“But you went to Oxford! Surely that must have given you some idea, even if you didn’t have the misfortune to spend your childhood in one of these institutions,” Cordelia remarked as they walked down the corridor.

“Yes, but by that stage, one is well on the way to being a finished product. You forget, I’d never come across people like you before. I wanted to see how young you’d have to catch kids before their assumptions and preconceptions become ingrained. How much comes from schooling and how much from a general class ethos imbibed at home along with mother’s milk and Château Mouton Rothschild.”

“And how much of what made you the woman you are comes from home rather than education?”

“I suspect about equal amounts from each. That’s why I’m a mass of contradictions.” By now they were walking through the woods and Lindsay was well into her stride. “Sentimental versus analytical, cynical versus idealistic, and so on. The only belief that comes from both home and education is that you have to work bloody hard to get what you want.”

“And do you?”

“Sometimes—and sometimes.”

They fell silent as they entered the main building, neither willing to pursue the conversation into more intimate areas. A large number of people were milling around the corridors, ignoring the arrows pointing them toward the main hall. Lindsay and Cordelia struggled through the crowds and nodded to the girls as they slipped into the hall. But even here there was no peace. All the stalls were laid out in readiness, and behind most of them schoolgirls were making last-minute adjustments to the displays. Lindsay looked around and from where she stood she could already see stalls of embroidered pictures, knitted garments, stained-glass terrariums and hanging mobiles, hand-made wooden jigsaws, and pottery made in the school’s kiln. As Lindsay and Cordelia stood admiring a stall of patchwork, the senior mistress called out from her vantage point by the doors, “Two minutes, girls. Everyone get ready.”

Lindsay had moved on to look at a display of wooden toys when she saw Chris Jackson hurrying through the hall. She made straight for Lindsay and spoke to her in a low voice. “Do you know where Paddy is?”

“She’s rehearsing with the cast in the gym.”

“No, they’re having a half-hour break. I thought you might have seen her. I’ve got to get hold of her now.”

“Hello, Chris, long time no see. Hey what’s up?” asked Cordelia, joining them.

“I’ve got one of the sixth in floods of tears behind the stage. She’s just had a stand-up row with a couple of other sixth-formers. The girl is absolutely hysterical, and I reckon Paddy’s the only one who can deal with her. There’ll be chaos if we don’t sort it out. And soon.”