The new man looked slightly taken aback to be addressed by a member of staff. “Er—I’m Winter, sir,” he said. “Do you mind if I finish? I just thought—it’s so dusty in here. I’ve done the floors already, but—”

His voice was more cultured than I’d expected, but hesitant, like that of a man who might have stuttered as a boy.

“Of course. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Winter.”

He looked a little surprised at that. The likes of the Bursar and Bob Strange always call ancillary staff by their Christian names. But I make no such assumptions. Until he tells me otherwise, my new cleaner will be Mr. Winter, as I shall be Mr. Straitley to him.

“And where are you from, Mr. Winter?”

“White City. Near Bank End.”

At least he’s a local. That’s a good sign. Not as good as Mary, who called us her boys and sometimes brought me slices of cake, homemade and heavy as concrete, which she left, wrapped in a napkin, in the bottom drawer of my desk, for me to find in the mornings. But better than a member of a contract crew from Sheffield or Leeds, working for the minimum wage and for half the time spent by the old team.

I finished my tea and put down the mug. “Licorice allsort?”

I held up the bag. Winter chose a blue one. I selected a sandwich; pink and yellow over black. The sharing of food has always provided an elementary connection. It works with everyone—colleagues, boys; even Devine enjoys the odd austere morning cup of coffee. Of course, the likes of Dr. Devine would never be seen hobnobbing with a man in overalls. But in thirty-four years I have learned that the ancillary staff—the Porter, the cleaners, the secretaries—actually run St. Oswald’s. This is an open secret that folk such as he and Mr. Strange do not understand, being mostly obsessed with status, money, the National Curriculum, and other completely irrelevant things.

“Careful, Mr. Winter,” I said. “Don’t be too harsh on the dust, if you please. The dust and I are old friends. We understand each other.”

He smiled. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

By now he had finished the doorframe and moved on to the top of the bookshelves. I doubted anyone had cleaned up there since Mary’s predecessor—Gloria, with the Spanish eyes. Well, at least he’s thorough, I thought. But efficiency isn’t everything. There ought to be room for more than that. There ought to be room for loyalty.