I couldn’t look them in the eye so I gazed down instead. Elsie’s knees curled over the edge of the chair. They had wide brown spots on them from the sunshine.

Mr Wetheral propped his stick up and took the drinks. One bare hand, one gloved.

“Splendid,” he said. “Splendid.”

“OK, well, I’d better go and—”

“Hold on a moment.” He passed a glass to Elsie. She wrapped both hands round it, as if it was hot tea.

“I’d like to ask you something, Maggie,” he said.

Here goes then. I was for it now. They must have figured out it was me who stole the antibiotics. A big lump appeared in my throat, about the same size and shape as a little brown medicine bottle. I gulped it down.

“I was wondering whether you’d considered what you might like to do when you leave school.”

What I might like to do when I leave school? What had that got to do with anything?

He took a sip from his glass.

“I, um, don’t know,” I said. “It’s ages yet. I’ll work in the fields, I s’pose.”

“Is that what you want to do?”

What I want to do? Funny question.

“S’what most people do, isn’t it?” I said. “If you’re not an eldest.”

He took another sip.

I licked my dry lips.

“You don’t want to be a nurse, like your dad?”

I looked round. No sign of Dad.

“Can’t think of anything I’d rather be less,” I said. “All those sick people. Don’t tell him I said that, though, will you?”

Mr Wetheral leaned forwards. “It’ll be our secret,” he whispered. “Well, ours and Mother’s.”

Elsie’s eyes were closed. Was she asleep? The glass tilted in her hands.

“I was wondering,” he said, “and please feel free to say no if it’s not what you want – but I was wondering if you would consider becoming my apprentice.”

His apprentice?

Could you even be an apprentice portrait painter? I’d heard of a blacksmith apprenticeship with Mr Gebby, or an apprenticeship up at the tannery, but portrait painting? I must’ve heard him wrong.

“Becoming your what, Mr Wetheral?”

“My apprentice. I’d teach you to become a portrait artist. We could start putting a little groundwork in while you’re still at school.”

“But, I—”

“I’ve seen your work, Maggie.” He placed his glass on the floor. Rubbed the back of his gloved hand. “I asked Mrs Zimmerman to show me the artwork of all the children in the top half of the school. I’ve done my research.”

“But I’m not the best at art, Mr Wetheral. Susi D’Vere is much better at—”