Claustrophobia clawed at my chest. The other parents … I didn’t know any of them, recognised a couple of faces, nodded at the unknowns. Would I have sex with any of them? Maybe. Maybe not. Sarah knew loads of them, regularly helped out at the school, joined the kids on their excursions. She said hello, asked questions, laughed, made them laugh. They were part of her life, the kids’ lives, not mine or Biddy’s.

‘Look, it’s that one.’ Oliver pointed at a painted ceramic face: red, blue and yellow.

‘Yeah, that one,’ Sophie said, pointing too. ‘Thanks, Olly.’

‘Oh, darling, that’s so beautiful,’ Sarah said. ‘I thought that one might be yours. Look at those colours.’

‘That one was actually my favourite,’ I said. ‘I didn’t want to say that in case it made you feel bad about yours.’

‘But it is my one,’ she said, smiling, coughing, hacking.

‘Oh, darling,’ Sarah said. ‘The new herbs should kick in soon.’

Biddy said, ‘I thought that one was yours too, Sophie. Such amazing colours. Do you like it, Olly?’

He shrugged, sighed. ‘I guess.’

‘Can we take it home?’ Sarah said.

‘At the end of term,’ Sophie said.

A woman edged past us, smiled, apologised. She was thirty-eight, maybe thirty-nine, nice skin, well-dressed. If she wanted, I’d go down on her, make her scream. Her partner too, his stubble, his winning smile; I’d make him beg for more. What was wrong with me?

Biddy said, ‘Now, where’s your stuff, Olly?’

‘This way,’ he said, pulling her hand. He led us to an even busier room. Before-dinner faces grinned, said excuse me, and sorry, and god, ha-ha, it’s a bit packed in here, isn’t it?

Handwritten notes were pinned to the walls: Letters from Gallipoli. Mostly they looked shit. But –

Oliver stopped, pointed.

‘What?’ I said, bending. ‘This one’s yours, mate? Look at that letter. Hey, wait, is that from the olden days or something?’

‘It’s a special effect,’ he said. ‘You rub wet teabags on the paper to make it brown.’

The woman standing next to us was smiling. Blonde hair, tight jeans. She’d get it. Maybe. But her snotty kid could fuck right off.

Biddy, Sarah and Sophie gathered round.

‘It’s a letter from the trenches,’ Oliver said.

‘Oh, right, wow.’ Sarah read it out in her bedtime-story voice.

Dear mum,

Poople are shooting at me. I mis you, I mite die tomorow, I’m scared. Love you. Bye.

‘Are they for real?’ I said to Biddy.

‘That’s so beautiful,’ Sarah said.

‘It looks creepy,’ Sophie said.