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complained.’
    â€˜He can do it confidentially, ask not to be named. And even if she does find out, so what? You’ll be leaving the school in a few weeks.’
    A tiny light rose in Brian’s chest. Alf was right. Florrie had gone too far. She must be stopped, if only for the sake of future victims. And Dad must stand up for me. That’s what dads do. ‘OK.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’ll talk to him. Thanks, Alf.’
    â€˜Pleasure, Cap’n. Now you can do me a favour.’ Pressing the second Curly Wurly into Brian’s hand, he winked. ‘Find out if they’re the same shape.’

C HAPTER 5
    BRAVE AS A FEATHER

    The house was empty when Brian got home. Dad must still be working. Dumping his schoolbag in the kitchen, he went out the back door, crossed the lawn and knocked on the door of the workshop.
    â€˜Hi,’ came Dad’s voice.
    Brian opened the door and breathed in the smell he’d known all his life: burnt leaves and coffee with a sour, acidic kick. He stood in the doorway inspecting the room’s clutter. The drills and pliers hanging from the walls could be the torture instruments of a lunatic dentist. On his left was a machine like an old-fashioned mangle. But instead of squeezing the water from shirts and breeches, its job was to flatten gold and silver wires between the two rollers. In front of him, on a stand, was a horizontal rugby ball with ear muffs. At the press of a switch the earmuffs trembled, polishing rings and bracelets within an inch of their lives. Best of all was the Table of Evil. Tucked in the far left corner, it was strictly out of bounds. Dad had warned him that the bowls of sulphuric acid and ammonia could burn your skin off. Just smelling those vicious fumes sent a delicious chill across Brian’s shoulders. It was as if an invisible dragon lived in the shed.
    Dad’s workbench stood along the back wall. He looked round and smiled. Then he bent back over his work. Brian came over, bouncing slightly on the floorboards. Even on the grimmest days they sent little bursts of fun up your legs.
    The table was a jumble of bric-a-brac: gold studs and silver hooks, screwdrivers and tubes of glue. Brian stood beside it and watched. This was where he felt closest to Dad. There was no forced chitchat, just the odd explanation here and there and a shared delight in the intricacy of the work.
    â€˜Soldering.’ Dad held a broken gold ring between the finger and thumb of his left hand. With his right hand he took a brush from a pot. ‘Flux,’ he said, dabbing the two edges of the ring with the brush. ‘It cleans the gold.’ He replaced the brush and picked up a pair of tweezers. Poking them round the litter of the workbench, he found a tiny gleaming square. ‘Gold solder.’ He laid it across the gap in the ring. Brian watched enthralled. The steadiness of his hands, the precision of his search through the debris on the desk … Dad truly had brains in his fingers.
    He unhooked a small tube from a stand. It was wired to a foot pedal. As he pressed the pedal, a thin flame sprang from the tube. He trained it on the ring. The gas gleamed like a dragonfly’s wing: blue-pink-orange. The gold square melted and sank seamlessly, filling the gap in the ring.
    Dad lifted his foot. The flame vanished. ‘Neat job. Mrs Griggs’ll be pleased. It’s her wedding ring.’ He leaned back in his chair, relaxed, approachable. It was now or never.
    â€˜Dad.’ Brian bit the inside of his cheek. ‘Something happened at school.’ Perching on the desk, he told him everything without as much as a sniff. He felt quite proud of himself.
    Until he saw Dad’s face. It had gone tight and small.
    Brian swallowed. ‘Alf says you ought to complain.’
    Dad’s hands, so sure a minute ago, twisted in his lap. ‘Who – I mean what can I …?’
    â€˜Tell the school governors what a