That was never good.

Because it could only mean that your child had done something bad or that something bad had been done to your child.

Steeling herself and feeling far too much like she was about to be given detention, Rosaline hurried over.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, hoping to sound maternally concerned, rather than preemptively guilty.

Miss Wooding, who, as far as Rosaline could tell, was made entirely from marshmallows and pixie dust, gave an insipid smile. “If you wouldn’t mind coming with me, I’d just like to have a little word with you about Amelie’s behaviour.”

Well, at least her daughter wasn’t unconscious or on fire. Murmuring her general assent, Rosaline let Miss Wooding lead her into the building, past hip-high coat pegs and colourful finger-painted displays about road safety and recycling.

Amelie’s classroom was a pleasant, airy space, decorated with number lines and misspelled poems about summer. Amelie herself was squirming under the watchful eye of a teaching assistant.

“Mrs. Palmer,” began Miss Wooding, and Rosaline decided not to correct her, “I’ve been feeling for a while that we should have a conversation about the kind of language Amelie uses in class.”

Oh dear. She and Lauren swore in front of Amelie a lot, but she thought she’d done a pretty good job of explaining that there were some things you could say at home that you couldn’t say outside.

“I use good language.” Amelie folded her arms, radiating outrage as only a wronged eight-year-old can. “I use ‘extemporaneous.’ And ‘soporific.’ And all the other words Auntie Lauren teaches me.” She looked momentarily proud. “I’m sesquipedalian.”

Miss Wooding glided past this with the ease of a lifelong primary school teacher. “It’s true that Amelie has an extensive vocabulary. But she needs to learn that some topics are inappropriate for a classroom.”

“Like what?” asked Rosaline warily. There were a lot of ways this could go, most of them wrong.

“Well, in English today we were learning that it can be easier to remember how to spell a word if you know what the different parts of that word mean. So, for example, with the word ‘bicycle,’ it can help to know that the bi part means ‘two’ and the cycle part means ‘wheel,’ so a bicycle has two wheels.”

Okay. Way of going wrong identified.

“Like a binary star,” offered Amelie, “because there’s two stars. Or a biped which has two legs. Or bifocals which have two . . . focals. Or bicarbonate of soda which um . . .”

“Yes”—and here Miss Wooding gave Amelie a look of gentle disappointment—“but you didn’t say any of that in class, did you?”

“I would’ve. You told me to be quiet.”

Miss Wooding’s attention shifted effortlessly back to Rosaline. “The example she gave in class was ‘My mummy is bisexual.’”

“Well you are,” protested Amelie, gazing imploringly at Rosaline.

“She’s right,” Rosaline agreed. “I am.”

Always one to take agreement as encouragement, Amelie launched into the rest of the speech. “And that means she likes men and women which is two—which is what you were saying. But Auntie Lauren says that some people think that you shouldn’t say bisexual because that means there’s only two types of people and some people think there are more types of people. And other people think that it is okay because it means same and different and different can mean lots of types of people. Which still means two again. Which is what you were saying.”

If Miss Wooding had followed any of this, Rosaline couldn’t be sure. Either way, she didn’t seem to think it was relevant. “The issue, Mrs. Palmer, is that children shouldn’t be talking about sex in class.”

“And she wasn’t.” Rosaline really did not need an argument right now, but long experience had taught her that she was probably about to have one. “She was talking about her family.”

Miss Wooding turned the nervous shade of pink that Rosaline found people often turned when her sexuality went from an idea they could support to a reality they had to confront. “I appreciate this is a sensitive topic and one that different people have different beliefs about. Which is why I have to be guided by the policies of our academy trust, and they make it quite clear that learners shouldn’t be taught about LGBTQ until year six.”

“Oh do they?” asked Rosaline, doing her best to remember that Miss Wooding was probably a very nice person and not just a fuzzy cardigan draped over some regressive social values. “Because Amelie’s in year four and she manages to cope with my existence nearly every day.”

Having concluded this was going to be one of those long grown-up conversations, Amelie had taken her Panda pencil case out of her bag and was diligently rearranging the contents. “I do,” she said. “I’m very good.”

Miss Wooding actually wrung her hands. “Yes, but the other children—”

“Are allowed to talk about their families as much as they like.”

“Yes, but—”

“Which,” Rosaline went on mercilessly, “when you think about it, is the definition of discrimination.”

Amelie looked up again. “Discrimination is bad. We learned that in year three.”

The d-word made Miss Wooding visibly flinch. “Now Mrs. Palmer—”

“Ms. Palmer.”

“I’m sure this is a misunderstanding.”

“I’m sure it is.” Taking advantage of the fact that Miss Wooding had been temporarily pacified by the spectre of the Equality Act, Rosaline tried to strike a balance between defending her identity and catching her train. “I get that you have a weird professional duty to respect the wishes of people who want their kids to stay homophobic for as long as possible. But hopefully you get why that isn’t my problem. And if you ever try to make it Amelie’s problem again, I will lodge a formal complaint with the governors.”

Miss Wooding de-flinched slightly. “As long as she doesn’t—”

“No ‘as long as she doesn’t.’ You’re not teaching my daughter to be ashamed of me.”

There was a long pause. Then Miss Wooding sighed. “Perhaps it’s best that we draw a line under this and say no more about it.”