‘Do you think I can appeal?’ Was this why Miss Carter was calling? Bessie had a brief image of herself and Michelle walking into the sixth-form centre together – in matching outfits, natch.

‘Oh! No, lovey, I’m afraid not.’ Miss Carter gave the smallest titter, a scythe to Bessie’s already failing optimism. ‘Appeals are made when a student feels a particular grade is unfair or challenges a decision regarding a piece of work, but it’s usually based on past performance and, as I say, is usually just for one subject, where that single grade might make a difference, but with you . . .’ She heard her teacher take a deep, slow breath. ‘It’s all of your grades that are challenging, so they wouldn’t entertain an appeal.’

‘I see.’ Fresh tears slid down Bessie’s face, washing away the image of her and Michelle.

‘Exams are not where you shine, Bessie! I think part of the problem is your handwriting. I know all of your reports across all subjects talk about the need for improved legibility and penmanship’ – she paused – ‘but I guess there’s no point in going over that now or picking your performance to pieces. I was really only calling to see how you were feeling and to say that it might seem like the end of the world right now . . .’

‘It does,’ Bessie interjected.

‘But it won’t always feel that way. You will move on, find your path, and this will be no more than a footnote to a lovely and successful life. You mustn’t let it hold you back, Bessie.’

‘Thank you, Miss.’ She didn’t know what else to say but tried to picture the school year pared down to a select clever few, an elite group of which she would not be a part . . . Philip was right – this was how they weeded out the numbers for a much reduced sixth form.

‘Take care of yourself, Bessie.’