Anne Watson’s teaching practice was going well. She was clearly an exceptional teacher, as even Miss Trimble, the Ripon Rottweiler, agreed after observing her lessons. Her copious file was always detailed and included the time, age group, equipment, aim of each lesson and how it was expected to develop.

Lily and Anne were on playground duty during morning break and Billy Icklethwaite was showing Anne his new belt. It was striped red and green, with a snake clip. He had attached a loop of baling twine and was clearly proud of this new item in an ensemble that otherwise appeared decidedly scruffy.

‘What’s the twine for, Billy?’ asked Anne.

Billy was surprised at such a question, as the answer was obvious.

‘For m’sword, Miss.’ He held up his hazel branch and ran towards Reggie Bamforth, who had been persuaded to act the part of the Sheriff of Nottingham.

Anne looked at the children playing their various games. ‘Fascinating, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘The only limit appears to be the extent of their imagination.’

Two piles of coats represented the goalposts at Wembley Stadium, while a rope tied to the hook on the wall of the boiler house became an opportunity to be Tarzan the Ape Man along with his ear-shattering jungle cry – that is, until Edna Trott shooed you away with her yard broom.

As well as the school playground, all the side roads off the High Street were solely for play, as there were few cars, and here too the children of Ragley acted out their fantasies, often as footballers at a time when English football was the envy of the world, with stars such as Stanley Matthews and Billy Wright. Newsreels at the pictures of the England football team kept everyone in touch with the latest matches.

Few games were shared among boys and girls except hopscotch, which was particularly popular on the High Street, where the flagstones were the ideal size to draw around when marking out the numbered boxes with a stick of chalk. This morning Robin Knutsford and Edie Stubbs were playing the game happily on the school playground.

Dominating the large spaces of the playground, boys were acting out cowboys and Indians or cops and robbers. Little Malcolm was lying on the ground, completely still.

‘Oh dear, Malcolm, what’s the matter?’ shouted Anne.

‘Ah’ve been shot, Miss.’

‘Shot!’

‘Yes Miss, by t’sheriff.’

It was time for the bell, and Anne and Lily walked back into school.

‘You do wonder if it’s psychologically damaging for boys to spend their playtimes killing each other,’ observed Lily.

In contrast, many of the girls were acting out motherhood with dolls.

‘That reminds me,’ said Lily, ‘why not come along to the talk in the village hall tonight? It’s about women and their role in society today. You could get some tips for dealing with your chauvinist husband-to-be.’

Anne grinned. ‘Good idea.’