Alex Robertson tried again to explain it to his parents, but they were determined not to agree.
‘I don’t see why you need to go,’ his father Arthur said. ‘You’ve an important job here. It’s not every graduate gets accepted directly into teaching at such an exclusive school. The dean’s given you a great compliment there. Grammar wants you back, my boy.’
‘And, dear, you’d be much better teaching the boys literature than messing about with guns,’ Iris added, smiling at her only son. Beneath her carefully presented exterior, that of the proud but not hubristic mother of a boy whose casually outstanding sporting skills and astonishing academic record had made her the envy of all her friends, she knew the depths of clutching fear. She too had seen the casualty lists. All those boys; all those
