‘Thank you.’ William smiles at Cook, whose eyes soften when she sees him. He doesn’t slip in early any more in the mornings like he did in his first year to watch her make breakfast, her corseted torso bumping occasionally against his, but he always makes sure to be friendly.

‘William, want to join me?’ Nigel Wynne, a slender, graceful boy, is head chorister now. ‘Where’s Martin?’ Nigel looks round the dining hall.

‘Head’s office.’

‘What for this time?’

‘Back-chatting.’

Nigel smiles. ‘Do tell.’

‘He was messing around in history this morning. Hawthorn told him playing the clown isn’t funny. Martin said, “With respect, it is funny, sir, that’s the point of clowns.”’

Since William let the others take the blame for the letters he wrote last year, he has refused to take part in any of Martin’s shenanigans; stealing sunglasses in Woolworths, smuggling a college duck into Matron’s bedroom, or dropping a bottle of cochineal into the porridge. Martin always seems to find someone else to get into trouble with and never puts William under any pressure. William’s aware of an understanding amongst the boarders, that he is somehow under Martin’s protection. The stories of the wee-soaked pyjamas and the forged letters are part of school folklore. William sometimes feels a bit cut off from the other boys because of it, as if he can never quite get on with anyone else on his own terms. He is grateful for Nigel inviting him to sit with him.

‘Well, if he gets a whack, we’ll all be treated to a close-up of his bruised backside tonight.’ Nigel laughs.

‘And every night this week, to watch it change colour.’

‘Sometimes I think he likes it.’ Nigel’s smile drops to a frown. ‘Are you OK? You look a bit odd.’

‘I think I’ve got a temperature,’ William says, touching his damp forehead.

‘You can’t be ill,’ Nigel says, ‘not until after Ash Wednesday.’

In the song room the following day, William takes off his gown, which is now above his ankles and has long stopped whispering over the ground, soaking up mud and puddle water. He’s glad to sit down after the walk from school and hasn’t even got the energy to laugh at Martin’s impression of the organ scholar’s squint. He wishes he had a bit more oomph. When Phillip arrives and asks them to warm up with some scales, William takes a breath and a loud volley of coughs bursts from his mouth.

For two days he fights it, won’t admit he’s ill, can’t bear the thought that he might not be able to sing the ‘Miserere’, but then Phillip sends him to Matron halfway through practice and he almost passes out on the way.

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