Tales Out of School

Book 0: Top of the Dale

by Gervase Phinn

Genres: Humor & Satire; Sagas; Small Town & Rural

Synopsis

After an eventful start to his first ever teaching post in the sleepy village of Risingdale, Tom Dwyer is hoping for a bit of calm. Nursing a broken heart after a romantic disappointment, he just wants to keep his head down and get on with his job. But it is not to be. A beautiful London artist sets tongues wagging when she moves into the village, and her precocious yet frail son is in Tom's class. On top of that, his colleague's malicious ex-husband is back and a tragedy on one of the winding country roads sends the village reeling. And all this alongside a class of children who still seem to know more about farming than fractions.

Release date: March 5, 2020

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 400

Sample

Chapter 1

The woman and the boy sat in the front seats of the shiny black Range Rover. The car was parked on a small square of land just off the road. She rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder and squeezed gently, then looked out on the scene before her – a vast landscape of rolling hills and rocky outcrops dusted with a covering of snow; the whole area a vast white sea. The rays of a watery winter sun pierced the high feathery clouds, making the snow glow a golden pink. The scene was magical.

‘Just look at that view,’ she said, turning to the boy. ‘It’s so lovely, so timeless and tranquil. It’s beautiful.’

‘I’m cold,’ the boy murmured, shivering a little.

He turned and looked through the side window at the building set back from the road: a solid, square single-storey construction with a greasy blue-grey slate roof flecked with snow and small square, windows, enclosed by low, craggy white-limestone walls. It looked like any other sturdy Yorkshire country dwelling. No traffic triangle warned drivers that children might be crossing and there was no board at the front indicating that this was a school.

‘What do you think?’ asked the woman. ‘Is it worth having a look around?’

The boy gave a convincing impression of appearing not to care. ‘If you want,’ he replied, sighing.

‘It’s more about what you want, Leo,’ she said.

‘It looks like the workhouse out of a Dickens novel,’ he mumbled.

She gave him a look of patient indulgence. He has had so much to put up with, she thought, things that most boys of ten never have to deal with. ‘It is rather grim,’ she agreed. ‘It’s not a good thing, though, to judge by appearances, is it?’ The boy knew this only too well. ‘Shall we go inside?’

He didn’t reply but continued to stare at the building.

‘I know it doesn’t appear all that promising,’ she continued, ‘and it’s rather isolated up here at the top of the Dale, but now we’re here it might be worth taking a look. What do you think?’ The boy continued to stare out of the window but said nothing. ‘You know, Leo, if you don’t want to go inside, I can turn right around and we can leave things for a while and look for another school.’

‘I know that,’ he said.

‘We could think again about you going to Silverdene Lodge.’

‘I don’t want to go to Silverdene Lodge,’ replied the boy vehemently. ‘I didn’t like the school and I didn’t like the headmaster.’

‘No,’ granted the woman, ‘I can’t say that I was very impressed with Mr Mountjoy. A bit too full of his own importance, wasn’t he?’

The previous day they had visited the private school in Clayton. Mr Mountjoy, headmaster of Silverdene Lodge Preparatory School, had sat behind a huge mahogany desk in his huge leather chair with his hands on the arms, looking like a king on a throne. Not a thing had been out of place in his plush office. There were smart light-wood cupboards and cabinets, a matching glass-fronted bookcase containing a set of leather-bound tomes, all identical in shape and size, an occasional rosewood table, two easy chairs patterned in burgundy and a deep oatmeal-coloured sofa. A shelf displayed a collection of silver cups and shields. The walls were plain and painted in a soured-cream shade. On one were four garish abstract paintings – all coloured blobs and odd shapes – in silver metal frames, positioned at exact distances from one another. Another wall displayed rows of photographs of the school’s sporting teams, the children posing serious-faced and cross-armed for the camera. There was a thick shag-pile carpet and long, pale drapes at the window, through which stretched an uninterrupted view over the market town of Clayton, busy and bustling at rush hour. In the far distance were the moors and misty peaks cloaked in white.

