I waited for him to finish his sweet, and used the opportunity to wipe down the blackboard—upon which, in my absence, some youthful, exuberant hand had scrawled the oldest phonetic joke in the Latin book: Caesar aderat forte. Brutus adsum jam. Caesar sic in omnibus. Brutus sic intram. The oldest, silliest jokes are the best, and that one was old before I was. But it still comes out occasionally; like a Christmas bauble brought out every year, missing a little more glitter each time, but mellow with nostalgia. I find it reassuring; a reminder, perhaps, of more innocent times.

“Now, what’s on your mind?” I said.

“Well,” said Allen-Jones. “I’m gay.”

That wasn’t what I’d expected to hear. As a rule, boys don’t talk to me about their sexual proclivities, or, indeed, about anything of what you might call an intimate nature, traditionally preferring to confide in one of the French assistants—who are generally far more approachable than Dr. Burke, the School Chaplain.

“Gay?” I repeated foolishly.

I thought of what Harry Clarke had described. That anywhere-but-here look. I wondered if I had that look now, and how often Harry had seen it before on the faces of his friends. As if being queer could be catching, somehow, the fear of contagion eclipsing the warmth. And yet my Brodie Boys seemed just as cheery as ever. I remembered them talking the other day about the impending Mulberry girls—this class is a fruit-free zone—and how they’d all laughed. How I wish I’d been able to laugh like that with Harry Clarke. Instead, it was awkward for a while, after which we never spoke of it again.

Allen-Jones just looked at me. He has a very direct gaze, rather adult for such a young boy. “It’s just that I thought I should tell you, sir. In case it causes problems.”

“Problems?” I said. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged in a rather world-weary way, more suited to my own age than his. “Well, it’s hardly what you’d call a sympathetic environment,” he said. “I mean, much as I love the dear old place, it’s more of a rugby-and-chapel place than a stage for musical theatre.”

I took a breath. “I see,” I said. “Well, as far as I’m concerned, unless this somehow affects your ability to do your Latin homework, I don’t think we’ll have a problem. In fact, unless you need my advice, I’ll probably forget about it altogether.”

Allen-Jones looked a little startled, as if he’d expected resistance. “Really?”

I helped myself to an allsort. “You seem surprised.”

He grinned. “No, sir. It’s just that—other people aren’t always as— Well.”

“What other people?”

“The Chaplain.”

I was surprised. “You told him?”

“No, of course not,” said Allen-Jones.