‘No, my old man used to be the fireman on a train. That’s the sound of an engine going up. Hope no poor soul was caught in that. See you at the meeting, eh, Alexander?’

‘Damn,’ whispered Benny when he’d gone. ‘You could cut the atmosphere here with a knife.’ People were gathering in groups looking to the east, where a plume of smoke was drifting from the direction of the branch line. ‘What’s this meeting he was talking about, anyway?’

‘Oh, the Labour group meets on a Saturday night in the town hall. I’m normally there.’

‘Well, if you want to go⁠ —’

Alexander sighed and took her by the arm as an old matron passed, flashing the woman a dangerous grin as she glanced disapprovingly at such closeness, such trousers, such a haircut. ‘Richard’s addressing them.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’

‘Think nothing of it, loved one. Now, shall we go back to school?’

Rocastle sat stock still in his armchair, his hands gripping the antimacassars. He’d hauled himself into the chair after he’d passed out… and of course the child had run away. Couldn’t have been long unconscious or the boy would have fetched somebody. Or perhaps he’d been too scared to call anyone.

Rocastle had, after all, slapped him across the face.

His father had never done that to him. He’d put him across his knee and thrashed him with his belt often enough, but he’d never delivered something so direct, so tawdry.

And of course you could never tell a boy you were sorry, that you’d only been frightened of gunning him down. He’d wanted to express somehow that the boy’s wildness and difference were almost an invitation to others to do that, that the way to get by was to square your back and join the line. Strong youngster like Dean should have been with the others, behind the gun, not in the line of bloody fire. A better teacher, a better leader, could have told him that, could have impressed it upon him. You make a move out of line, boy, and they gun you down.

And then he’d collapsed. He’d done that when he was at the opera once, with dear Cordelia. They’d been laughing as they walked down the steps outside, and the next thing he’d been rolling, down into the gutter under the full moon. A dozen bright young lads had run to him and got him to sit up, and he’d shied them away, scared to the point of tears by the sudden pain in his abdomen.