Mr Mountjoy was as pristine as his surroundings. He was a tall, angular individual, clean-shaven with short, neatly parted black hair, dressed in a charcoal grey suit, crisp white shirt and college tie knotted tightly at the collar. A black academic gown was draped around his shoulders. He leaned back in his chair and observed for a moment the woman and the boy who sat before him. She was a tall, elegant young woman of strikingly good looks, probably in her mid-thirties, with a wave of bright blonde hair, a streamlined figure and flawless make-up. But her most attractive feature was her eyes: they were almond-shaped and as bright as blue polished glass. The woman was wearing a smart, close-fitting camel-hair coat and matching cashmere scarf. Judging by her appearance she was clearly refined and demonstrably affluent – he had seen the gleaming black Range Rover pull up outside. Here was just the sort of parent he liked: wealthy, stylish and well-connected. He must do his utmost, he thought, to convince her that this was the school for her son.

Since the increase in fees, numbers at Silverdene Lodge had been declining of late and Mr Mountjoy had been under pressure from his governors to do something about it. But it wasn’t just the rise in fees that had occasioned the falling off in numbers. It was the fierce competition from the local primary school in the neighbouring village of Barton-in-the-Dale. Once unpopular and moribund, it had recently flourished under the leadership and management of the new head teacher, Mrs Elisabeth Stirling. It was now one of the most successful schools in the county and parents were queuing up to secure a place for their children.

Mr Mountjoy had looked with interest at the boy (for he assumed it was a boy by the clothes the child wore). He was small and delicate as a china doll with his mass of golden curls, his wide, inquisitive blue eyes and his pale unblemished face. The child returned the man’s gaze with undisturbed equanimity. He looked disconcertingly self-possessed.

‘Let me tell you a little about Silverdene Lodge,’ the headmaster had said, giving a dry little smile. He had then proceeded to give a lecture that he had clearly delivered to parents many times before.

‘This is a long-established school,’ he had begun. ‘It was founded in the 1930s by a clergyman with only twelve children on roll. Since then we have grown and now have over a hundred and fifty pupils. This year we celebrate our fiftieth anniversary.’ His voice had been doleful and plodding. ‘I make no apologies for this being a traditional school. Let me assure you that we don’t follow all the modern approaches and trendy initiatives evident in some schools, approaches that unfortunately have led to the decline in standards in education. Here at Silverdene Lodge we teach tried-and-tested methods that have stood us in good stead for many years and resulted in our pupils securing places, many at the top public schools.’

He had sounded as if he were addressing parents at a school speech day and had carried on, getting into his stride. ‘Great emphasis is placed here on the academic – we have a rigorous and challenging curriculum focusing on the basics – and upon developing fit and healthy young people. We are fortunate to have a gymnasium, art block, extensive indoor and outdoor pitches and a swimming pool.’ He had thought for a moment of the leaking roof in the gym and the urgent repairs needed to the swimming pool. ‘You will see from the prospectus,’ he had continued, sliding a glossy-backed brochure across the desk, ‘that we are fortunate to have excellent facilities.’ He had looked at the boy, who had stared back at him, serious-faced. The headmaster had smiled rather like a hungry vampire ready to sink its teeth into a victim. ‘I am sure, were your son to come here, he would do very well.’ The boy, who had sat up very straight in his chair with his legs together and his hands folded on his lap, had continued to look at the headmaster with a blank expression. Mr Mountjoy had found it rather disturbing and had turned to the woman instead. ‘Here at Silverdene Lodge we pride ourselves on turning out hard-working, well-behaved, polite children who value the education on offer. We have very supportive parents who are fully involved in the life of the school and very appreciative of our efforts, and a committed governing body. You will find that—’

‘Thank you so much,’ the woman had interrupted, giving a polite if forced smile. She had stood and smoothed the creases on her coat before putting on an expensive-looking pair of leather gloves. She had heard quite enough of Silverdene Lodge and the self-important headmaster. ‘You have been most informative, Mr Mountjoy.’ The boy had jumped to his feet, as keen as his mother to be away.

‘B . . . but I was about to take you on a tour of the school,’ the headmaster had stammered.

‘That is kind of you,’ the woman had replied affably, ‘but we are a little pressed for time and I am sure that anything further I need to know is in here.’ She had picked up the prospectus, tucked it under her arm and, smiling at the gloomy-faced headmaster, had wished him a good morning.

So now they sat in the car looking at the squat little school that was so very different from the one they had visited the previous day.

‘Shall we go inside and see what it’s like?’ she asked.

Leo turned once more and looked through the side window at the building set back from the road and shrugged. ‘I suppose so,’ he answered indifferently.

‘And try and look a bit more cheerful, darling. Don’t worry, we will find the right school.’

