‘It’s nothing to worry about. He’s just had a bit of a mishap. I think it’s best if Mr Scrait explains the details when you get here.’ The line went dead. Ruby glanced at her watch. The timing couldn’t have been worse. Tomorrow was the first day of the summer holiday season at Larkins and over two hundred guests were checking in to the park. There were a million things to do before then, and now Ruby was going to be several hours late for work and Marty would be furious. But Treasure was her son. He was more important than any job. She wondered if she should ring Randall, and get him to come with her, but decided against it. Fridays were always busy at the garage and if it was only a minor mishap, there was no point in dragging him away.

But when Ruby arrived at the school and saw her son at the end of the long corridor outside the headmaster’s office, she wished that her husband was by her side. Barefoot and sitting on a chair that was protected by a sheet of newspaper, Treasure looked strangely disjointed and horribly desolate, like a discarded ventriloquist’s dummy. He was completely covered in white paint. At the sound of her footsteps, he lowered his head a fraction. Ruby crouched down in front of him and gently lifted his chin with her hand. His blue eyes were framed by ghostly lashes clumped together with the chalky white paint. There were no tears now – in fact no discernible emotion at all. Treasure had switched off and shut down.

Miss Jenkins, the school secretary, ushered her into the headmaster’s office where Ruby took a seat without waiting to be asked. Mr Scrait was studying some paperwork in front of him and took a moment before deigning to look up and acknowledge her presence.

‘Mrs Campbell. Thank you for coming. I think you need to get Treasure home and into some clean clothes. He’s had a bit of an accident – no real harm done – but I’m afraid he’s going to need a new school uniform.’

Ruby flinched at the supercilious inflection of his voice as he spoke her son’s name. How dare he.

‘And I’m going to need an explanation of what precisely has happened to him.’

Mr Scrait sighed and spoke again with exaggerated patience.

‘One of the teachers found him standing on the playing field next to an empty bucket. The paint is used by the groundsman to mark out the football pitch and it seems likely that your son tripped and fell, spilling the paint over himself.’

It was all Ruby could do to stop herself leaning over the desk and slapping Mr Scrait’s smug and shiny face.