The school’s emptiness flowed around Tom like an echo, pouring down the colonnaded sides of White Quad and washing over the stone cloisters. In the shade of the single plane tree, he gripped the letter tightly and then, fearful of crumpling it, smoothed it out flat on his knees. His dinner jacket felt hot on him, and he shifted it off, letting it fall in a rumpled mess to his side.

Where usually there would be the shouts and stampedes of boys on their way to lessons or games or meals, now there was nothing. Only the college mowers were humming distantly. A master, white head down and gnarled hands held tightly behind his back, black gown flapping, hurrying to some not-wished-for appointment, caught sight of Tom. He paused, knuckled his hands on his hips and shouted, ‘Go and get changed, Swinton, you’re a disgrace,’ before scurrying onwards in the direction of the headmaster’s house. Tom stood. He would go back to his room.

A couple of house matrons were chatting by the door to Tom’s boarding house. One of them, with a rabbity face and a faint antiseptic scent of the sanatorium, eyed him askance and looked like she was about to say something. Tom made a mock bow, grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her lightly on the cheek, skipped down the stairs and passed through the heavy oak door.

Eight weeks of holidays stretched ahead of Tom. Eight weeks in which he was bound to stay here in school. His nearest friend lived a twenty-mile drive away, beyond the Downs; but Tom couldn’t drive and didn’t have a car. Anyway, Fred was doing internships at the local newspaper office and with the borough’s MP. Fred had his sights set on Oxbridge – he always had done. ‘And when I’m not working, I’ll be revising,’ he’d said the day before, potting a ball as they’d played a final game of pool. ‘We need these holidays to consolidate for our exams. Beat you again.’

Tom wished he had his own sights set on something. Instead, when he looked into his future after school, he just saw a blank space.

He stomped through the empty boarding house to his tiny study and slumped onto the hard bed.

An hour or so later, a pasty, spotty face poked round the door, staring through thick-rimmed glasses and topped with a mass of oily, unruly brown curls.

Tom, showered and changed into blue jeans and an old white T-shirt, was sitting on his wooden chair by the window. His room looked out onto School Quad, and Tom was alternately gazing out at the bricks and studying the letter. He placed it as unhurriedly as he could into his pocket and kicked his shabby canvas trainers against each other, nonchalantly.