Growing up in conservative, postwar Australia isn’t easy. For eight-year-old Sophie, who has just been told that she’s a ‘bastard’, it seems that she lives in a world of secrets, unanswered questions and whispers. Who is her father and why did her mother never tell anyone who he was? With only her reclusive grandfather to raise her, and more than one neighbour expecting her to go off the rails like her mother – after all, apples rarely fall far from the tree – Sophie struggles to find her place in the world. In a time when experiences are shared around the kitchen table, over the back fence or up at the corner shop, Sophie learns that life is rarely simple, love is always complicated and sometimes it takes more than blood ties to make a family.

From The Blurb, April 2011.
"....What is admirable about Stinson is that she keeps her female lead strong...It Takes a Village manages to be sentimental without being sickly sweet... it has plenty of moments that will make you laugh and is, at its heart, uplifting. If you're looking for a good read to curl up with in the winter months, then It Takes a Village won't disappoint."

From the Courier Mail, April 30, 2011.
"...a warm-hearted journey...a warm and enjoyable read with an air of authenticity."

From The Saturday Age, April 30, 2011.
"This is Australian life in the 1950's when everyone knew who lived in all the houses in the street... In her second novel, Christine Stinson does an excellent job..."

From the Burnie Advocate, May 7, 2011.
"Stinson has created a strong female lead..."

From Woman's Day, May 9, 2011.
"A warm and beautiful story about the adventure of growing up, making friends, falling in love and learning that some families don't need blood ties."

From the Daily Examiner, May 14, 2011.

Chapter One

Sophie Barton learned the truth about her parentage in the spring of nineteen fifty two.

She was eight years old.

‘Grandpa, what’s a bastard?’

Harry Barton looked up from his dinner and scowled. ‘What did you say?’ Before Sophie could repeat it, he pointed at her barely touched plate of stew. ‘Less talk,’ he ordered. ‘More eat.’

Sophie picked up her fork. ‘If I eat two more mouthfuls then will you tell me what bastard means?’

Grandpa didn’t answer but judging by the look on his face, Sophie might be going to get her mouth washed out with soap at the end of dinner. It wasn’t fair, she wasn’t the one who’d said bastard first. It was Luc Dimarco. The Dimarcos lived across the road and down a bit from her and Grandpa, and Luc Dimarco was mean. He was always calling her a baby. Just because he was ten, two years older than her, but that didn’t mean he was smarter. She’d promised to knock his stupid block off on their way home from school today if he ever called her a baby again. He’d looked at her funny after that but at least he’d shut his gob.

Sophie was all set to start crowing when he sang out to her from inside his front gate. ‘You’re right. You’re not a baby. Know what you are, Sophie Barton? You’re a dirty bastard.’

‘Am not,’ she retorted immediately. ‘You just shut up, Luc.’

‘Make me.’

‘Come on, Soph.’ Her best friend, Mick Knight, grabbed her by the arm before she could jump the gate and launch herself at Luc. ‘Don’t take any notice of him anyhow.’ Mick tugged her away along the footpath. ‘He’s just a dumb dago.’

‘You know you’re not supposed to say that,’ Sophie warned as they turned up the Knights’ driveway together. ‘If your mother hears you’ll get in trouble.’

‘I’m not scared,’ he boasted, but Sophie saw him look at his front verandah before he said it. Lucky for Mick the verandah was empty – no pram with the twins in it, no Mrs Knight. He could start chanting, ‘Dumb dago, dumb dago,’ without fear of his mother’s wooden spoon.

‘I reckon Luc’s just a chicken-livered yellow belly. He looked scared before.’ She paused for a moment, then. ‘Race you to the back door,’ she cried suddenly, already taking off. ‘Last one in’s a rotten egg!’

‘Wait! You cheated, Soph!’

Sophie didn’t give the name Luc called her another thought until her grandfather came home from the rail yards and served up his stew for dinner. After two more mouthfuls of it, Sophie was thinking she might prefer the taste of soap after all. ‘Grandpa,’ she persisted, ‘why won’t you tell me what bastard means?’

‘Because you’re too young to understand.’ All of a sudden he slapped his hand down hard on the table and Sophie jumped. ‘I want you to forget about that word. Do you hear me?’ He glared at her until she nodded. ‘Right. If you’re not going to eat any more of that you can carry your plate to the kitchen.’

