‘How was Nigel?’
‘All right, I suppose.’ Martin looks him in the eye. ‘Nothing special.’
William doesn’t believe him, but appreciates the loyalty.
‘At least this way,’ Martin says, ‘we’ve got time to work out how to make sure your uncle and Howard can come next year.’
William stares at the blue stitching on the bed blanket. Two days ago, he heard Matron telling the nurse that a master had got the sack.
‘I’d heard things about him.’ Nurse’s low voice carried much better than she must have thought it did. ‘He spends the summer holidays in Italy, with a man.’
‘Then he had to go,’ Matron said. ‘Even a hint of degeneracy around the boys is too much.’
The trouble with being in sickbay is that William has nothing to do but think. So when he isn’t feeling almost physically sick with disappointment and jealousy, he is thinking about Robert and Howard being degenerates. William does and doesn’t want to talk about this now. He leans forward to check that Matron is still in her little office at the end of the room. She’s on the phone.
‘Martin?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Uncle Robert and Howard … do you think … they’re …’ He tries, but just can’t say it. ‘You know.’
Martin puts his head to one side then nods. ‘Probably.’
‘So, when you said Mum was protecting me, you meant from them?’
Martin scrunches his face, as if from a stab of pain. ‘Some people think they shouldn’t be left alone with children, but I’m sure my parents don’t think that.’ He looks at the floor for a while, then back up at William. ‘I bet your uncle would never hurt you.’
He hears Matron saying goodbye, the heavy clunk of the receiver into its cradle. ‘You should probably go now,’ William says, embarrassed that Martin seems to know more about his family than he does, although also relieved to know that Mr and Mrs Mussey would be kind-hearted towards his uncle. ‘I still feel ropey.’
William doesn’t mind having a few more days lying in bed, not having to talk to anyone.
25
JANUARY 1961
Martin’s eldest brother, Richard, is waiting for them at Pulborough station, leaning against a blue Ford Anglia, cigarette balanced on his bottom lip. In his final year at Oxford, Richard is a thinner, taller version of Martin.
‘Hello, Squirt.’ He slaps Martin on the back, and then holds his hand out. ‘Hello, William, I’m Richard. Climb in the back, I’ll put your case in the boot.’
‘Where’s Mum?’ Martin says, sitting next to his brother.
‘Cooking supper with Flo. All hands on deck.’
William has been invited to spend some of the Christmas holiday with Martin’s family every year of their friendship, but William has never been able to imagine asking Evelyn, so he never has. But this is William’s last year as a chorister, his last year with Martin as his companion, whose stories for the past three years of his boisterous, bohemian family have entranced and entertained William. Evelyn agreed, when he kept his promise to himself and asked her in the first five minutes of their exeat visit in December. She was disappointed; her smile was too quick and sharp, and she’d flicked away her cake crumbs with a force that was meant for something else. Nevertheless, he decided to take her at her word.
The highlight of the first bleak day back in Cambridge after Christmas has always been sitting at supper listening to Martin tell him about the Mussey Boxing Day Play. Who fell out with who, which soft furnishings were purloined for costume and sets, whether they remained in place for the duration, which boys played girls and which girls played boys – gender reversal was evidently mandatory. It sounded such indulgent fun, putting aside a whole day to write, cast, rehearse, make the set and costumes, and then of course perform it. The older the Mussey children get, the more elaborate they have become and the later the performance time. Last year, they didn’t take to the stage until 11.30 because Richard insisted mid-afternoon that he rewrote the script in rhyming verse.
Excited and nervous, with his suitcase packed for the new term, which will begin in three days’ time, William at thirteen had never travelled on the train alone before, so it was agreed that Martin would meet him at Paddington and they would travel from there to Storrington together.
‘What are we eating?’ Martin asks his brother.
‘Chicken.’
‘One of ours?’
‘Two, actually. You’re honoured, William,’ says Richard, turning his head, ‘a two-chicken supper!’ He puts the car in gear and swings out of the station. ‘Talking of food, has Martin introduced you to the Fitzbillies Chelsea bun?’
‘Of course I have! We’re allowed out on a Saturday afternoon now,’ Martin answers.
‘Martin buys two,’ William says, keen to join in, ‘and finishes them before I’ve even got mine out of the box.’ He’s rewarded by Richard’s hearty laugh.
‘How many solos last term, Squirt?’
It’s a routine question, William can tell. Martin has his head to one side, thinking. ‘At least seven but to be honest, I’ve lost count.’
‘Git,’ mutters Richard.
Martin twists round, grinning to William. ‘I’ve already beaten his solo score.’
‘What about you, William?’ Richard asks, throwing his cigarette butt out of the window and leaning his elbow on the ledge. ‘I hear you’re pretty good.’
The answer is thirteen – five more than Martin. ‘Not sure,’ William says, ‘around ten?’
‘I’d say more,’ Martin says, ‘he’s bloody good. He’s bound to get the “Miserere” this term.’
It’s Flo who first greets them when they walk through the broad, glass-panelled door into the vast, peopled kitchen. With thick glasses that magnify her eyes slightly, she holds Martin’s face in her hands and kisses both his cheeks noisily. She looks old, William guesses in her seventies, with grey curly hair close to her head.