They climbed from the car and approached the gaunt grey building. The air was icy fresh and the dusting of snow crunched beneath their feet.

At the door of the school, enveloped in a heavy overcoat and sporting a woollen balaclava helmet, thick woollen gloves and enormous green wellington boots, stood a tall individual with dark deep-set eyes and a large nose that curved savagely like a bent bow. He was holding a canvas sack and having a rest from gritting the path. There was a lugubrious expression on his long face, which was red with exertion and with the cold.

‘Good morning,’ said the woman, carefully stepping up the path.

‘Morning,’ replied the man. Clouds of vapour rose from his nostrils.

‘Dreadful weather.’

‘You can say that again,’ sniffed the man. He ran a gloved index finger under his dripping nose. ‘Are you lost?’

‘No, no,’ she told him. ‘I was hoping I might see the head teacher. I guess I should have made an appointment, so if it’s inconvenient—’

‘Mr Gaunt, he’s the headmaster, is not a one for appointments,’ the man told her, sniffing again. ‘We don’t get many visitors up here so he’s glad to see people. I reckon he can spare the time to see you. He don’t stand on ceremony, Mr Gaunt. You had better come in out of the cold.’ He made no effort to move. ‘It’s bitter this morning and no mistake, and we’re in for more bad weather by the looks of it.’ He stared up at the sky, then he pulled a melancholy face and glanced at his feet. ‘Every time I clear the path after it’s snowed we get another fresh lot. Then when the snow does clear, it’s like an ice-rink with kids sliding up and down like there’s no tomorrow. I tell them not to go sliding on the frozen water unless it’s been passed by the headmaster but they don’t listen. I’m Mr Leadbeater, by the way, caretaker, handyman, gardener, snow-clearer and general factotum. If you’d like to follow me, I’ll show you in. Watch your step, I’ve not finished gritting the path yet.’ He looked at the boy. ‘And you too go carefully, young fella-mi-lad.’

The interior of the building belied its dark and cheerless exterior. The heavy door, painted a bright red and with a burnished brass knocker in the shape of a fox’s head, opened into a small vestibule that was warm and welcoming. The school was a clean and tidy building and smelled not unpleasantly of old wood and lavender furniture polish. Paintwork shone, the floors had a spotless, polished look, brass door handles sparkled and there was not a sign of graffiti or litter. The display boards, which stretched the full length of the corridor, were covered in line drawings, paintings, photographs and children’s writing. Everything looked cheerful and orderly.

The school had not always looked as it did on that cold January morning. Before the arrival the previous term of the new young teacher, the energetic Mr Tom Dwyer, and the appointment of Mrs Edna Gosling, the obsessively fastidious cleaner, it had been very different. The heavy then mud-coloured door with the tarnished brass knocker had needed a good lick of paint. It had opened with a loud creak into a small lobby, which had been dark and unwelcoming with its shiny green wall tiles and off-white paint. From the entrance had stretched the corridor, which had been lined with old cupboards and shelves and had a floor of pitted linoleum the same colour as the door to the school. The headmaster, the three teachers and the caretaker had been quite happy with the environment in which they worked. The school had remained unaltered for many years and the staff was indifferent to change. With the arrival of enthusiastic Mr Dwyer and fussy Mrs Gosling, the place had undergone a transformation. Of course, the imminent visit of one of Her Majesty’s Inspectors of Schools had also focused the minds of the members of staff who liked things to stay as they were.

‘A bit of window-dressing won’t hurt,’ the headmaster had observed.

In the small office the school secretary, a thin woman with a pale, indrawn face and thick iron-grey hair cut in a bob, peered over her unfashionable horn-rimmed spectacles.

‘This lady would like to see Mr Gaunt, Beryl,’ the caretaker told her. He ran a gloved finger under his nose again.

The secretary frowned and shook her head tetchily. She dug in a drawer in her desk and produced a paper tissue, which she thrust into the caretaker’s hand. ‘Blow your nose,’ she mouthed, like a schoolteacher speaking to an infant. Then she adopted her professional smile and her affected voice reserved for visitors who looked a cut above the usual callers. She looked up at the woman and removed her spectacles. ‘Good morning,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Hif you would care to wait, I shall see hif Mr Gaunt is havailable.’

