An owl hooted and a fox barked. The last train through Holme Hill rattled in the tunnel below. A car sped past down the hill. There was laughter in the distance. A girl shrieked in protest. The visitor looked around: nothing; nobody. Templeton Towers was its usual self: a menacing, ugly, black mass, punctuated by spots and shards of light. A whole role of windows suddenly lost their illumination. That would be the dormitory. The duty teachers would then retire to their apartments on the same floor and, if they were lucky, they would get a good night’s sleep before the morning wake-up bell rang at 0600 hours. Then the procession to breakfast in the pseudo-mediaeval great hall, often accompanied by the sound of the grand organ at the east end of that vast space. How ridiculous: eating porridge to the sound of Clair...

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