The garment barely contained him. I tried to sound professional, but just sounded prissy. ‘Well, you certainly look the part.’

‘Too much for RAF Reville?’

‘It might be.’

‘I’ve got my boxing clobber as well.’

‘Perhaps that would be best.’

‘Okay. But I want some shots in these too. I didn’t pay eighteen bob for nothing.’

‘Eighteen bob? Christ.’

‘And I wanna get my money’s worth.’

‘So much for so little.’

‘Yeah. But it’s what’s inside that counts.’ He struck a pose, thrusting his hips forward, then winked and laughed and produced his shorts from his kit bag. ‘Right. Oil time.’

I’d borrowed the record player from the library, loaded with a stack of 45s that Wright had borrowed from Gladys, as well as his prized copy of ‘Jailhouse Rock’. I switched it on, and the first record dropped on to the turntable. ‘You Send Me’ by Sam Cooke. Wright smeared palmfuls of oil over his shoulders, arms, torso and thighs.

‘You going to do my back for me?’

‘I can’t. I’ll get the camera all greasy.’

‘Oh, come on, mate, give us a hand. You can wipe ’em clean.’

I dabbed a little oil on to my fingers, hardly daring to touch his skin.

‘Just bloody rub it in, Michael, for God’s sake.’

‘Seems a bit weird.’

‘So?’ Wright did a Mr Hyde voice. ‘Maybe I am a bit weird.’

I ran my palms over the huge slippery expanse of his back. The classroom smelt like a chip shop at frying time. I wiped my hands on my trousers.

The next record dropped on to the last – ‘Que Sera Sera’, Doris Day.

‘Your Gladys has got very soppy taste in music.’

‘She’s not my Gladys,’ said Wright, ‘she’s everyone’s. Anyway, thought you’d like Doris Day. When I was just a little girl I asked my mother …’

‘That’s enough. You’re a boxer, not a singer, thank God. Get the shorts on. We’ll do the others at the end, if you want.’

‘You’re the boss.’ He stepped into his silk shorts, one foot after another. The waistband came up high.

‘Stand over there.’

He positioned himself in front of the old black backdrop, shook out his arms, rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck, an athlete preparing for contest.

‘Put your guard up, like you do in the gym.’

‘Like this?’

‘Perfect.’ Behind the camera, away from the heat of his body, I felt safer and more confident. I took the first shot.

‘Now look down towards the floor, and turn your eyes up to me … that’s it.’

‘Do I look lean and mean?’

‘You look like trouble.’

‘I am trouble.’

‘Okay. Now clasp your hands above your head as if you’ve just knocked the other bugger out.’

‘Winner!’ His armpits were damp with sweat, the hair forming little curls. ‘What next, boss?’

I went through the repertoire of familiar poses from the magazines. ‘Put your hands behind your head, and stretch your torso up.’

‘Like this?’

‘Good. Now turn at a slight angle.’