramatic Society and an Ofsted ‘Good’ twice running (‘Outstanding for Parent Satisfaction’, boasted a banner on the school gates). A stickler for correct uniform, manners and posture – and for being greeted with a bright ‘Good day, Mrs Bullock!’ by all – Auriol possessed unexpected theatrical panache as well as an allergy to paperwork.

She was intensely proud of Compton Magna C of E Primary School – or ‘Maggers’ as she referred to it when emailing former colleagues – which had gifted her merriment in widowhood. Her little barn conversion in nearby Greater Compton was a haven after the sociable cathedral city years with her choirmaster late husband, and with both adult sons in the army, Auriol was a self-styled grandmother-in-waiting, early retirement beckoning. This role, a step down from her previous headship, was easing her gently into a quieter life, grateful that she had fewer of the little buggers’ names to remember in such a small school. Her memory had become increasingly unreliable throughout her fifties and faced with a long list of Mias, Ellies, Rubies, Ethans and Freddies, Auriol regularly blanked. Even worse was trying to recall what their confounded parents called themselves, which should have made it rather useful that there were so many here with one surname. Yet even thinking the name Turner made Auriol’s left eye twitch involuntarily.