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‘What did you need to see me for?’ she asked.

‘Ms. Harding, please sit down. I apologise for interrupting you. This won’t take a minute.’ He leaned forward, steepling skeletal hands. Charlotte wondered whether he kept his fingers in the freezer overnight. ‘I’m afraid I had a call from Mrs. Toad. You know, William’s mother?’

‘Oh. Oh, right.’

Ruddy-cheeked and bonnet-wearing, Clarice Toad looked like a housekeeper from a Dickens novel. The first time she had seen the year’s new register, Charlotte had assumed it was a misspelling of Todd, but nope, Toad it was. And “Clarice” was like gruel-flavoured icing on an oatmeal cake. At the conclusion of every parents’ evening, Charlotte had the urge to go home and write a poem about her. She couldn’t work out what she did for a living, only that it had to involve washboards and cold, windswept mornings.

‘You remember her, don’t you?’

‘Well, yes. I mean, a little. Billy’s mother. Yes.’ Standeth by the swirling drain; ye circles define thy daily strain. She smiled again. ‘Of course. A lovely lady.’

‘Well, I’m afraid I had a call from her this morning.’

‘You did?’

‘Ah, yes. And she had a small request.’

‘Really? Nothing too serious, I hope? I mean, Billy’s struggling in maths a little, but I can go a little slower, maybe give him some private help at the end of lunchtime—’

‘No, Ms. Harding, nothing like that. It’s just—’

He leaned forward, and she leaned in to meet him, peering into his eyes. He looked so tired, so worn down by the trudge and drag of life, she wanted to massage his shoulders, or maybe knit him a scarf. Something to cheer him up a little bit, make the grind of the days a little less wearing—

He coughed, seemingly a little flustered. ‘Well, Ms. Harding, I’m afraid she asked me if you could tone down the Christmas stuff a little bit.’

Charlotte sat back, the rear legs of her chair hitting the floor with a thump. ‘What?’

‘Just a little … in particular this business about Father Christmas visiting all children. She mentioned that money was tight, that Billy might not get a visit from the big man this year, that—’

‘No. That’s not right.’

‘Ah … what’s not right, Ms. Harding?’

Charlotte shook her head. She leaned forward again. ‘You do know, don’t you, Mr. Wilson, that Father Christmas doesn’t care about poverty? That all he cares about is whether a child has been good this year or not? And Billy has been a very good boy. He’s raised his voice once or twice out of turn, but compared to some of the boys in my class, he’s a positive angel. Father Christmas would never forget him. Just in case there’s any misunderstanding, though, I’ll write him a letter as soon as I get home.’

‘Uh, Ms. Harding … write who a letter?’

Charlotte sat up in her chair, her face set. Silly Mr. Wilson. He was so … grounded. His own childhood was so long ago that he had forgotten the magic of it all.

‘Father Christmas, of course,’ she said. ‘Who else?’