‘I’m Ms Mazur.’ She held out her hand to shake over the car roof. ‘Shit, that sounds like one of He-Man’s enemies, doesn’t it? Mesmerising Mezmasur. I didn’t just say shit, did I?’

‘It’s fine, Mezmasur.’ Pax shook it, finding a smile creeping through her scowl. ‘I’m too mesmerised to notice.’

And the strangest thing was, she did feel pleasantly hypnotised by Bridge Mazur, by this warm glow of déjà vu. Pax could taste the memory of that old friendship in her mouth like lime and salt, feel the rush of her blood pumping faster. Seventeen again, rebellious and courageous. The first friend she’d made after she’d run away to London had been a girl from Belfast, with the same grey almond eyes as this woman. Over cheap weed and tequila, she’d restored Pax’s sense of humour.

‘Truth is, I don’t actually work here yet,’ Bridge confessed in a whisper. ‘This is my job interview and if you come back in with me, I’ll get it.’

‘Do you really want that woman as a boss?’

‘I really do. Please help me out. You don’t have to send your wee lad here, just humour Mrs Bollock for five minutes.’

‘Bullock.’

‘That’s her name now.’ Noi she pronounced it, a once-familiar riff. ‘She’s a livewire; original Minerva McGonagall, so she is. Devoted to this place.’

Pax looked up at the Victorian school’s red-brick face, the two inverted V gables glowing like chunks of Toblerone, its gingerbread too sweet to be soured by the fierce headmistress. Kes was extremely fond of sharp-tongued women if his affection for both grandmothers was anything to go by, and at least it spared her being trapped in a car with Luca again. She could pay it lip service then leave.

Luca was still yabbering on the phone.

‘Okay, I’ll take a quick look,’ she said, joining Bridge who hurried her back up the path, signalling to a first-floor window, then pointing towards the classrooms. Pax spotted Mrs Bullock with a phone receiver pressed to one side of her glossy blonde bob making frantic hand gestures and miming a throat being cut.

‘The Head is preparing to teach Class Four about the French Revolution,’ Bridge said smoothly. ‘She’ll catch us up.’

*

As soon as Bridge began guiding Pax Forsyth round the same lap of the school that she’d recently taken, she could hazard a guess why Mrs Bullock had made throat-cutting gestures from her window. The classrooms, a bastion of calm discipline minutes earlier, had descended into pandemonium, rulers, exercise books and Sharpies flying, the wall of sound painful. The small boy in headphones from Class Three, now in possession of bongos, was lost in a Hendrix-like trance. In another classroom a cookery lesson was taking place beneath a fog of flour and icing sugar. Outside, a herd of ten-year-olds in red sweatshirts appeared to be trying to bury each other in mud.

‘Lovely age to be!’ Bridge shouted over the din, guessing it was a far cry from the hushed, cloistered seats of learning the family was accustomed to.