My hearing with the New Head has been confirmed for next Monday. I already know what it will bring. The presence of my Union representative (Dr. Devine in person) suggests that I shall receive a written warning, pending further inquiries. Ms. Buckfast is already collecting ammunition—she thinks I don’t know about this, but I do. The trace of her scent between lessons betrays her visits to room 59; besides which, my Brodie Boys see everything, and report to me accordingly.

This was why I was unsurprised, returning to room 59 after my usual cup of tea after School in the Common Room, to find La Buckfast herself at my desk, reading a book of Latin verse.

“You’re looking a little tired,” she said.

“Really? I’ve never been better.”

Ms. Buckfast put down the Latin book. “I was hoping we might have a chat.”

I did not reply immediately, but instead went to my desk drawer and found a bag of licorice allsorts. I offered her one. She took a pink coconut ice. Funny. I hadn’t thought of her until then as a pink person.

“So, what is it today?” I said. “Boys not cooperating? Some complaint about irregular verbs? School mash not lumpy enough? Or just another pep talk on the inevitability of Progress?”

La Buckfast smiled. It occurred to me once again that Ms. Buckfast reminds me of our erstwhile Miss Dare. Beneath all that professional veneer, there’s something else in hiding.

“Benedicta Wild,” she said.

“Ben, to her friends.” My heart sank. “You’re not telling me she’s made a complaint, are you?”

That smile again. “No, Roy, she hasn’t. But the Headmistress, Miss Lambert, feels she’s spending rather too much time with you and— What do you call them? Your Brodie Boys?”

“I work in my room at lunchtimes,” I said. “Boys—and anyone else—are free to stay and socialize, if they please. As for Call-me-Jo, I thought she was only too happy to see her girls fraternizing with our boys.”

“It really depends on which boys,” said Ms. Buckfast. “Benedicta’s . . . circumstances mean that a friendship with Allen-Jones may not be the kind Mulberry House wants to encourage. She’s going through a rebellious phase, and—”

“You mean a homosexual phase?”

“Roy, please,” said Ms. Buckfast. “I think you ought to step away.”

There’s something about her tone of voice when she uses my Christian name. A kind of soothing, coaxing note, as if addressing an old horse. I found myself bristling at the sound, and the invisible digit that always lurks, ready to prod at my breastbone, gave an angry little twitch.