For a moment I wasn’t quite sure what he’d said. “What do you mean, gay?”

He smiled. “Sometimes you just know,” he said. “Sometimes it shows early. And Charlie Nutter—let’s just say I always thought Charlie was different. We talked about it once or twice.”

“You think Charlie Nutter’s . . .”

“Gay. You can say it aloud, you know.”

His smile robbed the words of a possible sting. And remember, this was a long time ago: the word used far less commonly—and perhaps with more respect—than today.

He smiled again at my puzzled look. “Go on. Say it aloud. It helps. At least, it always did for me.”

Once more, for a moment I paused. “I’m still not sure what— Oh.”

Oh. This may be hard to imagine now. But things were very different then. I’d never thought of my colleagues—my friends—in any other context than that of St. Oswald’s. I’d never been to Harry’s house, or asked him about his personal life. It was different with Eric Scoones. We’d been schoolboys together. I’d known him since we were first-year Ozzies in blazers and caps. I’d been to his birthday parties, in the little White City house he still shares with his mother. We’d fought for the same scholarships; faced our bullies together; waged imaginary wars; drawn legions of stick men across generations of Latin books; and if it had ever occurred to me that he might be somehow—different, I would never have mentioned it. But Harry—I’m not proud of this, but it floored me completely.

He saw my expression. “Really, Roy? Did it never cross your mind?”

I had to admit that it had not. “Who else have you told about this?” I said. “Did you tell Nutter? Or Harrington? Or anybody else on the staff?”

He shrugged. “I don’t go out of my way to mention it, if that’s what you mean. But why should I lie? I’ve done nothing wrong—”

Of course he was right. He’d done nothing wrong. But was he really so naive as to think that would make a difference? Even nowadays, to admit to being a homosexual—especially when teaching in a boys’ school—is to incur suspicion and perhaps run the risk of dismissal. Twenty-four years ago, it was worse. Gay Liberation had barely begun. Harry knew the risk, all right. He just didn’t seem to care.

He gave me a wry look. “Does it make a difference?”

“No. No. Why should it?” I lied.