Paddy and Lindsay were stretched out in Paddy’s comfortable sitting-room. It was furnished by the school in tasteful if old-fashioned style, but Paddy had stamped her own character on it. One wall was completely lined with books and the others were covered with elegant photographs of stage productions and a selection of old film posters. The chairs were upholstered in leather and, in spite of their shabbiness, they were deep and welcoming. By the window was a large desk strewn with piles of papers and exercise books and in the corner near the door was a cocktail cabinet, the only piece of furniture that Paddy had carted around with her everywhere for the last ten years.

Lindsay nursed her glass and drawled, “So what’s this one called?”

“Deep Purple.”

“Great hobby, making cocktails. Of course, I’d never have your flair for it. What’s in this, then?”

“One measure Cointreau, three of vodka, blue food-coloring, a large slug of grenadine, a measure of soda water, and a lot of ice. Good, isn’t it?”

“Dynamite. And it goes down a treat. This is certainly the life. What time’s dinner? And should I change?”

“Three quarters of an hour. Don’t bother changing, you’re fine as you are. Tomorrow will be a bit more formal, though; best bib and tucker all round. We’ll have to go over to the staffroom shortly, so I can introduce you to the workers.”

Lindsay smiled. “What are they like?” she asked, slightly apprehensive.

“Like any collection of female teachers. There are the super-intelligent, witty ones; the boring old farts; the Tory party brigade, and the statutory radical—that’s me, by the way. And a few who are just ordinary, unobjectionable women.”

“My God, it must be bad if you’re their idea of a radical. What does that mean? You occasionally disagree with Margaret Thatcher and you put tomato sauce on your bacon and eggs? So am I going to like any of this bunch of fossils?”

“You’ll like Chris Jackson, the FE mistress. She comes from your neck of the woods, and apart from being a physical fitness freak is obsessed with two things—winemaking and cars. You can imagine what we have in common, and it isn’t overhead camshafts.”

Lindsay grinned. “Sounds more like it. I don’t suppose . . .?”

Paddy returned the grin. “Sorry. There’s a large rugby player in the background, I’m afraid. You’ll also like Margaret Macdonald, if she can spare enough time from this concert to say hello. She’s head of music, and a good friend of mine. We sit up late and talk about books, politics, and what passes for drama on radio and TV.”

Lindsay stretched, yawned, then lit a cigarette. “Sorry,” she muttered. “Train’s tired me out. I’ll wake up soon.”