‘He’s sweet.’

‘Anxious little fella, but he holds it all in. They do, boys, don’t they? You have to turn their lives upside down to let it drop out sometimes.’

‘Do you really think so?’ The all-seeing gaze was sharing her headspace again.

‘Sure! Why not?’ Bridge focussed hard on all things positive. ‘Works on men, too.’

Pax looked down, red cheeks now tinged with purple, and for the first time Bridge thought to question why Mr Pax wasn’t here.

They could still hear blood-curdling war cries coming from the playing fields, just audible over the bongos and science lesson shrieks in neighbouring classrooms and the excited artists clattering and splatting around them. Bridge watched Pax’s gaze follow the colourful little group, the way her natural warmth bubbled up through the polite restraint when a little girl came and tugged at her sleeve, demanding, ‘Who are you?’

‘Kes’s mummy.’ She was on her haunches straight away, the girl playing with her amazing hair.

‘Who is Kes?’

‘I hope you’ll meet him soon.’

Dropping down beside them, Bridge high-fived the girl, who giggled.

They watched her skip away, the friendship clicking again.

Back out in the corridor by the coat pegs, Bridge couldn’t contain her excited astonishment. ‘You’re going to bring Kester here?’

‘I’d like him to try it for a day. I’m standing up in my stirrups like you said.’

Bridge wanted to hug her. They paused by the iMacs again. ‘Sure, it’s a bit of a madhouse.’

‘Kes needs noise and chaos,’ Pax had kind creases at the edges of her eyes, ‘not cricket whites and oak-panelled corridors carved with war heroes’ names.’

‘Too fecking right!’ Bridge laughed without thinking, then clamped her hand over her mouth. ‘Shit, sorry, I swear I’ve got Tourette’s syndrome. I blame my foul-mouthed da.’

‘I inherited Debrett’s syndrome which is far worse.’

‘No titles here. Everyone’s equal, comrade.’

‘Which is why I’d like Kes to try it out.’ Pax pulled a phone from her pocket and started to type a message with a deft thumb. ‘Thank you so much for showing me around, comrade, you’ve helped enormously.’

‘I did nothing.’ Bridge shrugged, delighted. Apart from ignoring every professional jobsworth tick-box red tape bureaucratic guideline I know. Education rocked.

‘Oh, you did,’ Pax insisted, thumb still typing. ‘How’s your stomach feeling?’

‘Fierce. Yours?’

‘Better.’ She sent her message, head tilted, scrutinising Bridge’s face again. ‘You really do remind me of someone.’

‘Anyone famous?’ She hoped it would be Lady Gaga or Pink.

‘Friend from years back. We shared a house in London. Can we see the Head now?’

‘Yes, of course. I’m sure Mrs Bullock will have finished her Very Important Call by now.’ If I’m lucky, she might even remember to interview me. ‘Would you like to come this way, Mrs Forsyth?’

‘Mezmasur.’

Upstairs, Auriol Bullock had repainted her red cross-hatched lips to cover up after a comforting sugar binge, telltale biscuit crumbs in her ruffle neck, the phone still hot and covered in face powder from being pressed to her ear. Beckoning them in, she flipped over a piece of paper covered in handwritten notes and tucked it under a box file. ‘Tell me, how did you find our little slice of paradise, Mrs…?’