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drove to work and those who walked, used public transport or stayed at home.
    About 100 yards or so further on was the new primary school, its thin prefabricated walls a stark contrast to the solid Victorian building it replaced.
    The single storey building was concrete up to window level then wood and glass. The roof was flat. Although the height of the rooms was considerably lower than in its predecessor, it probably cost a good deal more to heat, Amos thought, and probably to maintain as well.
    Amos walked along the high wire netting that marked the edge of the playground. Here and there it had become unravelled and at one point it was possible for a small child to squeeze through.
    The entrance to the school was a wide double gate, one of which had been left open in disregard of safety. With a sigh, Amos closed it carefully behind him lest he be accused of the misdemeanour.
    A sign over the door proclaimed that Karen Jackson was headmistress. Karen was one of the names in the diaries. There had been a Karen J, Amos recalled.
    The name of the previous incumbent had been painted over, fairly recently Amos suspected, and the replacement inserted, rather in the way that pub licensees dispatch the departed landlords to oblivion.
    From her name, Amos assumed this addition to the upper ranks of primary education was comparatively young. He knew of no-one over the age of 30 called Karen. Names come in waves. It wasn’t always a guarantee but it was a useful tip in sorting out suspects.
    When he was young, no-one under the age of 70 was called Sarah. Just as it appeared that the name would be consigned to history, it reappeared among the grandchildren of those preparing to meet their maker, an example of how life renews itself just when you think it is about to be stamped out.
    Emma was another, better example. Once gaunt and grey, worn down by care and sheer weariness, Emma had been reborn as vitality, prettiness and exuberance. Two Emmas had appeared in the diaries.
    His own name, Paul, had risen and fallen, never reaching the heights of fashion but never facing extinction either, running in gentler waves that would never quite wash out the writing in the sand.
    But what of Amos? His surname was also a boy’s name or, at least, it had been. Amos was old and sunburnt, with leathery skin from farm work. Amos was all but gone. Why had Josh returned to run through the cornfields of youth while Amos was condemned to pass away slowly and painfully, unwanted and unloved?
    A quiet voice made Amos jump. A middle aged woman had appeared at his side from nowhere, too old or too young for an Emma or a Sarah, more a Marion or Marjorie, names that were approaching their own midlife crisis before their children decided whether to save them for posterity or discard them without a thought or a regret.
    This woman was plain and uninteresting. Probably childless like himself, Amos decided for no good reason. Her name would die with her, as perhaps his would, not from revulsion but from boredom.
    ‘Can I help you?’
    There was a slightly accusatory tone to the voice. Amos was an intruder, a possible threat to the natural order of school life, an evil sprite intent on some wickedness against the gathering of innocents.
    Amos fumbled for his warrant card, causing some concern to Marion or Marjorie or whatever she was called, who stepped back for fear he was searching for some offensive weapon.
    Yet she still held open the door through which she had noiselessly materialized. A gap in the fence, a gate wide open and unlocked in any case, and a door ajar. It was as well that he could give his name and rank and legitimately request a chat with the headmistress in her vulnerable inner sanctum.
    The youthful Karen was, as it turned out, better protected than her protégées, not least because the fearsome Marion shielded her tactfully but firmly from those who sought her. Only when Amos insisted that he speak to the head, and only the head, was he