Sophie knew better than to argue when Grandpa raised his voice. He never talked much, he was usually very quiet, so she wasn’t about to forget what he’d said even if she didn’t plan on doing what he told her. Not this time. Silent, outwardly obedient at least, she picked up her plate.
But she wasn’t going to give up. No, sir. Somehow, some way, she was going to find out what bastard meant.
She’d just have to go somewhere else for her information.

Mick might know. She should have thought to ask him as soon as Luc said it.
But if he didn’t know any more than she did, she could always ask Mr Barnes. He lived on the corner in number one Fleming Street, two houses up from her and Grandpa. Mr Barnes was nice. He was funny, too, he always had a joke to tell her. Better still, she was sure he knew rude words because Sophie had heard him use one once when he was talking to Mrs Barnes. He said the Misses McAllister in number seven ‘wouldn’t say shit for a shilling’. When Mrs Barnes said he was a dreadful man he’d laughed so hard, Mrs Barnes had started laughing, too.

If Sophie asked him what bastard meant, she was sure he wouldn’t get cranky with her. She was pretty sure he wouldn’t tell Grandpa on her, either. She hoped he wouldn’t, at any rate. Grandpa’s stew did taste better than soap.

*

Sophie asked Mick first, on their way to school the next morning.

The day was already shaping up to be a warm one; there was some sting in the sun beating down on Sophie’s back as she skipped along the footpath beside Mick. He was jumping every crack in the concrete, until Sophie’s question brought him to a halt.
He didn’t answer for a moment, just gave her a weird kind of look. Then he said, ‘It means silly old duffer. Dad calls Mr O’Hara a dopey bastard whenever he falls into our front bushes on his way home from the pub.’

Sophie was already shaking her head. ‘No, that’s wrong, it can’t mean that.’

‘Can too.’ Mick sounded cross. He didn’t like it whenever she told him he was wrong but what was she supposed to do when that was the truth? ‘Look, dummy, if you don’t want to know something, don’t ask me!’ He stalked off ahead.

Stung at being called ‘dummy’ – she was getting pretty sick and tired of boys calling her names – Sophie’s steps lagged all the way along Fleming Street and up Dales Road to Kingsdale Primary. Mick Knight thought he was so smart, but he was wrong this time. Saying she was like Mr O’Hara…
Mick was the big dummy.

Although she wouldn’t ever admit it out loud, Sophie was a little bit afraid of Mr O’Hara. She never walked past his house if she could help it, she always ran and crossed over to her side of the road before she came to number ten. Mr O’Hara liked to sit on his front patio and call out to people walking past and whenever he did that to her, Grandpa and Mrs Hogan expected her to stop and be polite. Since he’d lost his real teeth years ago and only wore his false ones for best, his face was all sunken in and gummy and it made Sophie feel sick just to have to look at him, much less stand still and talk.

On the nights Mick was allowed out to play after dark, he and Sophie sometimes sat on his front fence and made up stories to scare each other. For the last few months, Sophie’s stories had been all about ‘The Toothless Terror’ who was almost as scary as ‘The Headless Horseman’ in the book Grandpa had given her for her eighth birthday. Except the Toothless Terror didn’t ride a horse and he did have a head, one that looked exactly like Mr O’Hara’s. The evil old man would sneak up behind people walking down the street after midnight and strangle them with the red, white and blue striped braces he always wore to hold his trousers up. Then he’d drag them away to the big shed in his back yard until he was ready to swallow them whole because he couldn’t chew them without his teeth.

Even though Sophie knew her stories weren’t real, even though she was never out on the street after midnight, hot prickles would run up and down her spine whenever she saw Mr O’Hara.

Mrs Hogan, who lived next door to Sophie in number three, said the real problem with Les O’Hara was that he was melancholy, that he’d been that way ever since his wife died. Sophie didn’t know exactly what ‘melancholy’ meant but she was pretty sure it had something to do with the way Mr O’Hara smelled – like a medicine bottle. Mrs Hogan always shook her head whenever she talked about ‘poor Les’ and how often he went up the pub. Everyone in the street knew when he was coming home, that was for sure, since he always sang, ‘Keep the home fires burning’ on top note.

Sophie wasn’t old, she didn’t smell funny and even though some of her teeth had fallen out, more were growing to fill up the gaps. She wasn’t anything like Mr O’Hara. Mick was wrong and there was one sure way to prove it.
*
She spent the whole of lunchtime in the school library. Once she’d found ‘bastard’ in the fattest dictionary she had to keep looking to find what ‘illegitimate’ and ‘wedlock’ meant, too. She didn’t need to look up ‘inferior’ and ‘irregular’, she already knew what they meant.

Even before she’d found everything she needed, Sophie was wishing she’d never wanted to know what bastard meant in the first place. It was a stupid word. She’d rather it had meant being like Mr O’Hara.

She hated Luc Dimarco, she was never going to speak to him again. And Mick was wrong, but so was Grandpa. He said she was too young to understand. It might have taken her a little while, but Sophie had figured things out by herself in the end.
‘Wedlock’ said there had to be two people in it and since she’d never had a father, she was definitely ‘born out of wedlock’. Which meant Luc was right about her being a bastard. According to the dictionary, that meant she was ‘irregular’ and ‘inferior’, too.

‘Sophie Barton! What are you doing hiding back here on the floor?’

Sophie sniffed and knuckled her eyes before she looked up. ‘Nothing, Mrs Menzies,’ she told the librarian.

‘You’re crying! What’s the matter, Sophie?’

‘Nothing, Mrs Menzies,’ she repeated doggedly.

Mrs Menzies mustn’t have believed her because instead of making her go straight off to class when the bell rang, she took Sophie back to her office. The librarian made her sit down in her desk chair, brought her a glass of water and patted her on the back while she drank it. Mrs Menzies was so nice to her that without knowing exactly how it happened, Sophie ended up telling her the real reason she’d been crying.
When school was over for the day, the librarian sent Sophie home with a note for her grandfather.

*

‘Are you going to scrub my mouth out, Grandpa?’

‘No.’ But her grandfather was still frowning heavily at the letter in his hand. When he looked up suddenly and reached for her, Sophie flinched before she managed to stand her ground. ‘It’s all right, child. Come here now.’ He grasped her by the arm and drew her right up next to his chair.

She was close enough to breathe in the smell of the bluing starch he used on his shirt collars mingled with the smell of his tobacco. Grandpa always kept a tin of Lucky Strike in his pocket. He liked to roll his own cigarettes and smoke them out the back. One day, Sophie hoped he’d let her roll one for him. She leaned her head against the woollen sleeve of his jacket, closed her eyes and sniffed.
‘Mrs Menzies tells me you were crying at school.’

Sophie’s eyes flew open immediately; she stiffened and stood up straight again. She didn’t want her grandfather thinking she was a sissy crybaby or anything. But before she could think of a way to deny it without exactly lying, Grandpa cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps I was wrong last night,’ he said gruffly. ‘I should have explained things to you when you asked. But it’s not too late to do it now.’

‘No!’ Sophie shook her head vehemently from side to side. ‘You don’t need to, Grandpa.’ She ducked her head, stared at the floor. ‘I already know what bastard means.’ She hoped Grandpa wouldn’t be too cranky with her for repeating that word. She wasn’t trying to be rude, she only wanted to explain. ‘I looked it up in the dictionary.’

Her grandfather put a hand under her chin, lifted her face up to his. ‘You might think you know, child, but you won’t always find your answers in a book. Bastard isn’t necessarily a bad word.’

‘But the dictionary said –’

‘Forget about what it said. I want you to listen to me now. If anyone calls you a bastard, child, if anyone so much as hints it’s something bad, something you ought to be ashamed of –’ Grandpa’s voice sounded very stern all of a sudden – ‘well, you can tell that person from me he’s a bloody idiot!
‘A bastard,’ he rasped before he tried to clear his throat again, ‘is someone without a father. That’s what it means.
‘The fact of the matter is, your mother wasn’t married when she had you.’ He looked directly into Sophie’s eyes. ‘Some people had a good bit to say about that at the time. Your grandmother wrote to me about all the talk that went on around the place. Idle tongues. Margaret McAllister’s tongue flapped the loudest, of course. What else would you expect from a dried-up old crone like her?’ he muttered. ‘Neither your grandmother nor I ever blamed your mother, Sophie. How could we?’ He looked away. ‘Sarah was only seventeen when you were born, not much more than a child herself. Those who said it was her fault… Well, all I can tell you is that they didn’t know what they were talking about. It most certainly wasn’t your fault, by crikey, and don’t let anyone ever tell you any different!’

He sighed then, a long, drawn out sigh, before he stroked a gentle hand over her hair. ‘Your grandma wrote to me the day you were born. God rest her soul. She told me you were the most beautiful baby she’d ever seen. So tiny, not much more than sixpence worth of God-help-us,’ he murmured. Sophie saw him swallow, close his eyes for a moment.
When he opened them again he said gruffly, ‘Your mother wasn’t a bad girl, Sophie. Listen to me now,’ he repeated. ‘I don’t ever want you to think badly about her, do you hear me?’ He paused, waiting for her to nod before he continued. ‘It isn’t right for other people to judge her. They’d do better to mind their own damn business! What happened… It was a different time then, that’s all. A terrible time for so many.’

Whenever his voice went all quiet and kind of rusty like that, Sophie knew Grandpa was thinking about the war. Since she’d only been born near the end of it, all Sophie knew about that time was what she’d learned from her next-door neighbour. Mrs Hogan often talked to her about how Grandpa had gone away to fight for King and Country just like her husband Jack did in the First World War. Only her Jack hadn’t come back at the end of his war.

Sophie was glad that Grandpa had. Mrs Hogan said he’d come home wounded in mind as well as body. Even now that he was better, in his body at least, he didn’t like it if anyone asked him questions about what had happened to him. Apart from Mrs Hogan and a few of their neighbours, Grandpa didn’t really like being around people much. He didn’t like loud noises, either, like when everyone else in the street built a bonfire on the vacant lot that was number six and let off bungers on Cracker Night, or when Mr Barnes’s car backfired. Once when she and Mick were playing cops and robbers out on the road, shooting at each other with pretend guns, Grandpa had come running out the front and yelled at them.

‘Stop that, for God’s sake! It’s not a bloody game.’

Mr Knight had come out then, too, and yelled at Grandpa. ‘Fair go, Harry! They’re not doing any harm.’

When Grandpa stopped shouting and started crying instead, Sophie had to take him by the hand and lead him inside. Whenever he had one of what Mrs Hogan called his ‘episodes’, he didn’t like other people to see him. Not that he was a sissy crybaby, Sophie wasn’t supposed to think that. Mrs Hogan had explained to her how Grandpa couldn’t help it. It was all part of his episodes and when one of them came over him he was best left on his own. Sophie liked to think she was the exception to that rule, only sometimes she wasn’t. Sometimes he even shouted at her, told her to ‘get lost if she knew what was good for her’. Those were the times when he went out the back on his own and didn’t come in again for hours.

It was funny how much Mrs Hogan liked to talk about what Grandpa preferred never to mention. Sophie’s neighbour said that talking helped to keep her Jack’s memory alive. But she was always reminding Sophie never to raise the topic with Grandpa and to make herself very scarce whenever he was in one of his states.
But Sophie wasn’t frightened when Grandpa had one of his episodes. Well, not much, anyway. It was just that he got so angry sometimes. She knew he wasn’t really angry with her; it was the people she couldn’t see that were the problem, the ones Grandpa talked to when he went outside some nights to shout at the sky. It might be an awful thing to admit but it was the truth and Mrs Hogan said she should always tell the truth: Sophie didn’t really mind Grandpa’s episodes. At least not the times when it was just the two of them and he only cried a little bit without all the yelling. They were the only times he’d let her cuddle up to him. This time, as soon as she saw the first tears running down his cheeks, she climbed onto his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck.

After a moment she felt his arms come around her, too, and Sophie closed her eyes, burrowed in and held on tight. But when Grandpa’s shoulders stopped shaking, when he’d finished wiping his eyes and blowing his nose, without a word he lifted her up, set her back on her feet and went out the back door on his own. Just like he always did.

Knowing she wouldn’t be welcome if she followed him, she stood and watched him go. He’d stay out there until it was time to come in and heat up the stew again for dinner. After dinner he’d leave for work. Two, sometimes three times a week he drove a goods train overnight to Goulburn. He had to stay there the next day while the train was being loaded up so he could drive it back to Sydney. Ever since Grandma died, Grandpa had arranged for Sophie to sleep next door at Mrs Hogan’s on the nights he was away.

Sophie stared at him through the flyscreen. He was standing out in the middle of the yard, smoking and staring up at the darkening sky. When it had gone completely black, she went to her room to pack her pyjamas.
*
It was a good thing Grandpa was still away when the headmaster sent for her to come to his office the next day. Mr Freeman had had to ring up Mrs Hogan instead, and Mrs Hogan never seemed to get as upset as Grandpa did whenever Sophie was in trouble.

Sophie’s neighbour was sitting in the cushioned chair in front of Mr Freeman’s desk when she knocked on the open door. The headmaster called her inside, pointed her to the wooden chair beside Mrs Hogan’s and sat down in his own seat behind his desk.
It was Mrs Hogan who spoke first. ‘What is it this time?’

Sophie watched Mr Freeman purse up his lips and lace his fingers together on the blotter, two sure signs that she was in serious trouble. ‘There was a fight in the playground at recess. I’m sorry to have to say that Sophie was the instigator.’ Mr Freeman turned his head to give her a very cross look. ‘She called Luc Dimarco a rude name, more than once, so I’m told, and when he asked her to stop, she hit him in the face. The boy’s in sickbay with a bleeding nose. The only good news is, his class teacher doesn’t think his nose is broken.’

‘What exactly did Sophie call the boy? I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.’ When Mr Freeman didn’t answer immediately, Mrs Hogan said, ‘You weren’t always so mealy-mouthed, Michael Freeman. Come on now, speak up, lad!’

Hearing the headmaster called ‘lad’ made Sophie’s eyes open wide. She knew, because Mrs Hogan had told her stories about it, that her neighbour used to be a primary school teacher. She’d even taught Mr Freeman once. Imagine that! Sophie couldn’t, at least not very well. It was almost impossible to picture Mr Freeman in short pants, not to mention with hair on top of his head. He didn’t have much there anymore, that was for sure. Whenever Sophie was in his office he was always running his hand over his bald patch or patting it with his handkerchief. He seemed to like sticking his finger in his collar and tugging at it when Mrs Hogan was in his office, too.

‘She called the boy a “bloody idiot”,’ Mr Freeman muttered at last.

‘Did she now. I wonder why?’

Mrs Hogan was staring at the headmaster like she was expecting him to answer. But he couldn’t, Sophie knew he couldn’t because Mr Freeman wasn’t there to hear what Luc said to her in the first place. So she would have to be the one to explain.
‘Luc called me a dirty bastard again and I’m not dirty.’ She looked to Mrs Hogan for corroboration. ‘You and Grandpa make me have a bath every day. And last night Grandpa told me it’s nothing to be ashamed of – the bastard part, I mean. He said if anyone says different I should tell them they’re a bloody idiot. So that’s why I had to tell Luc,’ she said, turning back to the headmaster. ‘I’m sorry if you think it was rude but Mrs Hogan says I should always tell the truth. Anyway at least I didn’t call him a dumb dago or something –’

‘Sophie Barton,’ Mr Freeman interrupted, ‘that will do!’ He’d gone red in the face and he’d shouted at her and Sophie thought it might be best if she closed her mouth, sat up very straight in her chair and didn’t say anything more right at that moment. Mrs Hogan was making funny coughing noises and Mr Freeman glared at her before he turned his cranky face back to Sophie again. ‘I’ll deal with you in a minute, young lady. Right now, I’d like to speak with Mrs Hogan alone. Go and wait in Mrs Sullivan’s office and make sure you close the door properly behind you.’ He dismissed her with a flick of his hand.

Sophie didn’t wait to be told twice. She slipped down off the chair, darted out of the room and listened for the click of the door latch in the lock before she quickly checked up and down the corridor. No one else was in sight. Mrs Sullivan wasn’t at her desk in the little alcove near the headmaster’s office, and Sophie couldn’t hear anyone coming. Without a second thought she pressed her ear up against the headmaster’s door. If she listened hard enough she might be able to hear what was being said inside Mr Freeman’s office. It might be a good idea to find out just how much trouble she was in.

‘…where’s your sense of humour?’

Sophie recognised Mrs Hogan’s voice. Mr Freeman’s voice, when he answered, sounded even deeper though the door. ‘I don’t think it’s remotely funny when one of my students utters a racist remark about another –’

‘Racist remark, my eye. The child doesn’t have the slightest understanding of what she said. She’s only repeating what –’

‘I’m well aware of her lack of understanding, and not just in that area. There are other, far more significant areas of concern with regard to Sophie’s behaviour. The one that concerns me most is her tendency toward physical violence. Her teacher tells me most of the girls in her class are afraid of her. None of them wishes to play with her. She spends recess and lunch time with the boys and she’s constantly getting into fights!
‘I have no doubt Sophie’s problems are a direct result of her upbringing. The number of hours that child is apparently left to roam the streets on her own, with no supervision whatsoever –’

‘That is simply not true, Michael Freeman, and you have no business saying such a thing!’ Mrs Hogan’s voice was so loud it made Sophie jump back from the door for a moment, and she missed part of Mr Freeman’s reply.

‘…that people talk, Mrs Hogan. While I understand Sophie spends a certain amount of time in your home, she is not ultimately your responsibility. Since Harry Barton can hardly be considered a suitable person to be raising his granddaughter on his own, I believe it would be in the child’s best interests to contact the appropriate –’

‘Stop right there. That’s enough.’ This time Mrs Hogan’s voice was softer and Sophie had to press her ear really hard against the door to catch what her neighbour was saying. ‘…I expected more from you, Michael Freeman. I can’t tell you how disappointed I am in you.’

Sophie winced when she heard that. Mrs Hogan had said it to her once, a year ago, when Sophie owned up to being the one who’d tied the rattle to Mrs Hogan’s old cat’s tail. Smokey had run around for hours like a dog was after him until he finally collapsed from exhaustion. He hadn’t died right there and then, thank goodness, he’d died a few months later of old age, but Sophie still hadn’t forgotten the awful gnawing feeling it gave her in her stomach when Mrs Hogan said she was very disappointed in her.

‘…but you’re right about one thing. People do talk. I’ve heard all the whispers and speculation about Sophie’s parentage too, you know. That’s the real reason the other girls won’t play with her.’ Mrs Hogan’s voice was getting louder now and Sophie didn’t have to strain so hard to hear her anymore. ‘They’ve listened to their parents pass judgment on who would make suitable playmates for their daughters and who would not.
‘If you ask me, Harry Barton is exactly right. Anyone who blames Sophie for her parentage is a bloody idiot. It saddens me to learn that you fall into that category, Michael. You, a leader in our community.’

‘Mrs Hogan, I didn’t call you here to listen to a lecture. As headmaster of this school, I have serious concerns about Sophie’s unruly behaviour and I think that –’

‘I know what you think, my lad. You’ve made that abundantly clear already. Now let me tell you what I know. Sophie’s “unruly behaviour”, as you term it, is merely her response to being picked on and teased. Not an ideal response, I’ll grant you that, but I think an understandable one in the circumstances. Sophie is not a bad child. Far from it. All she needs is for people to stop judging her for something that is no fault of her own, and she’ll grow up very nicely. You can rest assured, Michael, that the people who care about her are looking out for her. That’s what we do in this country. We look after our own.’

‘That’s all very well and good, but Sophie has to be made to understand that her actions have consequences. I cannot have her punching any more of my students. As for what I tell Luc Dimarco’s parents when they –’

‘Maria and Claudio Dimarco would be horrified if they knew the sort of rubbish that’s been coming out of their boy’s mouth lately. Perhaps it’s time they did know. You’re just the one to tell them, my lad.’ Sophie heard the scrape of a chair being pushed back and immediately jumped away from the door. When Mr Freeman opened it a few minutes later, she was exactly where she was supposed to be, sitting on the little wooden stool next to Mrs Sullivan’s desk.

As the headmaster advanced towards her she stood up, hands clasped together in front of her, trying not to show how much she was dreading what was coming next. This time, however, Mr Freeman didn’t produce a cane from behind his back and order her to hold out her hand. Instead, he folded his arms and stared down his nose at her to say, ‘What you did today was wrong, Sophie, and you have to be punished. This afternoon, instead of going to sport with the rest of your class, you will go to the library and write lines. “Hitting people is wrong and I will never do it again”. You will write that for me one hundred and fifty times. Is that clear?’

Eyes downcast, Sophie muttered, ‘Yes, Mr Freeman.’ She scuffed at the floor with her shoe. It wasn’t fair, she’d rather have the cane than miss out on sport. They were supposed to be playing captain ball today, the four house colour teams against each other. She loved captain ball, she was going to hate missing out on it. Her hand was going to ache for a lot longer after writing all those stupid lines than it would from six strokes of the cane anyhow.

‘Go back to class now, Sophie,’ instructed the headmaster.

From behind Mr Freeman, Mrs Hogan gave her a smile. ‘I’ll see you after school, dear,’ she said. ‘Mind you be a good girl now.’

Sophie felt her bottom lip begin to wobble and bit it between her teeth to keep it still. She nodded at Mrs Hogan before she went back to her classroom, dragging her feet all the way.

*