She started shaking her head. ‘He’s lying!’ she said.

She even did a dramatic courtroom point at my sobbing son, who by now had saturated the shoulder of Connor’s shirt with his various secretions.

Deidre weighed in.

‘Ms Simon,’ she said, adding a slight French accent to the name, as though this would buy her extra points for accuracy, for attention to detail. ‘They’re little kids. Who knows what happened? It’s his word versus hers. I think we should just draw a line under this and move on.’ She sat back, hands linked primly on her gut.

Ms Simon gave her a look filled with great concern. ‘My worry is that this is becoming a pattern of behaviour with Luna,’ she said, smiling when she said the child’s name, as though Luna were a dog who would understand only that word and none of the others.

‘What I propose, and what I hope all parties will agree is for the best, is that both children attend counselling; Samuel for his trauma, Luna for her tendency towards finding a physical outlet for her aggression. I suggest we also have Luna sign a behavioural contract, in which she promises never to touch another child without their consent. How does that sound?’

Her voice was like butter.

Luna started pulling on Deidre’s pinafore. ‘Mum, I didn’t do it,’ she said. ‘I didn’t!’ She sounded desperate.

Deidre laid a comforting hand on the top of her child’s head. ‘I’m not sending her to counselling for something she didn’t do,’ she said, smiling, looking around, hoping to find support in the room. ‘She’s only three. There’s been some confusion. That’s all.’

‘I understand this must be difficult,’ said Ms Simon. ‘However, while we cherish all our pupils at Blossomings, safety must be paramount. I’m afraid these are the conditions of Luna’s return to learning. If they don’t suit your needs, I will completely understand if you would like to enrol her elsewhere.’

Deidre took a moment to comb her fingers through Luna’s beautiful strawberry-blonde hair. The child clung to her mother, staring at me, at Connor, at Samuel, with genuine fear and genuine hatred. The expression on her mother’s face showed, in a less raw manner, that she felt the same way.

She swallowed and it was audible. ‘I think I see what’s happening here,’ she said. Her voice was trembling. ‘This little snake of a child’ – here she looked at Samuel, who was still snivelling – ‘has invented a story to get my daughter into trouble. He’s gone so far as to throw himself off the equipment, and because you’re so scared of a fucking lawsuit —’

‘Language,’ I said, not quite under my breath.