A moment later, the woman and the boy were shown into the headmaster’s study. The room was small and dominated by a huge oak desk with brass-handled drawers. On top was an old-fashioned leather-bound blotter, a large brass inkwell in the shape of a ram’s head, an earthenware mug holding an assortment of pens and broken pencils and a jumble of papers and folders. A battered grey metal filing cabinet stood by the window next to a heavy bookcase crammed with books and journals, magazines and files. On the floor was a brightly coloured rug and displayed on a wall was a variety of children’s paintings of various animals – black-faced sheep and prancing horses, grazing cows and stout pink pigs on stubby legs, all executed in vivid colour. Propped up in a corner was the strangest-looking contraption: a long, wooden trumpet-like instrument with a cup-shaped mouthpiece.

Mr Gaunt, a tall, lean man with the weathered face of a countryman, rose from his chair and edged around his desk to greet his visitors. He sported a thick crop of greying hair that curled around his collar and wore a shapeless tweed jacket, baggy flannel trousers and a shirt frayed at the cuffs. The woman smiled narrowly as she recalled Mr Mountjoy’s meticulous appearance. Here was a rather different character.

‘It’s very good of you to see me, Mr Gaunt,’ she said, holding out a gloved hand, which he shook. ‘I appreciate that Friday afternoon is perhaps not the best time to call but—’

‘Not at all, not at all,’ he said. He straightened his clumsily knotted tie and smoothed his hair before removing a pile of farming magazines from a small spindle-backed chair. ‘Do take a seat, Mrs . . .?’

‘Stanhope,’ she replied, sitting down. ‘Amanda Stanhope.’

Mr Gaunt moved back behind his desk and sat down. He gestured to a stool in the corner of the room. ‘And you pull that up, young man,’ he told the boy, ‘and you can sit up here by my desk.’

The woman immediately liked the look of the man. His smile was genuine and there was palpable warmth in the large dark eyes. He had a deep, resonant voice and a kindly solicitous manner.

‘Please excuse the clutter,’ he said, waving a hand above the desk. ‘I mean to tidy the place up one of these days but have never got around to it. Mrs Gosling, the cleaner, and Mrs Leadbeater, my secretary, are always nagging me to do it. Mrs Leadbeater’s the caretaker’s wife, by the way.’ He smiled genially.

Mrs Stanhope took a seat, crossed her long legs and removed her gloves. She rested her hands on her lap. The chair wobbled beneath her weight. The boy pulled up the stool to sit next to her and stared at the headmaster with peculiar concentration.

‘Now,’ said Mr Gaunt, resting his hands on the desktop and leaning back in his chair, ‘what can I do for you?’

‘I like the animal portraits,’ she said, suddenly pointing to the wall where the paintings were displayed. ‘I guess they were done by the children.’

‘Oh yes,’ the headmaster told her. ‘All done by the pupils in the school.’

‘They are very good,’ she said. She thought for a moment of the children’s efforts on the walls in the entrance at Silverdene Lodge. Most were pictures of poor quality and done in pencil, felt-tip pens and crayons. ‘Young children paint with such enthusiasm and abandon, don’t you think? Their work is so expressive and authentic and soulful. When they are given the opportunity, that is. They can’t be bothered with detail and have no concept of perspective at that age. What they produce is so wonderfully bold and fresh and explosive with shape and colour. John Ruskin encouraged artists to represent nature with the freshness and vitality of a child. These pictures are very fine.’

‘I guess you are an artist yourself, Mrs Stanhope,’ remarked Mr Gaunt, sitting up.

‘Yes, I am,’ she replied. ‘The former Methodist chapel in the village is to be my studio. I’ve taken out a short lease and it’s being decorated at the moment. I’ve recently rented a cottage in Risingdale village on Rattan Row, just by Church Lane.’

‘You are renting the old Primitive Methodist chapel, are you,’ said Mr Gaunt. ‘I used to attend the Sunday school there as a child. I’m pleased it’s being put to some good use at last. The minister has been very particular about its use. Several people have tried to rent it in the past without success. You must have been most persuasive, Mrs Stanhope.’

‘Mr Cockburn was most accommodating,’ she told him. The woman rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘While I am here in Risingdale, I am looking for a school for my son.’

‘Well, of course, I should be delighted to have this young man at this school,’ said Mr Gaunt. He looked at the boy perched on the stool who was watching the headmaster intently. ‘And what is your name, young man?’

‘Leo.’

‘And how old are you?’

‘I’m ten, going on eleven.’

