Rosie Clarke was thirteen and as different from Paul as siblings can be. There was some likeness in the eyes and they shared dark hair and a freckled complexion, but where Paul’s clothes drooped as if they were ashamed to hang from his thin body, Rosie had a buffalo’s shoulders, a precocious set of breasts and long nails that regularly drew her younger brother’s blood.

‘Rosemarie Clarke,’ Mrs Divine said, in a posh English accent. ‘How many times must I tell you to leave your brother alone?’

Paul appreciated having the teacher onside, but her remark also reminded the entire class that he got bullied by his sister and the mirth that rippled across the room was all at his expense.

‘Madame, our father’s outside,’ Rosie explained.

Paul snapped his head towards the window. He’d been engrossed in drawing and hadn’t seen the dark blue Citroën roll into the school courtyard. A glance at the clock over the blackboard confirmed that it was a good hour before home time.

‘Mrs Divine!’ Mr Clarke swooned, as he entered the hall a moment later. ‘I’m so sorry to disturb your lesson.’

The headmistress showed obvious distaste as Paul and Rosie’s dad kissed her on both cheeks. Clarke was the French sales representative for the Imperial Wireless Company. He dressed flamboyantly, in a dark suit, mirror-finished shoes and a polka-dot cravat that Mrs Divine found vulgar; but her expression warmed when Mr Clarke handed her a cheque.

‘We’ve got to collect some things from our apartment and then we’re heading south,’ he explained. ‘I’ve paid up until the end of term – I want the school to be here when things get back to normal.’

‘That’s most kind,’ Mrs Divine said. She’d spent thirty years building the school from nothing and seemed genuinely touched as she produced a handkerchief from the sleeve of her cardigan and dabbed her eye.

It was Paul and Rosie’s turn to play out the goodbye scene they’d seen many times over the past month. Boys shook hands like gentlemen, while departing girls tended to cry, hug and promise to write letters.

Paul found the stiff upper lip easy, because he’d never been popular and his favourite art teacher and two closest friends had already gone. Feeling rather awkward, he stepped towards the younger boys at the front of the room and returned the exercise book to its eight-year-old owner.

‘Guess I won’t get it done now,’ he said apologetically. ‘It’s outlined in pencil, so you could finish it yourself.’

‘You’re so good,’ the boy said, admiring the explosion around a half drawn tank as he opened his desk. ‘I’ll leave it. I’d only ruin it.’