Every month, it seemed that Mr Kimball raised the topic of the local girls. It must’ve pleased a man like him – upstanding, middle-aged and bored – to imagine he was young again and free of burden, given one more chance to charm a pretty face and reach beneath her skirt. Charlie’s skin was prickling at the mention of it. He stabbed his ciggie hard into the ashtray, letting thoughts go skittling through his mind again. Silk undergarments hanging on the pulley-rack inside the scullery. Metal hairpins clamped in her front teeth gone shiny with her spit. The tiny songbird pendant of her necklace resting in the shallow of her throat. He wondered if he shouldn’t just release the pressure on himself and say something. His urges were not going away. They’d proved impossible to drown – he had a glut of them, each one a little thrill, indecent probably – and who else could he turn to for support? Not his sister, not his aunty. Definitely not Mr Mayhood. So, perhaps if he was careful with his words, he could explain the situation he was in, the curse of it. He could spin a story round his heartache to disguise it. He could say he’d met a woman on a trip to Guildford, someone nearly twice his age. He was in love with her but she would never know it. What occupation could he give her – a librarian? – and maybe she’d be in a long engagement with a decent man, someone heroic, like a fireman, or – well, it didn’t matter, because he couldn’t bring himself to tell the tale.

‘You realize it’s my duty to inquire about new friendships and the like,’ said Mr Kimball, leafing through his files. ‘We don’t want you making any bad associations.’

‘I understand.’

‘I mean, it’s very tough for boys on licence – readjusting to the outside world again, finding ways to motivate themselves. Seems to me, whenever lads go off the rails, there’s only two clear reasons. It’s because they’re caught up in some sort of gang, or there’s a girl involved. That’s why I have to ask, you see.’

‘All right.’ He sighed. ‘But that’s not going to happen here, I promise.’

‘And Joyce – has she been going out a lot?’

‘She’s not looking for a husband, trust me.’

‘That isn’t what I asked.’

‘Well, look, you’re seeing her next, aren’t you? Find out.’

‘Just a question, Charlie. I’m not trying to make a snitch of you.’ But Mr Kimball’s pen was scratching on the pad again.

‘That’s good,’ he said, ‘because I won’t be that for you, ever,’ and he fished another ciggie from the packet. ‘There’s not much worse than being a grass.’ He was going to be a chain-smoker before this so-called Aftercare was done with. ‘Anyway, she stays here every night, as far as I can tell. We like it here. Nobody bothers us or pokes their noses in. We work all day, we eat together, then we work some more and go to sleep. That’s it. We read. She likes her cowboy books and comics. Me, I’m trying to get to grips with Ruskin at the moment. Do you know The Stones of Venice? You’d enjoy it. Very interesting. And we listen to the radio when we’re in the mood. Sometimes we put records on and have a dance, a nip of brandy with the Mayhoods. Six o’clock, we’re back out in the fields and start again. We’re putting in the graft … So listen, I don’t know about the other lads you’ve done this with, how hard they might’ve found it coping in the outside world, but this is just about a perfect situation, if you’re asking me.’