It was six months ago, in March, that William came here for his voice trial. Since then, he’s kept half an eye on the life he was living, but most of his time was spent imagining the future. He imagined entering the vast chapel, stepping across the glimmering black and white tiles that blinked when the light hit them. He imagined the bright beauty of the windows, like coloured diamonds turning ordinary light into something so amazing it almost hurt to look at it. He imagined gazing up at the friendly-looking saints with their arms out as if in welcome. He imagined being dressed in white and purple robes, breathing in to fill his chest with air. He imagined opening his mouth wide for the escape of his voice. He imagined how it would feel like flying.

What he stolidly ignored was the fact that he’d start his time here as a probationer, not a chorister. He won’t have the full uniform and he won’t be able to sing at evensong, so there’ll be no chance of a solo. He isn’t sure how long this in-between time will last. At his voice trial, Phillip, the choirmaster, was fuzzy about it.

‘The probationary period is usually about a year,’ he said, running through details of chorister life, ‘but as you’re considerably older … well, we’ll see.’

‘Walk with me, William,’ says Martin now, cheerful and hearty as the line of boys starts to take shape.

Once they have passed through the gate into the college playing fields, Martin’s hand darts out.

‘See that hole in the cricket pavilion window? I took it out last term with a cricket ball and no one’s fixed it yet. I got whacked for that.’

‘Oh.’ William keeps his head turned towards the pavilion so Martin knows he’s taking it seriously.

‘See that tree?’ Martin points to the left. ‘I fell off it and broke my little finger in my first year. Look!’ He waves his large hand before William’s face. ‘It set crooked.’

William thinks Martin’s mother must be very different from Evelyn. He imagines the horror of having to tell her he’d been hit by the headmaster for jumping on other boys’ beds without any pants. The other older boys are friendly enough towards Martin, but he seems to float free of any allegiances – unlike Charles, Edward and Anthony, who may as well have melded into one hostile person.