‘It’s different,’ he says. ‘I’m used to dealing with boys, so a mixed school is a whole new ball game.’

I offer a smile.

‘Boys just want to play sport and video games,’ he goes on. ‘Well, that’s certainly what my own were like when they were younger. They were addicted to football and the PlayStation.’

His face clouds over and I can see him flinching at a memory his words have evoked.

‘How do the children feel about you leaving?’ I ask. ‘Have you spoken to them?’

He allows himself a little smile. ‘I went up to Leeds at the weekend to see Will at university. And do you know what he said when we hugged goodbye?’

I shake my head and smile because I can feel it’s going to be something that melted his father’s heart.

‘He said . . .’ chokes Jacob. ‘That he’d never seen me like that before. That it was as if being away from his mother had finally allowed me to be me.’

‘How did that make you feel?’ I ask.

‘Happy and sad in equal measure,’ he says. ‘Happy that I’d finally made the break, but sad that it had taken me so long.’

‘You were trying to do right by your children,’ I say.

He nods. ‘I couldn’t have left them on their own with her,’ he says. ‘I had to wait until they were old enough to look after themselves.’

‘Your wife is a pillar of the community, a supposedly good mother, at least to those on the outside, looking in.’ He nods. ‘Do you think how she was perceived by others also played a part in you not leaving her before now?’

‘Probably,’ he says. ‘I mean, obviously I knew exactly what she was capable of, but nobody else did. She had perfected such a polished public facade and it very rarely slipped. And even when it did, invariably off the back of me doing something wrong, you’d get a split-second flash of fire in her eyes before she got it back under control.’

‘So you felt you needed others to see who was really behind the mask?’

He knits his fingers together, looking deep in thought.

‘I guess . . .’ he starts, before wiping a single tear that escapes onto his cheek. ‘Because without other people seeing it, I didn’t think I would be believed.’

I wish I were shocked that a grown man would ever doubt that his experience would be deemed credible enough to be believed. But unfortunately, it doesn’t matter whether you’re young or old, male or female; the greatest fear, apart from the abuse itself, is that nobody will believe you.

‘I was scared that I would be made a social outcast if I said anything against her.’

‘Would it have mattered if the people who held her in such high regard had wrongly cast you aside?’ I ask.