It had been a hormonal, instinctive thing. Bereft of their partners who had been recovered by watchful parents, Pearly and his friends had been drawn to the girls’ school as hares to headlights. They had stood in the darkness of the shrubbery outside the hostel, watching the flickering light in the rooms of the seniors returned not long before, hearing the soprano voices, the laughter of the girls still on a high from the dancing. What had he and Snoz and Gumbo expected their reception to be when they clambered through a laundry window and up the stairs? They never stopped to think, drawn blindly by the need to be with the other sex, to keep contact, it didn’t really matter with which individuals. They’d been welcomed on the landing by girls they knew, but their presence caused such a growing congregation, such insufficiently repressed false alarm and fluttering interest, that the matron had soon come to investigate, forcing them to flee, jostling at the laundry window, running, laughing, through the shrubbery to safety. In the dark Snoz had sped right over the terrace above the tennis courts and fallen heavily onto the asphalt, cutting his knee, yet laughing still with the others. Had practical physics accorded with their exalted mood, he would merely have drifted up into the dark, scented air.

It all came out, of course, and Pearly as head boy had to show sufficient contrition and personally apologise to the matron and principal of the girls’ school. But the year was almost over, and adult reprimands had little effect. He’d been head boy, he’d been captain of the first fifteen, he’d led an expedition to the girls’ dormitory, which became elaborated by knowing silences and significant hints into a legendary carnal success. There was nothing of that in the bound school magazines though it was as much a part of the year’s history as the opening of the library annex or the retirement of J. A. S. Peters, known as Jasper, after thirty-two years at the school teaching geography and coaching rugby.

Jasper and Pearly left the school in the same year, 1970, both of them with some eagerness for change. Jasper’s enthusiasm for rugby had endured, but he’d become disillusioned with his other responsibilities. Pearly thought about Jasper as he left the principal’s office after the committee meeting and walked past the junior locker block and fives courts towards the carpark, the moon casting stark shadows from the buildings, the night breeze stirring litter in a corner and soughing in the macrocarpas behind the main field.

Because Jasper had served for so long, there had been a special assembly to farewell him, and Pearly had presented him with an embossed briefcase on behalf of the students. ‘Thank you,’ the old chalkie said, and then quietly, ‘See me after school,’ before turning to give his speech.