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“We’re going to be telling stories,” says Catherine. “About our lives and those of the Elders. We might look at their childhood experiences compared with yours. Or their wisdoms and yours. And then we’re going to try to make a piece of work that records the things we find out.”

“What sort of work?” asks Kate.

“I’m not entirely sure yet. Probably some sort of large picture, or pictures, a collage perhaps of writings, paintings, photos, mementoes. I think we should be looking at two pieces of work. One which might eventually hang in the school and one in the Home.”

“Groovy,” says Weasel.

“Naturally,” says Miss Raynham, “not everyone will be able to take part in the project. Working space at Mayfield limits the numbers we can reasonably send.”

“So we’ll be going to the Home?” asks Derek.

“Yes. On Wednesday afternoons. For the next four or five weeks. So,” Miss Raynham chin juts challengingly forward, “I’m looking for about ten volunteers.”

That’s when people look at Niker. Nothing obvious, just a quick glance, a sidelong peek. Is this project going to be for the Cool Gang or the Class Duffers? Is it a good thing or a bad? Will Niker give it his seal of approval? He sits there (I’m looking too, of course) like some Roman Emperor, imperious, disdainful, savouring the lengthening moments during which the rest of us wait to know whether the project lives or dies.

My hand goes up.

“Thank you, Robert. Robert Nobel.” She writes my name on a list.

Niker scowls furiously. I have jumped the gun. Now no-one else will volunteer, because the class pariah is going. This is power of a sort I suppose, to be able to make something untouchable by touching it. In any case there are no more hands.

“Come on, come on.” Miss Raynham is embarrassed, agitated. “Liz will be accompanying the Mayfield group. The rest of you,” she glares, “will be remaining here with me.”

Liz Finch, our student teacher, is bland, harmless and has no known habits. So, normally, this would be a good ploy. But everyone knows that Wednesday afternoon is actually PE (with Mr Burke) and double art (with Mrs Simpson), which is why people continue to roll scraps of paper between fingers and thumb and stare out of windows.