Jamie finds me first thing on Monday morning. He’s glowing. Apparently, he scored a hat-trick, including one direct from a corner. I don’t mention the apparent competence of the opposition’s goalkeeper, and let him enjoy his glory.

‘You do Burgoyne’s homework?’

We’d had to write a response to a Thomas Hardy poem about war. The poem was from the point of view of a soldier who was talking about his experience and how strange it is trying to shoot someone that, if you’d met them in a pub or something, you might get along with quite well.

‘Yeah, you?’

‘A bit. Didn’t really get it. Wrote something about the soldier not really liking war. It’ll do.’

After Mum had gone to bed last night, I’d written about two hundred words explaining how the soldier was clearly just bad at his job, and that in wartime it was treasonous to consider the humanity of your enemy; if you were fighting for your country, it was your patriotic duty to kill those who threatened your home and way of life. I’d finished it with the words from that title card; that the only things that matter are protecting the existence of our people and a future for our children.

But I don’t tell Jamie this.

From across the playground, the new kid, Ahmed, is walking towards us. Jamie raises a hand in greeting.

‘And this is the man who made it all possible,’ says Jamie, clapping Ahmed on the back. Ahmed smiles, looking slightly embarrassed. ‘This guy endured wind and freezing temperatures to cheer me, to cheer us, to victory.’

‘You like football?’ I ask.

‘Yes, very much!’ Ahmed replies. Again that warm, soft voice. ‘I’ve been a Man City fan for years. Since I can remember. Though my father was always annoyed with this. He thought I should follow Al Ittihad, like him.’

‘Al who?’ My face is steel, strong, impassive.

‘Al Ittihad, best team in Syria, or were. They’re from my hometown, Halab.’

Again I look blank, shrug my shoulders.

‘Aleppo. Here, it’s called Aleppo.’

‘So why not call it Aleppo?’ From the corner of my eyes – which are levelled hard at Ahmed – I see Jamie’s jaw tense, his forehead furrow. I know this is a ridiculous argument, but there’s no way I’m backing down.

‘It’s just pronunciation, I guess.’

‘Well, you’re in England now.’

Jamie steps forward to speak, but Ahmed smiles – a wide and generous grin. ‘Yeah, I’d noticed. I’ve been here for years and still can’t seem to get it right. Maybe you could teach me?’

Trying too hard, Jamie latches onto Ahmed’s joke and laughs. ‘Come on, that was the bell.’

They walk just ahead of me. All the way to lessons I stare at the back of Ahmed’s head.

*