‘Well, now, Leo, do you think you might like to come here?’ asked Mr Gaunt.

The boy cocked his head slightly to one side, rubbed his chin and thought for a moment before drawing in a breath. He looked to Mr Gaunt like an academic considering a problem. ‘The thing is, I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘It’s difficult to say, really. It does look a bit bleak up here although the views are amazing. I should prefer to be in a country school rather than one in a town, but I can’t really say that I might like to come here because we’ve only just arrived and I don’t know much about it. I should quite like to look around, if that’s all right.’

Mr Gaunt stared for a moment. What an unusual child, he thought, with his head of flaxen curls, large blue eyes and his old-fashioned way of speaking. Perched on the stool, he looked like a little monkey.

‘An honest answer,’ said the headmaster, stifling a smile. He had assumed when he first saw him that the boy would be shy and nervous. Mr Gaunt soon changed his mind. Here was an unusually confident and articulate young man and no mistake. One should never judge by appearances, he reminded himself.

‘Well, let me tell you a little about Risingdale School. As you can see, it’s pretty old, built over a century ago, and set high up at the top of the Dale, apart from the village and a good few miles from the nearest town of Clayton. Risingdale has one of the finest views of any school in the county. It was originally built for the children of the estate workers employed by the local squire, Sir Hedley Maladroit.’

‘From whom I rent the cottage,’ said Mrs Stanhope.

‘Yes, Sir Hedley owns most of the land around here and much of the village too,’ the headmaster told her. ‘He’s a very good-hearted sort.’ Unlike his wife, he thought. ‘Anyway, we don’t have much in the way of facilities like some schools – playing fields, football pitches, a swimming pool or a gymnasium. It’s a small school but I like to think it has a special character and it’s a happy place, and for me that’s the most important thing – a happy school. If you become one of the pupils here, Leo, and you are happy, like the teachers and enjoy the lessons, then in my book everything else follows.’

The boy nodded. ‘Yes, I think so too,’ he said.

Mr Gaunt turned his attention to the boy’s mother. ‘To be honest, Mrs Stanhope, Risingdale is not one of the county’s flagship schools. We don’t number amongst the county’s highest performing when it comes to academic results but we hold our own compared with other small schools, and we have achieved some success with the sports and in the County Poetry Competition. One of our pupils won the County Art Prize last year.’ He turned to the paintings on the wall. ‘He painted a couple of those. I think you will find the children are pleasant enough, well-behaved on the whole, but like all growing children they do have their moments. They try their best and enjoy coming to school. There is a wide range of abilities and the teachers try to ensure every child reaches his or her potential. Some of the pupils have in the past gained places at the grammar school but most go on to Clayton Comprehensive. I don’t enter the children for the eleven-plus examination unless a parent specifically wishes me to do so. The comprehensive has a good reputation and suits our intake. The children come largely from the surrounding farms and, to be honest, some would prefer to be out and about in the fresh air instead of being stuck behind a desk. Parents are very supportive and the governors let me get on with the job without undue interference. I think that gives you a flavour of the school.’

‘And have you children yourself, Mr Gaunt?’ she asked.

‘Sadly not. I never married.’ He was rather startled by the enquiry from someone he had just met.

‘And if you had children and were looking for a school to which to send them, what would you look for?’

The headmaster was surprised by such a question. It sounded the sort of request a governor might ask a candidate on interview for a teaching post. Certainly no parent had ever asked him such a thing. He thought for a moment before replying.

‘Well, now, let me see.’ He tapped a finger on the desk. ‘A good school should be a friendly, happy place where children feel safe and secure; a clean, orderly environment where there is good, challenging teaching, strong leadership and management. I think a good school encourages every individual pupil to grow in confidence by success. Of course, none of this can be measured. Because some head teachers cannot measure what is valuable, they value what is measurable.’

‘One cannot measure a love of art or an appreciation of music,’ remarked Mrs Stanhope.

‘Very true,’ agreed Mr Gaunt. ‘Many schools pursue success in the examination area. Good results are of course important but they are not the be all and end all. It might sound a tad idealistic, Mrs Stanhope, but I think a good school should touch the souls of its children. They should hear stories and poems that make them laugh or feel sadness, listen to beautiful music, watch a play that takes them into another world, look at great paintings and appreciate art and feel a sense of wonder at seeing the vast and awesome snowy landscape and the first blossoms of spring. I’m sorry. I’m rambling on.’

