Cushla pulled their exercise books towards her and called the children up alphabetically by first name. She had asked them to write a poem inspired by Wordsworth’s ‘Daffodils’. Davy had written ‘daffodils are like spears, swiftly swaying to and fro’, the words curving into the stem of the single flower he had drawn on the right-hand side of the page. It’s brilliant, Davy, Cushla said quietly. He tilted his head as if he was considering his work’s merit and went back to his seat.

The last was Zoe Francetti, one of the children from the army barracks. There was a primary school in the compound but sometimes the Catholic ones were sent here. Zoe was from London and had lived in Germany and Hong Kong. It made her seem worldly and exotic and the other children didn’t appear to mind that her father was a British soldier. She had drawn Sindy in a long pink evening gown. It’s not what I asked for, said Cushla, but it’s really good.

A scrape of a chair. She raised her eyes in time to see Davy close his fist and bury it in Jonathan’s upper arm. What’s going on? she said.

He said I stink, said Davy.

He didn’t stink, but his clothes reeked of cooking. You should have told me, Davy, not hit him, said Cushla.

I’m no tout, he said, holding out a red palm. She was supposed to cane him. If that didn’t work, she was supposed to send for the headmaster.

Stand up, Jonathan, she said. The child got to his feet with dignity, as though he was about to make a speech. That was a hurtful thing to say. Tell Davy you’re sorry.

Jonathan opened his mouth and closed it. I didn’t hear you, she said.

Sorry, he said.

Davy, tell Jonathan you’re sorry for hitting him.

I’m very sorry, he said, offering his hand to the other boy, who barely touched it, the gesture more punishment than peace-offering. She ordered them into opposite corners of the room. They were still there when the headmaster came in with the parish priest.

Father Slattery was wearing a black velvet jacket over his vest and collar, his long face ghoulishly pale, as though all the blood had been drained from him. The school was built on parish land it shared with the church and parochial house. Slattery was wont to roam the playground and school corridors, entering the classrooms unannounced to deliver his frightful catechism. Cushla had complained to Bradley that the visits were unsettling. He’s the priest, she was told. She had another reason for disliking him. When her father was in the hospital, delirious with morphine, Slattery had prayed with him and then persuaded him to write a cheque for a colour television.

Two bad boys, said Slattery, taking in the disgraced figures in the corners.

Davy glanced at Cushla, eyes pleading with her. Jonathan was staring at the loop of the leather strap that was sticking out of Bradley’s pocket. Cushla turned to him, to appeal to him to stop this, but he was backing out the door.