Celia approached and her mother fearing she would lose her prize held tighter to the poor man. ‘Mamma,’ Celia said, leaning close to her mother, ‘leave him.’ But her plea fell on to an ear that was deaf to it. Raising her voice sharply to a level I had never heard, Celia said, ‘Mamma,’ once more. Some in the crowd began to see this as a comical situation – an airman off to fight for the Mother Country terrorised by a lunatic woman attached to his chest. But Celia was shamed. Humiliation flowed through every grimace and frown as she started to pull her mother from the man, her mother kicking and batting her away, all the time saying, ‘Winston, don’t you know me? Is Evelyn.’

Another airman broke rank to help with this struggle. Then another and another. Three uniformed men were trying to remove this wriggling woman, while restricting their hands to touch her only on those parts that would not offend her modesty. The little pink dress she wore ripped this way and that as she strained to keep her grip. Her wig slipped over her eyes then fell to the ground. I retrieved it from under a large boot, while Celia, in what looked to be a well-practised manner, began peeling her mother’s arm from around this beleaguered man.

All the time his fellow airmen taunted him, ‘What you do to her, man? You look too young. You one for the ladies?’ And a sergeant paced up to see the commotion, which was holding up the march. Finally, in a composed desperation, this young man said quietly to the top of Celia’s mother’s head, ‘My name is not Winston, ma’am. I am Douglas.’ As quickly as she grabbed him she had let him go. And scattering the crowd as she ran, this vagabond, fluttering pink and black, disappeared.

It was in contravention of most of the college rules for a pupil to be seen in town dragging an hysterical woman (who was wearing two dresses) from around the chest of a marching airman. In public, no eating, no running, no singing, no spitting and no loud chatter was allowed. As teachers in training our behaviour outside the walls of the college was expected to be as exemplary as if we were still under the watchful gaze of the principal. It was true that I had eaten no food and that Celia and I did not sing during this ordeal. But we had run after her mother. We had shouted for her to wait, to come back, to stop. We had held up traffic as we struggled to pull her from a bus and I had spat on to the road when the dusty wig I was holding was accidentally pushed into my mouth in a scuffle. This list of in-town rules – no eating, no running, no singing, no spitting and no loud chatter – was recited like an incantation by the principal every day at assembly. So when I was summoned to Miss Morgan’s study I feared that news of this fracas had reached her ears. For Ivy May had heard the tale – her smiling on me as she passed saying, ‘Hortense, I see you meet Celia’s mother, then,’ before going on her way, giggling. So I had my excuse. It was Celia! It was she who met me from the school. It was she who led me to the parade. It was she who, having spent a morning with her crazy mother, left the door open that allowed her to follow. And it was she who insisted we get her mother back to the house of her aunt before returning to the college. All these misdeeds were the fault of Celia Langley. It was she who, like a devil at my shoulder, had led me from the path of righteousness.

For fifteen minutes I paced outside the principal’s study assuming Celia would soon arrive to walk up and down with me. But she was not by my side when ‘Enter’ was called. I took comfort in her absence – she would not be present to hear me cite her name as reason for every rule I had transgressed. She could not gawp on me like I was committing some betrayal or contradict me by saying she had not asked me to follow and that I did so because I was inquisitive about her deranged mother.

The desk at which the principal sat was not big enough for her. Like an adult at a school desk made for a child I was afraid when she lifted herself from it that it would be stuck to her front like an apron. What desk could accommodate the majesty of this Welshwoman?

‘Hortense Roberts?’ the principal asked.

‘Present, Miss Morgan,’ I said stupidly, as if answering the roll-call. It was as she looked up at me that I noticed both her eyes were not, as I had always believed, blue. One and a half eyes were blue. The left eye was half blue and half light brown. It was my sharp intake of breath that made her enquire if I was quite well. ‘Yes, thank you, Miss Morgan, quite well,’ I replied, keeping my gaze away from the peculiar eye.

‘Hortense Roberts,’ she repeated, in a manner that made me ready my excuse. It was Celia, Celia, Celia, I was about to plead. But instead of the anticipated chastisement the principal showed me a letter. ‘This is for you. I am afraid it has been opened as it was actually addressed to the principal. But it’s certainly meant more for you than for myself. Please – read the letter.’

It was from Miss Ma. The letter began with an elaborate five-line apology for taking up the time of such a busy and distinguished person as the principal. ‘However,’ it went on, ‘I and my husband, Mr Philip Roberts, would be in your debt if at your own convenience and in a manner you deem fitting, you could perchance relay a message to Miss Hortense Roberts, whom I believe is a trainee teacher still in the first year at your establishment.’ I recognised the careful script with its flourish that looped at the top of the h and curved at the base of the g. ‘The message concerns a Mr Michael Roberts, who is our eldest and only son and with whom the aforementioned Miss Hortense Roberts is acquainted.’ Precious news of Michael! My legs nearly buckled under me at reading his name. I had heard nothing of him since his departure for England. And here on these small, folded pieces of white paper his life was lifting before me anew. He had been sent at first to Canada to train for the RAF. And, typical of Michael, was awarded the highest marks and sent to England without delay to join a squadron as an air-gunner.

‘Sit down if you feel the need,’ the principal told me. And I did. It was a rare privilege to sit on this padded seat designed for dignitaries. This chair, having been sent all the way from England on a ship, seemed a befitting throne to read news about Michael.

The letter carried on:

Our son, Michael Roberts, was dispatched with his squadron on an operation the consequence of which was to find him perambulating in the skies above the country of France with the enemy residing below. Mr Roberts and I have recently been in receipt of a missive from the War Office in London, England. This authority has informed us that while our son, Michael Roberts, was performing his duty for the Mother Country, the aeroplane on which he was travelling was unaccountably lost.

The meticulous script began to deteriorate, its poise transforming into a childlike scribble with the words: ‘Mr Roberts and I have been informed by the War Office in the said London, England, that we should at this stage in the proceedings consider our son, Michael Roberts, to be officially missing in action.’

The strange eyes of the principal were on me when I looked up from the letter. ‘Thank you, Miss Morgan,’ I said.

‘You were acquainted with this young man?’

‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘We grew up together.’

She nodded in the sage way I had come to know well. ‘I am pleased to see you are taking this news in a befitting manner. It does not do to get too emotional on these occasions. True grief is silent.’

‘Oh, Miss Morgan,’ I said, ‘any news of Michael Roberts is a joy to my ear.’

Coughing genteelly into her hand she shuffled a sheet of paper from one side of the desk to the other. ‘I don’t think that you have altogether understood the significance of this letter. The young man . . .’ she said, shuffling the paper back to the other side.