‘Not at all,’ said the parent. ‘What you say is most interesting.’ She smiled. ‘You are quite the romantic, Mr Gaunt.’

‘If you mean by that, Mrs Stanhope, that I am starry-eyed or impractical,’ the headmaster told her, ‘then I might take issue with you.’

The woman smiled again. Her gaze was appraising. ‘No, Mr Gaunt,’ she replied, ‘I meant you are passionate about what you believe and I very much approve of what you have said.’

The headmaster coloured a little. He didn’t usually have this sort of conversation with parents. It was just that this woman, for some reason he could not explain, had triggered this response. He turned to the boy. ‘Now, what about you, Leo? Is there anything you would like to ask me?’

‘Yes, if I may,’ replied the boy, whose face had remained expressionless during Mr Gaunt’s speech. He cocked his head to one side again.

‘Go ahead,’ the headmaster told him.

‘Whatever is that strange-looking instrument in the corner?’

‘Ah, my alpenhorn. Yes, I saw you looking at it,’ said Mr Gaunt. ‘I should explain. Now, this winter we have been pretty lucky up here. It’s been unusually mild, although as you can see we have had some snow recently and the likelihood is that more is on the way. Some years we do get thick snow, high drifts, very cold winds and sometimes blizzards, and I have to close the school. And that’s when my alpenhorn comes in very handy. A few good blows on that echoes down the Dale and lets the villagers and those on the surrounding farms know that the school is closed and there will be no school that day. It warns parents that the school bus is not running and saves them trudging up with their children to find the school is shut. It works very well. I bought it in Switzerland and I caused quite a commotion at the airport when I brought it back.’

The boy gave a small smile for the first time that day. ‘That’s ingenious,’ he said. ‘Don’t you think that that’s ingenious, Mother?’

‘Yes, Leo,’ she said, smiling. ‘Ingenious.’

‘Shall we have a look around the school?’ suggested the headmaster, hoping that he had succeeded in recruiting a new pupil. He liked the look and the sound of this young man and his mother.

‘Yes, I should like that,’ replied the boy, jumping down from the stool.

‘I wonder, Leo,’ said Mr Gaunt, ‘if, while I am showing your mother around, you might like to join the top junior class for a short while. If you do decide to come here, this is the class you will be in and you would have Mr Dwyer as your teacher. You can then decide for yourself if you would like it at Risingdale. Of course, if you would prefer to look around with your mother—’

‘I think I should like to join the class, please,’ interrupted the boy.

‘Splendid,’ said the headmaster.

Mr Dwyer’s classroom was as clean and colourful as the corridor, with children’s paintings, poems, posters and collages decorating the walls. There was a small reading corner, a shelf stocked with glossy-backed books and a set of dictionaries and a table displaying shells, coloured stones and fossils. On the high windowsill was a small selection of stuffed birds: a fierce-looking kestrel grasping a mouse in its talons, a wide-eyed owl, a sharp-beaked raven and a magpie. Instead of the melamine-topped tables and modern chairs usually found in most primary schools, the room was furnished with old-fashioned, straight-backed wooden chairs and highly polished wooden desks with lids and holes for inkwells. The ceiling was a pale blue in colour and the beams, with curved wooden supports that stretched across it, were painted navy blue. There was a Victorian fireplace, its mantel of dark slate; the heavy black iron grate was filled with dried flowers in various shades.

Mr Dwyer was a young man with shiny black curls and an engaging smile. When Mr Gaunt entered with Mrs Stanhope and her son, he placed down the book he had been reading to the children. While the headmaster explained to the teacher that Leo might be coming to the school and would like to join the lesson, Mrs Stanhope ran her eyes about the room before settling them on the children. As an artist well known for her portraiture, she took a great interest in people’s appearances. Here, she thought, were some most interesting little characters. There were about fifteen children in the class, dressed in a variety of clothes. A range of physical types was represented: a large, rosy-cheeked boy with a runny nose; a small gangly boy with a squint and hair like a lavatory brush; a lean, bespectacled boy with a thick mop of tawny blond hair; a sharp-faced boy with untidy tufts of hair; two spotty boys; a heavily freckled boy and, sitting smiling at the front desk, a plain-looking child, not much bigger than her son, with dark eyes and tightly curled hair. There was a large, ginger-headed girl; a small, pixie-faced girl; twin girls with friz