Most of the teaching staff were in now and Donny walked round the building doing the rest of his morning checks. He glanced at his watch: as well as a tutor coming in from the local college, there was a new teacher starting today and he wanted to be around to welcome her personally.

He popped his head into the kitchen; he could smell the school cook before he could see her. You couldn’t really describe the combination of grease, tobacco and vinegar, but it wasn’t a good one. Donny tried breathing through his mouth but that just made him cough.

‘Morning, Rita. What’s on the menu today?’

Rita was more interested in the scratchcard in her hand as the small silver coin uncovered the last couple of numbers. ‘Fuck’s sake,’ she muttered under her breath, ignoring Donny and dipping her head inside the fridge. Donny repeated his question, louder this time. ‘What’s on the menu today?’ She looked up.

‘Jacket potatoes, pasta bake and toasties.’

‘Lovely. And how are we, Rita, this morning? Are we in a good mood? I can see you’ve not won your fortune, but you’re rich in love, eh?’

She shrugged, scraped her hair back from her face. ‘I’m always in a good mood, me. It’s these kids that do my head in. Lazy they are, don’t do a tap. I only asked Frankie to pass me a few plates through yesterday and you should have heard the way he went off on one. God knows how they live at home because if it’s anything like they are here they must live in shit-tips.’

Donny leant back against the wall, his eyebrows arched. ‘It’s hard enough getting them in school each day, never mind getting them to clean up after themselves, so we have to count ourselves lucky. Don’t we?’

‘You’re a right soft arse, Donny. They are lucky they don’t get a clip round the ear. If it was one of mine they wouldn’t know what’d hit them. Dirty bleeders.’ Rita had worked here for two years and the job suited her, despite what she said. She liked her food, did Rita. Almost every time Donny saw her she was ramming something into her gob. She said it was quality control, but Donny had nicknamed her Mrs Kipling, though he made sure she never knew it. Rita riled was not something he wanted to have to face. She was a battleaxe, rough as a bear’s arse someone had once said, he’d forgotten who. And she was gobby, always spoke her mind – maybe that was why she fit in here. But she was not someone to mess with. Wallflowers didn’t last long at Second Chance.

Donny looked out of the window. ‘You seen Frankie yet, Rita?’