I imagined the old girl standing with arms crossed, her mouth half-open, like a cleft anticipating a fine, rounded specimen.

And softly: ‘You never asked Mr Meadows.’

‘So what?’

‘You can’t go painting school buildings without permission from—’

‘So what?’

Silence.

A whisper. ‘Can I see you outside, Mr Andrews?’

We ran to the end of the hall, turned and stood listening. The girls giggled but Curtis hushed them.

We heard Joy White say, ‘Where’s your class?’

‘Waiting in the room. The girls are crying cos their work’s been painted over.’

Curtis said, ‘Shut up!’

‘Well, if you really want to know, I, and Mr Meadows, thought several of those images were inappropriate.’

‘How?’

‘People’s bottoms.’

Curtis nudged me. ‘Nice work, Clementine.’

‘And the one with the girl giving the finger.’

‘You want them to paint flowers?’

‘Don’t put words in my mouth. Giving the finger to someone who looked like the Pope. Was it the Pope?’

‘It was a statement about birth control.’

‘And you think that’s appropriate for a high school?’

‘They’re Year Twelves.’

‘That image was seen by younger children. One told his mother.’

‘Listen, Joy, these kids can think for themselves—’

‘And she rang regional office and complained. And they rang me.’

As Nick had explained, the truth was a slippery eel.

‘The point is, you coulda talked to me before you started painting over it.’

‘You had no right discussing Mr Moore with them.’

Silence.

‘It makes me wonder what else you talk about. You’re not one of them, Nicholas. You’re a teacher, apparently.’

One of them. The distinction that mattered.

‘I heard what you said,’ she continued.

‘If they ask …’

‘No, they’re children.’

She was wearing him down with facts.

‘You’re gonna paint over all of them?’

‘Yes.’

‘They’re not all offensive.’

‘You should’ve asked. They’ll attract graffiti. They already have.’

‘But I …’ Like he realised there was no point. Maybe it had come from a life believing in the redeeming power of art. Like Curtis said: abandon all hope.

Saturday morning. Curtis had worked out that hot women (his words) liked to have funky cars (his words). Personalised plates, Playboy stickers and car seats. Therefore, my room was the place to be. As they arrived, parked, went in to see Ron Glasson, re-emerged, waited for him to measure up. Curtis was there, focusing, describing, saying, ‘D’you reckon she’s got a boyfriend?’

‘Look at her … probably. Anyway, what are you gonna do? Go out and tell her you’ve been perving on her?’

‘That’s not how it’s done.’

‘Do tell.’

‘Stroll out and say something like, Some sheep died for you. Then stop …’ But he realised there was no way. ‘Just watch I s’pose. Look how short she wears that—’

Mum. A quick knock and she came in, handed me a pile of freshly ironed shirts and said, ‘What are you two up to?’