That was bad enough, but I sensed things were worse. Remembered Nick waving his letter, with the suggestion he’d given up caring. Remembered the look on his face, like he’d decided. The tone of his voice, defiant. And I knew: he’d gone (or had been made to go). His comment about the small, smoky-smelling dictatorships that ran the world, and how you could beat them for a while, but not forever, because most people didn’t care enough. The Queen proved this. Religion, too. Most people enjoyed being led, even by bad leaders. It saved thinking and acting for yourself. Ernie had explained this, too. Stalin was no different from White.

He’d gone. Resigned, probably, but maybe they’d tapped him on the shoulder.

When she’d arrived I’d said, ‘Where’s Mr Andrews?’ and she’d replied, ‘He’s away.’

‘Sick?’

‘I believe so.’

But I’d known. I believe so. That was code. Mr Andrews had been dealt with. Mr Andrews was given a chance, but had refused to change. Then she’d said, ‘I’m moving our lesson. Room seven, please.’

‘Not in the art room?’ I’d asked.

‘No.’

Another bad sign. Dictators always controlled their environment, curtailed the possibility of escape, mentally, and otherwise.

We’d gone to room seven. Sixties curtains and fifties wood panelling. Lino: as brutal as the day it was laid. High windows you opened with a pole, just to make sure no one felt the breeze. A blackboard with dried spit-bombs, and a 1982 date.

Curtis glared at White and said, ‘She’s on top of my list.’ He raised his hand. ‘Miss White?’

She looked up from her marking.

‘What’s happening with the canteen?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Are they getting rid of the Twisties?’

Everyone laughed.

‘Yes,’ she said, returning to her work.

‘Why?’

‘So you eat healthy.’

‘But what about our Twistie rolls?’

She laid her pen on the table. ‘I don’t care about rolls. There’ll be salads, stir fries …’

And you could hear the groan, although you couldn’t.

‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘what’s that got to do with art?’

‘Nothing, but not everyone—’

‘On with your work, please.’

Work: a sheet with printed axes. We were meant to sketch a dog from Art Appreciation for Australian Schools (1963): the arch of the back, the bend of the legs, the droop of the head. It was meant to take fifty minutes and if we finished we should read, because that’s what teachers said if they couldn’t think what to do. Mine was coming along nicely, although it wasn’t much of a dog. Curtis was drawing a combination dragon—Hitler. He’d started with the head and mo and claws and was filling in the rest. ‘No borrowing books at lunch,’ he whispered.

‘Why?’

Then loudly. ‘Miss White, why can’t we borrow books at lunch?’

‘Miss Gillian needs a break. Is this relevant?’