Let’s not bother about who wrote it, she said to herself. Is it true? On three occasions during her two years in Alchester, there had been cases of children so ill-used that the NSPCC had been forced to take action; With those wretched little victims, Ethel Rigby appeared to have nothing in common; she was well, if somewhat old-fashionedly, dressed; she was neither bruised nor emaciated.

But someone in this room this morning, had been prompted to write those words and bring them to the teacher’s attention.

After a moment’s thought Miss Mayfield lifted the paper rather gingerly, using only a finger and thumb, as though it were in someway contaminated, and carried it into the Junior room, where Miss Benson held sway. A little – and this she herself admitted – deterred at first by the Froebel teacher’s brisk, airy, cynical manner, Miss Mayfield had, in the last week, realized that she was as fortunate in her assistant as the children were in their canteen arrangements. Sally Benson would say, ‘He’s a damned little thug, and I’ll break his bloody neck for him,’ and then sit down by the thug and say, ‘Look here, Willy, how would you like it, if I, just because I’m bigger than you, . . .’ and reason the aggressive Willy into an apologetic state of mind. That she was a sound good teacher, Miss Mayfield knew from the grounding given to all those who had passed through her hands. Privately, in fact, she had decided much of Miss Benson’s good work had been wasted by Mrs Westleton.

Also, apart from her own merits, Miss Benson was a useful person to consult, for she knew Walwyk thoroughly. She was niece to Mr Frisby, the cattle breeder, and being an orphan, had been brought up in his house.

‘I’ve just found this, sandwiched between two books. What do you make of it?’

Miss Benson took the paper, read it scowling and then smiled.

‘That’s an easy one. Somebody’s trying to pull your leg, Miss Mayfield. If ever there was a daft doting old grandmother, Phoebe Rigby is it. This,’ she waved the paper, ‘is as though I said you gave yourself three helpings of food every day and made Bobby Fakes go short. See?’

Bobby Fakes was the newcomer, who had very quickly decided that school was nothing to cry about.

‘But why should anybody play such a joke on me, Miss Benson?’

‘Well, you’ll remember St Augustine – “Not Angles but angels.” It works the other way, too – “Not angels but Angles.” You mustn’t be misled by all this flaxen hair and blue eyes.’ As she said this, Sally Benson made a movement of her head, which set her own golden curls astir, and narrowed her blue eyes with a kind of knowing mirth, ranging herself, most endearingly, alongside the Angles who were not angels. Almost immediately she was grave again: