Hutchinson laughed. ‘What are you trying to say about Queen Boadicea? That she was some sort of mass murderer?’

‘Yes. Of course.’ Smith had advanced up the room, staring manically at Hutchinson. ‘But was the murder justified?’

Hutchinson squared his jaw. ‘Murder is never justified.’

‘What about in the Boer War?’

‘That was different. That’s war.’

‘So was this. The Britons she killed were from other tribes. Tribes who had invited the Romans to Britain.’

‘Collaborators. They deserve all they get.’

‘Years before. They now lived in peace with everybody.’ Smith was level with his desk now, glaring down at him.

‘Then, no,’ the boy blurted, meeting his stare.

‘But it was rape. Her daughters. Royalty. Mauled by rabble. Who’s right?’ Smith lowered his head until it was level with Hutchinson’s.

‘How can I possibly⁠ —?’ Hutchinson glanced away.

‘Who’s right?’ bellowed Smith.

‘I don’t know!’ shouted Hutchinson.

‘No!’ Smith slapped the slipper across the edge of his desk with a sound like a whiplash.

The boy jumped up out of his seat and stood there, glaring at Smith and panting.

For a moment, the class thought that Hutchinson was going to hit him.

Then Smith turned away, and wandered back towards the blackboard. The slipper had vanished once more.

‘No,’ he murmured, like he’d lost his place again. ‘No, you don’t…’ He turned and looked at the boys. ‘Now, where were we?’

With a mighty effort, Hutchinson sat down. He stabbed the nib of his fountain pen into the paper in front of him, and half wrote, half ripped, a single word: Later.

The bell rang at eleven, and the class filed out, many of the boys clustering around the notice-board outside as they left. Hutchinson didn’t even look at Smith as he marched swiftly by.

Timothy stopped at the desk, and looked nervously up at his form master. Smith was quickly packing his briefcase, ready to get on to his next class. ‘Excuse me, sir. Thank you, sir.’

‘Oh? What for?’

‘You didn’t let Hutchinson at me, sir. I wanted you to have this.’ There was a quiet intensity, a desperation, to the boy’s voice. He pulled a bright red apple from his pocket, and held it out, his hand shaking slightly.

Smith took the apple, buffed it on his sleeve, and grinned at his reflection in it.

‘Why an apple?’

‘I had a dream. I have strange dreams. I had to give it to you. So you’d remember.’

Smith took a bite and munched thoughtfully. ‘An apple a day… saves nine. No, that’s not right. What was it that I was supposed to remember?’

‘A stitch in time? Keeps the doctor away?’ Timothy suggested smiling.

‘Probably. Dreams are like that. You never remember the interesting bits.’