Since receiving his exeat on Wednesday, William has dreamt about Evelyn twice. In the first she was lolling on their settee at home, throwing warm biscuits to him in the next chair, relaxed and smiling as crumbs pattered onto the carpet. In the second, she appeared in his dorm, wearing her mac and a scarf on her head. She looked so pleased to see him, he woke with a start, full of embarrassment, because she was painfully out of place and about to make a big fuss of him.

All he had to do was go into the headmaster’s room and take the exeat from Mr Atkinson’s hand. Glancing round the wood-panelled study, at the vase of yellow roses on the table, he found it hard to believe this was where Martin had been given all those whacks. He couldn’t see a cane anywhere. Coming from such a gentle upbringing, there was a large part of him that couldn’t quite accept caning actually happened, that a piece of willow could be kept with the sole purpose of hitting a boy. But his encounter was polite and straightforward. The only challenge was to stop himself jumping up and down, because the little piece of paper in his hand allowed him a whole afternoon with his mother in four days’ time.

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And now it’s Sunday and after the service he’s free to leave. With her! Lined up to process into the chapel, full of those parents who suddenly vanished from their lives six weeks ago, everything feels different. Charles, Edward and Anthony are so busy making each other laugh, they don’t seem to have noticed. But then William thinks maybe being silly together, fluttering and chirruping around, is their way of noticing. He doesn’t think Charles will cry today when he has to say goodbye; it’s as if he has become another boy altogether from the one who walked away from his parents in tears.

William loves the stone and wood smell of the ancient antechapel. Martin breathes in and puffs out heavily as he always does the second before they process. As the organ starts, the purple and white vestments sway and the boys move forward. The ceiling is so high he has to tip his chin as far as it will go to see it. The tiles are hard and beautiful beneath his feet. His favourite saint looks him in the eye, arms outstretched. And when this service is over, the flesh and blood arms of his mother will wrap around him.

There she is. Right next to the choir stalls on the left. Her hair has been set and it’s longer than it used to be. She’s ramrod-straight, holding her order of service level with her chest. She’s spotted him.