Taking Maud with her on her walks has become second nature now. Tess is always grateful. ‘Thank you, Lizzie, always so much to do. I’d love to have time to wander over hills and dales with the old girl, but duties prevail.’ Tess is certainly married to her job, but her adoration of Maud is obvious. The Jack Russell has baskets and blankets all over the place, and a chicken breast of her own cooked on Sundays. ‘Saved my life, that dog,’ Tess says. ‘All she has to do is wag her tail.’

Maud seems to understand her elevated status in the house, and occasionally climbs, Siamese-cat-like, atop a pile of clean washing. ‘Hey, Lady Muck, get off,’ Tess says, with mock sternness, then to Lizzie, ‘Only a bit of dog hair, no harm done.’

Lenny forgets himself in the breeze, as only children and kites can. He takes his arms out of the sleeves of his coat, does up the top button and lets his cape fly him across the hill. ‘Look, Mum! I’m Superman!’

Lizzie chases him until they are red-cheeked, still catching their breath as they walk up the lane to school, which, Lizzie is relieved to see, is hidden away up a dirt track. Giant conifers shield the playgrounds, and wooden doors, too high to see over, are locked shut. ‘That’ll do, Pig,’ she says to Lenny, who snorts on cue.

She presses the buzzer and waits until a tinny voice says, ‘St Jude’s. How can I help?’

Lizzie gives her name and Lenny’s and they stand back as the doors creak open. A gravel path leads down to a glass-fronted dining room next to the main entrance, where pot plants break up the red-brick walls. Lizzie, not sure on their dog policy, or what dogs think about being held, asks, ‘Can I pick you up, Maud?’ The dog sits down, which Lizzie takes as a yes. ‘Thank you. It’s only for a second.’

‘See? Isn’t this nice?’ Lizzie says to Lenny in a chirpy voice as she signs them in. ‘Lunch smells good, too.’

It doesn’t. It smells of every school dinner in the world. Chips and spilled milk. Lizzie moves on into the foyer, following her nose. Shoe polish and nit shampoo. Sun cream and Dettol. Moth-eaten beanbags. Sweaty plimsolls. Herself. Lizzie can smell her old self in here. Wishes she was behind one of those closed doors, with a class of children in front of her and a whiteboard behind. Armed with her marker pen, her projector and the curriculum.