‘I just thought there might be a storm. Perhaps it’s my finger.’ He held up the wounded stump. He’d reached the bottom of the suitcase without success. ‘Perhaps this is all my finger. Septic, poisoned. Perhaps I’m losing my mind.’

Joan went to him and kissed the top of his head. ‘Not at all. But you have been through a terrible adventure. Perhaps you’ve been a bit too brave. You haven’t even told the Head about it, yet.’

‘No, I suppose I haven’t. Do you think I should take some time off?’

‘Perhaps it would help you to think it through. And on that matter, John, while you are so churned up, should I take it that your proposal was merely speculative? I should be glad to do so and await later confirmation.’

‘No!’ He grabbed her hand. ‘No, I’m uncertain about a lot of things, but that’s the one thing I am sure of. It was sudden, I know, but it’s certain. It’s the thing I’m hanging on to.’

Joan released the breath she’d been holding. ‘Well, then I shall take you seriously, and you will have my answer. For now, we shall take a look at that finger, and then perhaps have a cup of cocoa.’

Smith stood up to embrace her. ‘I was just thinking of cocoa. You always seem to say just the right thing.’

Alexander and Benny were making their way through the streets of town, walking quickly and keeping a lookout for the boy they’d seen. It was good to be free of their metal burden. There was a general sense of tension about the place this Saturday teatime. People were out on their steps, looking at watches and talking to each other excitedly over fences. In the market square, the stallholders were packing up, but one or two of the carts seemed to have returned, and their occupants were conducting hand-waving arguments with those that remained. The gentle rain, the first onset of the storm that was approaching, was making the pavements glisten.

They passed the town telephone box, an ornate red construction with a tiny pagodalike point on top. A man in a neat tweed suit and bowler was stepping out of it and locking it behind him.

‘I say, Horace!’ Alexander ran over to him. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Line’s down,’ Horace, whose job it was to sit in the box, make the connection for whoever wanted to make a call, and then stand outside waiting for them to complete it, explained. ‘If you want to call anyone, you could ask at the school. At least I get to go home early.’

From somewhere in the distance, there came the crack and boom of an explosion.

Horace pricked his ears up. ‘Hey-ho, the boiler’s blown on the engine!’

‘Couldn’t it be the OTC at the school again?’ Alexander asked.