They. More evidence. This man was the John Lennon of teachers. But how had he survived? Didn’t they all gather in the staff room and laugh at us, suck smokes, drink diesel coffee and call us arse-jockeys and little crims?

‘Trust me, it’ll be okay. Long as it’s quality work. You into comics, Clem?’

‘Na.’

‘He’s got a big pile in his bedroom,’ Curtis said.

I glared at him.

‘And he still reads them.’

‘Fuck off.’

Nick watched me, but didn’t respond.

‘Keeps them next to his telescope,’ Curtis said.

‘Telescope?’ Nick seemed interested.

‘Spies on the neighbours.’

And all the girls turned up their noses. ‘That’s disgusting.’

‘For astronomy,’ I said.

Nick was grinning. Later, I’d understand his technique: start an argument, watch the fireworks, quote a few philosophers. That was the only way, he’d claim, you could become an artist: get dirty, wrestle in the mud and pig shit, fight for every view, have it criticised and dismantled. Then, perhaps, you could worry about drawing and painting things.

As for Curtis, this was one of his worst habits: turning on his friends to widen his own circle of admirers. ‘Curtis, as you’ll find, is full of shit,’ I said. ‘I like astronomy.’

Curtis sat up. ‘He showed me, he can see into people’s backyards. Like Mrs Glasson, in her knickers and bra and …’

The cries almost drowned him out. Nick had rolled a smoke, and was looking for matches.

‘He called me over to have a look.’

I punched him.

‘You did!’

Well, I had, but I hadn’t been looking. She’d just come out, all flubber and wrinkle, pulling a few dresses off the line, and I’d been watching Les Champness at the time, but there she was.

One of the girls said, ‘You can get arrested for that.’

‘I didn’t!’

Nick said, ‘That’s your idea, Clem.’

‘What?’

‘Forget Mr Fantastic, paint what you know.’

‘Mrs Glasson?’

‘Exactly. Point of view of the telescope, with your neighbour, maybe all of them … a montage.’

‘You reckon I could paint them on the art room?’

‘Why not?’

‘Mr Meadows—’

‘Bugger Mr Meadows. This is art, that’s what we do.’

I grinned at his grin. It was like I’d been waiting forever to meet a Nick Andrews. Like he’d taken off his guitar, climbed down from my wall and started sketching.