The woman dressed like a nurse holding a large metal jug must be Matron. The muscles in her arm flex through the saggy flesh as she lifts the pitcher.
‘Down!’
The boy leans over and rests his hands on the floor of the bath. His spine curves into a frill of little bumps. As Matron pours the water over his head and body, he exhales quickly as if he’s been punched. A couple of drops ricochet onto William. He flinches. It’s freezing.
The boy uncurls, scurries to a row of pegs and snatches one of the thin towels. Matron refills the jug from the sink behind her. Martin steps sideways into the vacated space. His belly wobbles slightly as he puts his broad hands flat on the bath and his upside-down face scrunches into a different shape.
‘Shuffle up!’ she snaps at William, once Martin has moved away and started rubbing his body, beaming with relief, or maybe encouragement. But William doesn’t move. He waits for what seems a long time for Matron to look up from the bath. When she finally meets his gaze, William smiles politely and shakes his head.
‘Not for me, thank you, Matron. It’s too cold.’
The boy on his left sniggers, then stifles it. Matron’s face is surprised into a moment of softness before she grabs him, her thumb easily meeting her fingers round his upper arm, and pulls him next to her.
‘I’m afraid his Lordship doesn’t get to choose.’
He hears another laugh from the boy on his left. Then his head is pushed down and a cascade of cold water shoots up his nose, into his eyes, through his ears, and its icy fingers curl around his tummy. The pale lino glitters with water. His gasp is loud and high.
He straightens up, water blurring his vision, and hurries away. He buries his face in a towel for a few seconds before wiping himself down.
? ? ?
‘If you’re on the way to a whacking, nick a handkerchief from here.’ Dressed now, they leave the dorm to go for breakfast, and an invigorated Martin points towards a huge cupboard on the landing. ‘Mr Atkinson can tell if you’ve got a towel stuffed down your trousers, but handkerchiefs slide nicely into your underpants.’
‘A whacking?’ William has only met the headmaster twice, but he hadn’t seemed at all violent. ‘What do you get that for?’ His body is still smarting from the cold water.
‘Last one was for bed hopping.’
‘What’s that?’ William’s feet patter lightly down the staircase behind the rhythmic pound of Martin’s two-steps-at-a-time leaps.
‘Two minutes before Matron’s due to check lights are out, you jump from bed to bed till you’re back at your own.’
They are overtaking Charles and the other probationers in the corridor. William concentrates on Martin as they slip into the dining hall ahead of them.
‘How many beds?’
‘Ten.’
‘Crikey.’
‘And you do it naked.’
‘Pardon?’
‘You do the bed hop naked.’
William has never seen a naked body apart from his own and can’t quite believe that anyone would do such a thing.
‘I got more whacks than anyone last year.’ Martin leads the way to a serving hatch. A wide woman with a blue apron taut across her massive bosom is lifting a ladle from a tin pot and dropping porridge into green bowls. Martin takes one without speaking to her. ‘If I didn’t sing well I’d be out on my ear.’
A milky smell stirs a trace of hunger William didn’t know he had as he waits for the woman to ladle a lumpy grey spoonful into his bowl. She glances briefly at him. The edge of the ladle clips the bowl and a spot of porridge lands on the counter.
‘Thank you very much,’ he says.
She says nothing, but nods her head at him and a coil of dark hair bobs up and down.
William follows Martin to an empty table where he screeches a chair back on the parquet floor. There’s an energy to Martin’s speech and movement that lifts William’s spirit and makes him feel braver. Since his father died two years ago, William has had to tighten up his insides and work hard to cheer his mother up. She does seem to wake up lighter again, and be playful like she used to be, but he feels a relief as Martin’s carefree manner slides comfortably over his shoulders.
‘Not for me, thank you, Matron,’ Martin says, in what William supposes is meant to be a Midlands accent. But the brief weight of Martin’s hand on his shoulder, soft and heavy, stops his feelings from being hurt.
‘My mum calls me his Lordship’ – William swirls his spoon through his gloopy breakfast that smells of salt – ‘but it sounds different when she says it.’