Makepeace, Michael’s anchor to normality, indeed had a phone. In a free period at school next morning Carol leafed through the dog-eared telephone directory in the staff common room and found Makepeace, L., 37 Belfield Grove Avenue. That would be her. It was quiet in the common room so Carol rang her there and then, struggling with feelings of diffidence and a sense that she was straying into unauthorized territory. The voice at the other end of the line was elderly, slightly wary, yet sympathetic. When Carol had explained that she was Michael’s teacher and that she would like to come round and talk about him, it was obvious that Mrs. Makepeace was surprised. “About Michael? I don’t know . . . ” “You see, he’s rather a bright boy—” “He is that.” “And, as you must know, his parents—” “Oh, you’ll do no good talking to them.” “No. But I do feel I need to talk to someone. I hear so much about the other Phelan children, and it would be terrible if Michael went the same way.
