Edie frowned. ‘Jus’ that – y’know …’

‘What?’ asked a perplexed Joseph.

‘Y’said ’E created t’whole world in less than a week an’ that teks some believin’.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Joseph, ‘and why is that?’

‘Well, m’dad’s pigeon loft took over a fortnight.’

Joseph’s shoulders slumped.

‘An’ there’s summat else, Mr Evans,’ added Norman Fazackerly.

‘Yes, Norman?’ asked Joseph a little wearily.

‘Where do babies come from?’

A flurry of hands went up. ‘Ah know,’ shouted Eddie Brown. ‘My mam says t’stork delivers ’em.’ He held up a picture from his reading book. It showed a stork flying among fluffy clouds in a sunlit blue sky. In its bright-yellow beak it was carrying a new-born baby wrapped in a big white blanket.

‘Well, my dad sez ’e found me under a gooseberry bush,’ said Celia Etheringshaw with utter conviction.

Norman looked concerned. ‘Ah wouldn’t like that wi’ all them thorns an’ sharp prickles,’ he retorted.

‘Well, ah know where they come from,’ said Winnie Pickles with an assured smile, ‘an’ ’ow they mek ’em.’

The bell rang and Joseph hoped his sister had made a pot of camomile tea.

It was lunchtime and Lily was showing Malcolm Robinson’s drawing to Vera. ‘He has a wonderful talent, don’t you think?’

‘Definitely,’ agreed Vera. ‘Mr Pruett, do look at this excellent drawing.’

John put down his fountain pen and picked up the colourful sketch.

‘It’s Malcolm’s impression of Chauntsinger Woods this morning. Apparently the boys climb trees there,’ said Lily.

John studied it carefully and then stood up suddenly. His face was ashen.

‘Vera, Lily, please don’t be alarmed, but I have to go out of school.’ He was staring at the drawing. ‘This may be urgent.’ He glanced up at the clock. ‘Lily, please ring the bell and gather all the children in the hall.’ He turned to Vera. ‘And the registers need to be checked to ensure everyone is present. Keep them together and don’t let anyone leave until I return.’

‘Of course,’ said Vera, immediately recognizing the seriousness of the situation but not knowing what it might be.

John took out a notebook from the top drawer of his desk and riffled through the pages, then picked up the receiver.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Lily.

‘To Chauntsinger Woods.’ He held up Malcolm’s drawing and pointed to the carefully drawn shape in the treetop. It looked like a tin can with metal wings.

‘This is exactly the shape of a wartime explosive device.’

Lily stepped back. ‘You mean … a bomb!’

‘Yes,’ said John. ‘If this drawing is accurate – and, knowing young Malcolm, I suspect it is – then this is a butterfly bomb.’

Without another word, Lily and Vera hurried out as John dialled a number.

‘Bob – John Pruett here, and this may be urgent.’