The headteacher, John Pruett, tied the bell rope to the metal cleat on the wall, walked across the entrance hall and opened the ancient door. Then he smiled as he surveyed the boys and girls playing in the bright sunshine. For the past seventy-four years the children of the village had scampered up the worn stone steps at his feet. John had been the headteacher since 1946 and this was his seventh year in charge. After serving in the Royal Engineers during the war he had taken a short course at the college in York and arrived at Ragley School when the previous headmistress retired. A man of average height and unremarkable appearance, he lived alone in his cottage on the Morton road and loved his job.

He took a deep breath, raised a whistle to his lips and gave two brief blasts. Everyone stopped, then the older children grabbed the hands of the new starters and formed two lines, boys in one and girls in another. The pupils were well drilled and John nodded in satisfaction – until he spotted two boys sliding down the pile of coke outside the boiler-room doors.

‘David Robinson,’ he shouted, ‘and Malcolm Robinson – go and stand by my desk!’

The two boys, one very tall for his age and the other a foot shorter and diminutive in comparison, looked up in horror. They were cousins and as always it was ten-year-old David, or Big Dave as he was known to all the other children, who spoke first. ‘Oh ’eck … yes, sir.’

‘And be quick about it,’ added John Pruett forcefully.

‘Yes, sir,’ echoed nine-year-old Malcolm. He spat on his grimy hands and wiped them on his grey shorts. The two boys were inseparable friends and Malcolm looked up expectantly at his giant cousin.

‘C’mon, Malc,’ whispered Dave, ‘we’re for it now,’ and they trudged into school to await their fate.

The school caretaker, forty-six-year-old Edna Trott, was leaning on the school gate watching the scene unfold. ‘Them two Robinson boys’ll be the death o’ me,’ she muttered with a wry smile. Edna had packed away her yard broom and finished her morning’s work. It had been a busy summer preparing the school building for another year and her bones were beginning to ache.

‘Ah blame t’parents!’ exclaimed a voice from over her shoulder. ‘They let ’em run wild these days.’

Edna turned to see the ample figure of twenty-eight-year-old Deirdre Coe, viewed by many as the most unpopular woman in the village.

‘There’s nowt wrong with t’Robinson family,’ Edna retorted firmly. ‘Them Robinson brothers would give a ’elpin’ ’and to anybody an’ their sons tek after ’em. It’s jus’ ’igh spirits, Deirdre. Boys will be boys.’

‘Well, my Stanley is allus ’avin’ t’chase ’em off ’is pig farm. ’E sez’ ’e’ll give ’em a good ’idin’.’