‘As many as you like – I know a girl. They’re Gold Flakes, mind.’

‘They’ll do for me.’

For most of that November week, they’d spent their meagre recreation time together in the library. She’d put the thought in Irma’s head – ‘Why don’t you draw a version of your own, while I do mine? Then you can sort of guide me through it’ – and the rest had been a matter of persuasion. On the Religion shelf, she’d found a book with glossy photographs of British churches and one had caught her interest. It had showed only a corner of a building. Viewed from an angle. Great stone arms sloping down from the walls like banister rails. Flying buttresses at Lincoln Cathedral, said the caption. She’d given it to Irma, who’d begun to sketch it, whispering instructions about which line to put where, and how to sweep the pencil to create the perfect arc, and saying after, ‘Your turn, Joy. Come on.’ Day by day, their sketches had developed – one so stylish and pristine they could’ve hung it in a gallery, the other so unbalanced it was hardly recognizable as the same building. ‘You should be proud of it. I would be,’ Irma had insisted. ‘I reckon you’ve as good a chance as anybody else.’ The library had been closing for the day. A screw had shuffled over from the doorway, warning them that they’d be late for cleaning duty if they didn’t quicken up the pace.

‘Well, I never would’ve got this far without you. Thanks for all your help.’ She’d packed her drawing into the big envelope that Mrs Graham had given her.

‘I didn’t do much. Thanks for all the you know whats. I’m trying to make them last.’ Irma had begun to scroll her paper up.

‘You going to give that to your dad?’

‘Nah. He wouldn’t want it.’

‘When’s he visiting again?’

‘Not really sure.’

‘I’ll buy it off you, then.’

‘Shut up.’

She’d placed her hand on Irma’s. There were certain habits she’d acquired that she no longer recognized for what they were: plain trickery. ‘Honestly, I’d give you a few bob for it. I’ve nothing on my wall to look at. It’d cheer me up, to see that every day.’

‘Dale!’ the screw had called. ‘Ten seconds. Get a move on.’

‘You’re on,’ Irma had told her, letting the paper unravel on the table.

‘I’ll owe it you.’

‘Suits me.’

The screw had clapped. ‘That means you, too, Savigear! Stop the nattering.’

‘We’re coming, sir!’ She’d slipped the picture in her envelope and hurried off to stash it in her cubicle, below her bed. The next morning, after drills were over and the other girls were still emerging from the baths, she’d taken it along to the housemaster’s office. She’d filled her name out on the entry form and watched as it was paper-clipped to Irma’s drawing and slotted into a thick folder. Ever since that day, she’d been expecting somebody to grab her by the elbow and escort her down to solitary – but no one came. And still she hadn’t posted Irma Dale a penny.