Sydney had slept well on Saturday night, had eaten an enormous breakfast on Sunday morning; his temperature was normal, he had no pain; he was allowed to go home. On Monday, after two more enormous meals and a good night’s sleep, he had announced his intention of going to school; and there for the whole day, unchecked by Miss Mayfield, he had been the centre of attention, with his ‘My mum said to my dad,’ ‘My dad said to my mum’ and ‘Canon said to my dad.’ No other child in Walwyk had ever been in hospital, and pressed for details about procedures there, Sydney was a disappointing informant.

‘Most of the time I was asleep, see? Like the girl in the Bible.’ But he had noticed that his bed had wheels on it; and his Sunday breakfast egg had had a sort of woolly hat to keep it warm.

By the next day the excitement had died down. Miss Mayfield, eyeing Sydney carefully, concluded that he seemed to have suffered no damage. His mother’s strange, almost distraught accusations against Mrs Rigby seemed like some detail from a nightmare remembered in bright sunlight. If only, she thought, I could be sure that Ethel’s accident was an accident, I could be happy again.

On the Tuesday afternoon, she made an excuse to keep Sydney after school. When they were alone, she said:

‘Have you seen Ethel since you were back, Sydney?’

‘Yes. I went round yesterday afternoon. I thought she’d be in a muddle for rabbit food; but she wasn’t. She’d gathered their food with her one hand.’

‘I went to see her after we had our talk last Tuesday.’

‘I know, Miss. Ethel told me.’ His face took on a stubborn almost sullen expression.

‘I thought Ethel and her grandmother seemed to be good friends. Sydney – I don’t want to worry you or anything like that – but are you positively sure that what you said about the mangle was right? You were outside, you know. Perhaps you didn’t have a good view.’

He turned his head and, biting at his lower lip, stared at the wall. He took two deep, quick breaths, like someone who has been running; then he moved his head and looked into Miss Mayfield’s eyes with a desperate, trapped expression.

‘I’m going to say it. Ethel said not to. Ethel said next time . . . Miss, what I said was true. Honest to God, Miss Mayfield. I saw her do it. But there’s something Ethel is more afraid of. Something Ethel is real afraid of; she can’t even tell me. So Ethel said, please don’t say about it, or take any notice, because there’s nothing anybody can do.’

‘Did you tell Ethel that you had told me anything?’