‘I think the boys make a good point,’ said Father. ‘Let them take a paper round for a probationary three months, so long as it does not conflict with their schoolwork or their music practice.’

‘It won’t, Father,’ I promised, and there passed between us one of those imperishable glances of male solidarity.

Down at the newsagent’s, Dovidl and I bisected the district on Mr Wilcox’s street map like a halved apple: he took the streets to the left of the core, I the ones to the right. He got the rich blocks of mansion flats and garden houses around Grove End Road; I got the bedsits of Carlton Hill, the terraces of Springfield Road and the council estates of Boundary Road.

‘Your friend’ll make more in Christmas tips,’ warned Wilcox.

‘Let’s see who’s still alive by Christmas,’ said Dovidl darkly.

Each morning at seven we loaded bundles of papers into our baskets beneath Wilcox’s striped awning, cycling around until the last thin sheet had been shoved through the appropriate brass flap. It took less than an hour, leaving us plenty of time to wolf down Martha’s breakfast and wheel off to school before the whistle blew for morning assembly.

If we happened to blow in late, there was no risk of punishment. Discipline, and much else, was breaking down at The House. With many masters called to the colours, women graduates and retired university dons plugged the gaps and altered the ethos. Caning and sadism ceased; the playground bullies, deprived of adult role-models, turned civilised and considerate. We had Miss Prendergast for history, horn-rimmed but nice legs, and Dr Sedgefield for English, seventy years old and an international authority (it was rumoured) on the semi-colon. These, and others whose names escape me, were founts of knowledge, willing to be dredged, unwilling to be bound by curricular strictures. ‘Talk among yourselves,’ said Sedgefield, treating six of the brighter boys, bunched around his desk, to his theory of Iago’s homosexuality, and Romeo’s, for that matter. When the headmaster walked in, alerted by raised voices, Sedgefield looked up mildly and murmured something about college-style tutorials. ‘Place is going to the dogs,’ I heard the Head mumble, in retreat.