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I mouth “Help me” and she just winks and joins in with the next song, much to the delight of the gaggle of girls behind her.

When we arrive at the museum, Mary, the other supervising teacher, and I start handing out worksheets and clipboards. We briefed the students earlier and they all have a few hours to go around the Norman Conquest exhibit before we meet up to go over what they’ve learned and the answers to the questions. I love this period of history. It’s high drama, and full of amazing warriors, a suitable number of schemers and some epic battles. Our impromptu re-enactment of the Battle of Stamford Bridge might have left the classroom a bit of a mess last week, but it was definitely worth it.

I chat to a few of the pre-teens as I walk through the exhibit. Asking about their favourite displays, answering their questions, helping with parts of the worksheet. Some of the students are at one of the creative stations, braiding bits of thread. I’m not fully sure how this fits with the Normans, but at least they’re engaged.

I crouch down next to them, watching as one of the girls concentrates fiercely on tying a knot.

“Nice craftsmanship.” I nod approvingly.

One of them looks up at me. “We’re making friendship bracelets, Mr Ford. Do you want one?” She lowers her voice. “You’re our favourite teacher.”

“I’d love one.” A few minutes later, one of them ties a lumpy multicoloured bracelet clumsily around my wrist, pulling the knot tight with a flourish.

“There,” she says. “Now you’re officially one of us.”

“All my years of teaching have led to this moment,” I say solemnly.

They dissolve into giggles. As they scramble off towards the next activity, the ringleader pauses, and says with studied innocence, “We made Miss Robinson’s matching on purpose.”

Then she skips away before I can work out what to say to that. Do they know?

I look across the room, and Claire, who has clearly heard every word, lifts her wrist. Her bracelet is distinctly less lumpy than mine.

“Betrayal,” I call after the students. “I thought you said I was your favourite.”

Claire follows the students to take a few more shots and I force myself to go and find another group. I manage to lose myself in answering questions, pointing out the most interesting displays, and getting drawn into another Vikings versus Romans debate for the rest of the morning.

It’s only at the very end of the trip that I find myself with Claire again, as Mary rounds up the last of the students.

“So,” I say lightly, nodding towards the camera around Claire’s neck. “Have you taken any photos you like yet?”

“A few, actually. I’ve been trying to focus on moments rather than the big displays. Kids reading plaques together. Someone sketching in a notebook. Stuff that feels… natural.”

My eyes wander over to some students who have just come into the room and are earnestly bent over a glass display case, whispering among themselves.

“That sounds like a great idea, Claire.”

“Yeah.” She waves a hand animatedly. “I have this whole theme around it feeling really personal. I want it to be just as much about the students as about the school as a whole.”

Her whole face is lighting up as she talks about the concept, and it makes me smile.

“I think that’s perfect,” I tell her.

I have to fight the urge to reach for her hand. Something tells me the kids would spot that a lot faster than the answer to the next question on their worksheets.

***

Mary hangs back to do the final headcount while I head onto the bus for the dreaded end-of-trip sweep. I knew the drive out had gone too smoothly, and the return journey was a different story. I spent it wedged between two students, who were both valiantly trying not to vomit. They both lost the battle. Twice. Luckily as a seasoned expert of school trips I had brought plastic bags with me for this eventuality. Unluckily for all of us one of them has poor aim.

Cleaning up the consequences of motion sickness is not a skill I had when I started teaching, yet it’s now one of my more developed talents. Right up there with pretending I don’t hear random social media apps being played through jumper pockets and ignoring any giggles about me behind my back. I sigh, grab a bin liner, and start the clean-up. This is why I always pack plastic gloves for school trips, not because I’m organised, but because I’ve learned the hard way that children and transport are a volatile combination.

Ten minutes and one existential crisis later, I finally climb off the bus, my arms aching and my dignity left somewhere near the emergency exit. I glance around the car park which is now blissfully quiet. The students are gone, the noise has drained away, and there’s only a scattering of staff cars left.

Satisfied that I’m alone, I hide behind the bus and strip off my now-vile-smelling shirt and pull out a clean white T-shirt from my bag. The cool air hits my skin, and I try not to think too hard about what was on my shirt. That’s what washing machines are for.

My fresh shirt is half-over my head when I hear a small cough. I peek out through the cotton and spot Claire.

“Well hello there, Mr Ford.”