This is how it is in our lessons. Some weeks I’m here an hour and I’m never asked to play a note. I don’t understand why she’s so insistent on me coming, especially given that she’s not even being paid.

‘Did you pass on my letter to your grandfather last week?’

I have no recollection of any letter apart from that one she wrote months ago.

She studies my expression. ‘I gave it to you as you left. I might have expected a response. Your memory is terrible, Oliver. Do you find that?’

‘Maybe. Sometimes.’

‘I’ll have to telephone instead. Perhaps that would be better.’

‘He’s out today.’

She smiles at me. ‘So how are things with your class?’

‘OK.’

‘They’re OK? Well, that’s a marked improvement.’

‘The same, I mean. Same as usual.’ I move my hands a little way along the keyboard and stare at the pool of sweat where they’ve been resting.

‘And the threats, the name-calling, anything new?’ Her head is turned slightly from me and bowed, her tone as light as if we’re just chatting about the weather. ‘You can tell me anything, Oliver. Old dears like me, we’ve seen it all. We’ve given up being shocked. Nothing is ever new, you know. I’ve been teaching music since 1959. The faces may be different, things get given new names, but the problems never change.’

I don’t remember telling her about the bullying, but her little speech is familiar. She’s definitely said it before.

‘One of my Year Nine students mentioned you earlier,’ she tells me, ever so softly. ‘Quiet boy, wouldn’t say boo to a goose.’ She looks at me as if it’s my turn to say something. ‘He said that you sometimes shout at him and his friends in the park.’

I think of the ‘Mooor-cooombe’ taunts and the jibes about Mum from this morning. I imagine it’s one of those little shits who’s been squealing to her.

‘I’m not sure if I believed him,’ she says. ‘Is that true?’

‘Probably,’ I shrug back.

There’s no shift in her expression. It’s this irritating thing she does: waiting quietly when I finish a sentence because she wants me to say more. I can never last more than a few seconds before her silence gets too awkward.

‘If I shouted at the bloke, it’s because he deserved it,’ I tell her.

‘I’ve no doubt.’ She waves the subject away with a flap of the hand. ‘I’ve known you a terribly long time after all.’

I turn away and strike a chord in the hope she’ll stop talking now.

She gives me a smile. ‘Have a bit of a jam – loosen up those hands. They’re dreadfully tense.’