He was, too, a surprisingly rigorous marker. Both he and Dr Parry-Jones appended detailed notes to Noel’s written work, and set him masses of prep. Mr Reddish, on the other hand, was content to lie on his bed listening to Appointment With Fear on the wireless, while Noel worked his way, largely unsupervised, through Mathematics for Matriculation and Fullday’s Manual of Book-Keeping, while Miss Appleby had lately abandoned all pretence of teaching him any French, and instead used him as a sort of confessional booth for her love life. She had broken off her engagement to the Anzac after seeing an informational film about Australian spiders, and was now walking out with an asthmatic tax inspector. ‘Would you call that a step up from a soldier, or a step down?’ she’d asked. ‘He has lovely hair, though of course he’s not as muscular as Douglas was.’

From the drill-hall kitchen, they heard a prolonged rattle of applause, followed by footsteps along the corridor. Mrs Claxton entered the room and Jepson closed his copy of Great Expectations, his expression stoic.

‘Do you want me back on duty?’ he asked.

‘No, no’ – she was opening cupboards, looking for something – ‘I think Cathy Jackson is giving an encore, and then the Merry Whistler – that’s the Reverend Bagshott – is doing requests before the interval. I’m searching for something large enough for one of the Dorita Juveniles to vomit into. I do hope it wasn’t the paste sandwiches, otherwise there’ll be mayhem – ah, here.’ She took a china basin from a cupboard behind Mr Jepson’s head and turned to go. The noise of sliding crockery came from the shelf she’d just removed it from, and she shot out a hand towards the cupboard door. Mr Jepson made an equally abrupt movement in response and, for a frozen moment, Noel stared at the peculiar tableau that had formed in front of him: Mrs Claxton with one hand outstretched, and Mr Jepson hunched over the table, his arms wrapped protectively around his head.

‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Claxton, in a low voice. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Quietly and rapidly, she rearranged the contents of the cupboard, and then took the basin and left.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Noel. It seemed a stupid question. When there was no reply, he touched his tutor’s sleeve, and Mr Jepson straightened, stiffly, his features a flattened mask of humiliation so that he looked suddenly years older, and hideous.

‘Can I get you anything?’ asked Noel.

‘No, thank you.’ Jepson stood without looking at him. ‘I think I’d better leave now. Please give my apologies to Mrs Claxton.’ And he was already scuttling out of the kitchen door, head down.

‘I’ll man the tombola!’ Noel called after him. ‘Don’t worry.’

From the hall came scattered applause and then the first whistled phrase of ‘Danny Boy’, the rising notes as plangent as an evening blackbird. Noel stood, uncertainly. Two minutes ago, he’d been discussing gas fires, and now, inexplicably, the evening was fractured, unrecognizable; a single blow had punched it out of shape.