It’s a picture of the front at Ebbswick, shot from the marshes. There’s some overgrown shrubbery in the foreground, a few people walking on the beach, a full moon just about visible out over the sea.

‘What have these two pictures got in common, do you think?’

There’s silence as everyone studies them in detail.

‘Wow!’ April says. ‘They’re the same thing!’

‘Bingo!’ Ms Calloway says. Even Alfie looks intrigued as she points with a pencil to the bottom corner of the boring photo. ‘Here’s the dandelion, if you look close enough. And up here, there’s your full moon. Same scene, same time. Just a different way of composing the shot.’

Will feels a tingling in the back of his neck, and an urgency to be out taking pictures.

‘This dull picture,’ Ms Calloway says, ‘is, I fear, how most of us see the world. We’re surrounded by beauty, and we walk around like these folks on the beach, asking, “Where’s the beauty?” And we think we’ll find it if we just see more of the world, when actually maybe we need to see less of the world. This big, bland photo is just ordinariness, but it’s made up of a million extraordinary details.’

‘Deep,’ mumbles Alfie, pretending to take the piss but clearly as enthralled as everyone else.

‘If you dare to believe it’s there,’ Ms Calloway says, ‘if you really look for it, you won’t believe the magic you’ll find going on around us.’ She stares at each of her students in turn as she says it, Will feeling her gaze burning into him when she reaches him. ‘So there’s your assignment, peeps. One picture of one tiny, heart-stopping detail. You have the season on your side as well: harvest moons, long tides. Orange leaves and frosts before long.’

The class is quiet, the silence only spoiled by the squeaking of rocking seats.

‘All so pensive. Any questions?’

‘Yes!’ Alfie snaps, leaning forward. ‘Just one.’

‘All ears, Alfie.’

‘What the hell are these chairs all about?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ she says, her shaking head setting off an oscillation in her own. ‘An attempt by our headteacher to appear cool to visitors, I fear.’

Alfie turns to Kris, who’s chewing at the arm of his oblong glasses. ‘Are they something to do with you, Tring?’

‘What you talking about?’

‘Did you design these chairs, Tring?’

‘Fuck off, Alfie.’

‘You did! You designed the shitty cool chairs, didn’t you?’

Will looks at Kris, at his slicked back hair, his uber-cool specs, his tight trousers and winkle-picker shoes. It is impossible to imagine someone looking more like a designer of minimalist furniture. Will explodes with laughter. He laughs so hard it hurts to breathe.