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indignation.
    Peter had desperately wanted to go to the grammar; he’d felt sure it was a place where secrets like Latin and Greek would open doors of happiness into a world of rare knowledge. But now, as he watched Alice’s face, delicate as one of the Hanburys’ china teacups, it wasn’t the idea of Latin that was making his chest expand with happiness, it was the knowledge that Alice Hanbury minded about what happened to him.
    Glancing around the room Peter realised that he wasn’t the only one spellbound by Alice. Sitting on the window seat behind them, the dark-haired Ralph was watching Alice’s fiery delivery with his full attention.

    A couple of weeks later Alice and her brothers were gone from the house, the boys back to their boarding school, Alice to university. A quiet routine of helping Maudey established itself: peeling potatoes; blacking shoes and washing dishes; bringing in the coal; glad to show how he could be helpful.
    It was Maudey who found out what had happened to Bill. He wasn’t at Thompson’s farm but further away at old Mr Garrat’s, a good six-mile walk, Maudey said. ‘You’ll need all day to get there and back. Perhaps on Saturday you could walk over there, eh?’
    With Maudey’s instructions Peter set out to find Bill at Garrat’s farm. He rolled up the Hotspur comic and stowed it in his back pocket.
    Garrat’s farm was a sea of hard, grey mud. Around three edges of a muddy yard were low buildings, streaked with dust and green. Beyond, a rusting barn with a collapsed wall of hay bales. When he opened the gate a dog on a chain began to bark and hurl itself repeatedly in his direction. Peter decided to sit up on the wall away from the dog, wait and see if anyone was about. There was a sharp smell of ammonia and ripe old boots from the earth, the lane up to the gate splodged with cowpats.
    It wasn’t long before a herd of black cows came lumbering into view, lowing and rolling their eyes at the figure by the gate. At the back were two men in rolled shirtsleeves, one with a stick that he used to shoo away flies or tap the backside of a cow that had stopped to grab at the hedge. With a shock of recognition Peter saw that the man with the stick was Bill. He watched in awe as Bill calmly herded the cows through into the farmyard. He barely nodded at Peter’s ‘All right then?’ as he shut the gate. Peter jumped down from the wall and followed him across the yard.
    The cows dealt with, with the briefest of calls and slaps on the behind, Bill led the way into a room that was more of a continuation of outdoors than a habitation. The walls had a cold, wet feel when you touched them. The brick floor had a sheen of slug trails and a sweat of condensation. A sink in one corner with a tap, and a bloom of green up the wall. A table with a tin and a plate, a bed in the corner with a ticking pillow case. A jumble of old blankets. Bill sat down on the edge of the bed. He took a packet of five Woodbines from his pocket, lit one and sucked at the end, holding the cigarette between his thumb and finger. His fingernails were black and the creases of his hands inked in with the same black.
    â€˜How you been, Bill?’
    A shrug for a reply. Peter got out the Hotspur comic and put it on the bed. Bill turned the pages. He seemed to have forgotten Peter wasthere. Peter looked around at the cold room, a sickly smell coming from the walls that made you keen to leave.
    â€˜Bill, I could ask if you could come and live where I am. Maudey there, she’s a right good cook. You could do jobs. They can’t get no one to help in garden, only me at weekend.’
    Bill looked at Peter’s smart corduroy shorts, the new jumper.
    â€˜Don’t be soft. I’ll be fourteen soon. Going home in a few weeks. Got a place as apprentice at John’s works.’
    â€˜You’re going home?’
    â€˜I am that.’
    â€˜I’ll ask Maudey