‘What are you doing, Wright?’

‘A demonstration. Better than a diagram.’ He pulled his shirt over his head, vaulted over a desk and took up a position in front of the blackboard. ‘There you go. And you won’t see a finer specimen in Her Majesty’s forces.’

There was much clapping and cheering, and the corporal, fortunately for Wright, seemed to be a good-humoured fellow, glad of the distraction. ‘Very well, gentlemen, as we seem to have a stripper in our midst’ – more cheers – ‘I may as well save on chalk.’ He picked up a ruler, and prodded Wright in the chest. ‘So, here we have the pectoralis major.’

Wright flexed his chest.

‘Bloody hell, it’s Diana Dors!’

Wright winked and blew kisses.

‘The biceps …’

He flexed again, and someone sang ‘Popeye the Sailor Man’.

‘The triceps …’

He bent his arm back and the muscle popped up – a pose I’d seen hundreds of times in physique magazines.

‘The deltoids … trapezius … rhomboids.’ He had a pose for every muscle. ‘Moving downwards, the abdominal obliques, transverse and rectus abdominis.’ His stomach muscles looked like cricket balls under the skin. ‘You didn’t go short of protein during basic, then, Wright?’

‘No, sir.’ Wright grinned. ‘I always make a point of having a woman in the cookhouse.’

More laughter. The corporal signalled for silence. ‘Now, Aircraftman Wright, we won’t trouble you for anything below the waist, much as I’m sure you’re dying to give us the benefit of your gluteus maximus.’

Wright made as if to unbuckle his belt, looked around the room – caught my eye – daring us to egg him on. Then he took a quick bow, picked up his clothes and returned to his seat, with much back-slapping along the way.

‘Bad luck, Poynter,’ yelled a voice from the back. Poynter bent his head over his notes.

‘That’ll do for this morning,’ said the corporal. ‘Fall out for a smoke.’

I walked to the perimeter and looked out towards the estuary. They already think of me as a loner. There are plenty of us, and we’re not disturbed. But today someone came running up behind me. It was Poynter. I looked to left and right; thank God there was no one near enough to see.

‘I saw your drawing,’ he said, in his rather nasal voice. ‘It was very good.’

‘Oh. Thank you.’

‘You’re very artistic.’

‘Well … I went to art school before call-up.’

‘I knew it!’ His face brightened, and he looked quite animated. ‘As soon as I saw you, I thought you were.’

‘Right.’ I smoked and looked out to sea, unwilling to pick up on whatever he was driving at.

‘I’m artistic too,’ he said, getting something out of his tunic pocket. ‘Would you like to see?’

He unfolded a sheet of paper torn from a notebook. His anatomical drawing resembled an exaggerated Michelangelo sketch, complete with long eyelashes, curly hair and a cupid’s bow mouth etched in blue ink. The chest, the buttocks and the groin were all greatly enhanced.