‘What exactly does “ungraded” mean?’ her mum asked, with her hand at her throat. Of course, she didn’t know. Her only experience of O level exams to date was with Philip, who would never have used the word – why would he, with his clutch of A’s and a shiny gold star for every piece of work he had ever handed in? Having to explain only added to Bessie’s mortification, cloaking her in a veil of stupidity that her results only confirmed.

‘It means I failed so badly they couldn’t even give me an E or an F, so they gave me a U for no grade at all, which is worse than not turning up, because at least if I hadn’t turned up I could use that as an excuse, but to have sat the exam and got U is . . . it’s horrible.’

‘What did you get for maths?’ her dad asked, with a nervous twinkle in his eye.

‘Ungraded.’ She noted his efforts to keep his smile in place, but under duress and with his eyes watering a little, it looked more like a grimace.

‘So how did you do in English?’ Her mum held her breath.

‘Ungraded.’

Her mum nodded and her mouth moved, as if she had plenty to say, although no actual words came out.

‘Biology?’ her dad ventured, his expression pained.

‘Ungraded.’

She watched her parents exchange a hurried, horrified look before beaming back at her.

‘Home Economics?’ Her mum stared, wide-eyed and intense, as if her encouragement could nudge the grade up a place or two.

‘I got a D.’

‘Oh marvellous!’ her mum smiled, exhaling with obvious relief.

‘Well done! You love to cook!’ her dad chimed.

She did?

‘You could become a chef!’ her mum said, clapping her hands. ‘We need to celebrate – you could be the next Delia Smith!’

‘Who could be the next Delia Smith?’ Philip asked as he sauntered into the kitchen. His chest was still bare but he had put on pyjama bottoms. Thankfully.

‘Your sister!’ Her dad pointed at her, lest there be any doubt as to whom he was referring. ‘She’s a smashing little cook!’

Philip snorted his laughter and reached into the carousel cupboard in the corner to grab a mint Club from the Tupperware box where the snacks lived.

‘Are you joking? She can just about manage beans on toast. I don’t think Delia should be fearful for her crown,’ Philip scoffed.

‘You never know!’ Her mum gave her brother a hard stare, to which he was oblivious as he peeled the foiled paper from his biscuit.

‘So how did you do?’ he asked, standing alongside their mum. ‘Where did you come in the year? What’s your number?’

All three stared at her as the dastardly digits danced on her tongue and gummed up her mouth.

‘Philip, I am literally one of the most stupid people in the year!’ she yelled.