It’s flu. Full-blown, vicious, drawn-out flu. William is in sickbay for ten days. The fever, the aching arms and legs, and the raw red of his blocked nose mean he doesn’t think of much at all to begin with. He feels hard, dried up inside and most of all, angry. Ash Wednesday comes and goes. Matron tells him that Nigel took the solo as she bustles around his bed, filling his glass with lemon barley water, replacing his bundled handkerchiefs with two ironed ones on his bedside table. William stares at the ceiling and pinches his left thigh between two fingernails until it hurts more than thinking about Nigel singing his solo. He continues to do that for the rest of the day and by evening has to switch to his right leg.

After a few days, Martin is allowed to visit him for fifteen minutes in the afternoon. The sickbay is south-facing and filled with intense spring sunshine. William’s head throbs and his limbs still feel filled with concrete.

‘Bad luck, but it’ll be yours next year,’ says Martin, landing heavily on the end of William’s bed.

‘You don’t know that,’ William replies, ‘my voice could break, or one of the younger ones might get it. Charles is good enough.’

‘Rubbish. You’re the best.’

Lying in sickbay, he’s been dry-eyed and brittle, but Martin’s solid presence on the bed, his friendship, is making him tearful.

‘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?’