‘No, funny too. Very. Did you get wooden sticks?’

‘Yes. Another funny story. Girl opposite whacked my arm by mistake. Broke my radius.’

Becky was horrified. ‘That’s awful!’

‘At the time, yes. I remember crying. But then I got a plaster cast. Was the cool kid at Chipping Camden Primary for a few weeks. Made a change from being the nerdy one with carrot hair,’ he said, running his hand through the golden red flop on top of his head. ‘Best of all, I got a present from my parents to cheer me up.’ He spread his hands wide, eyes lighting up. ‘A chemistry set.’

‘Oh my God, I always wanted one of them,’ said Becky. ‘Thought I’d be able to do magic.’

He looked bemused. ‘I was more interested in making compounds. Did you get one? A set?’

‘Mum had no spare cash. Had to make do with vinegar and bicarb of soda to make a volcano.’

‘Wow. There’s something about the way it just fizzes up, it has a life of its own, exploding there right in front of you—’ He checked his enthusiasm. ‘Sorry. Anyway, that’s what got me into chemistry.’ He paused, wistful. ‘I’ll never forget that set. What about you? How did you know you wanted to be a journalist?’

Becky thought back. She’d always known really, even if she hadn’t recognized what it was when she was very young. As a seven-year-old she’d seen another classmate bullied by a horrible girl – Karen Jenkins. Karen had taunted a plump girl with a bowl haircut, calling her fat and saying she stank because she was always eating cheesy-puff crisps. She was, and she did, but Becky had felt angry on her behalf – and angry at herself because she didn’t stick up for her.

Then Karen had turned her attention to Becky, picking on her because of her second-hand uniform; she wore a mix of garments that were often too big or slightly on the small side depending what was available at the school sale. Her grey pinafores were shiny with age and over-ironing and her white shirts had long ago lost their bright sparkle. The bullying happened frequently and when Karen had deliberately flicked paint over her skirt, it just got too much, and Becky had begun to cry. Karen had put her face up against Becky’s and warned her that if she told, she’d ‘be dead’.

At seven, it was a risk too big to take and so instead, Becky had written a story in her creative-writing session in class later that afternoon, only in order to save herself from an early demise, she’d decided to cleverly disguise the names. A code that only she, Becky, would understand. The bully would be known as Jaren Kenkins.

Empowered, she wrote up the story, relishing the details, vindicated that the facts were on the page. She remembered feeling sad that no one would actually know who it really was, and true justice would never be served. The next day, Karen was mysteriously absent for part of the lesson and reappeared with red eyes. Rumour had it she’d been to see the formidable head, Mrs Parker. Becky’s teacher had taken her aside and quietly said that if Karen ever bullied her again, Becky was to come and speak to her immediately. And the plump classmate suddenly started sharing her cheesy puffs with her. Becky had spent a number of years wondering how the teachers had found out.