‘Except chutney, love. Don’t forget the chutney,’ said Mrs Rigby, going towards a door at the back of the room.

‘Don’t you forget we want a plate and a knife for the cake.’ No, not thus did ill-treated children address their tormentors.

More mystified than ever, Miss Mayfield saw the door close behind Mrs Rigby. Now was the moment to ask some quick, searching questions. Is your granny kind to you? How did the accident happen? Silly as it seemed, in the circumstances such words would sound impolite, slightly crazy. On the other hand, Sydney had made a serious accusation, and it would be wrong to let self-consciousness and embarrassment stand in the way of investigation.

Before she could speak, however, Ethel said, in an eager but carefully quiet voice:

‘Is Sydney all right?’

‘Sydney? Why yes, of course. Are you, Ethel? Sydney seemed very worried about you.’

‘He tell you about this?’ She touched her sling.

‘He . . . mentioned it.’

‘Tell him to shut up. I’m worried about him. His mum’s very strict and don’t like him being friends with me. Last night I went all faint for a bit, or I’d hev stopped my gran sending for Mrs Baines. I knew Sydney’d catch it. But he’d gone before I came around.’

She said the last words in such a dreary tone and looked so worried that Miss Mayfield made haste to say:

‘He only has to write a few lines for disobedience. . . .’

‘Is that Sydney Baines?’ asked Mrs Rigby, entering with a nice old black papier-mâché tray upon which stood a black bottle, a cake dish on a stem and some plates and knives. ‘I’ll be frank with you, Miss, and say that I’ve no patience with Emily Baines and her airs and graces. We’ll grant she’s better educated and had a profession, not a job, but if she wanted to look down on her neighbours, she shouldn’t have married the village cobbler. I was in good service before I married – head parlourmaid – and one thing I did learn was that women take their standing according to their husbands. For her to make out that a cobbler’s boy is too good to play with Ethel, whose grandfather was a head stockman, is just plain daft to me.’

She drew the cork out of the bottle with a sharp, explosive pop and began to pour a pale-yellow crystal-clear wine into the glasses.