A series of sudden, sharp raps make William start, followed by the squeak and groan of bedsprings. Then a creepy, twisted moan: ‘Charles. Charles.’
‘Who is it? Pack it in.’ Charles’s voice is high-pitched with false bravery.
‘Get William’s pyjamas.’ Martin’s distorted voice is louder now.
‘I can’t!’ Charles snaps. ‘We widdled on them.’
‘Get them. Put them on.’
‘No!’
There’s a sudden movement and a cry of pain. ‘Ouch! I’ll tell Matron.’
‘If you’re not back in bed wearing William’s pyjamas in thirty seconds, I’ll tell Matron what you did.’ Martin has given up on the voice.
‘I can’t! It’s disgusting.’
There’s another soft thud followed by a yelp. ‘Imagine being expelled for pissing on someone’s pyjamas. You’d go down in school history. Go! Now!’
Appalled, William lies rigid. Charles jumps up and runs the length of the dorm. The bathroom light pings on; a quiet slap, drips, the rasp of wet fabric pulling against skin, muffled grunting. The room hums with the silence of waiting, listening boys. When Charles scurries past, tiny and scrawny in oversized, drenched pyjamas, William fights the urge to apologise.
‘And if you tell anyone about this,’ Martin says, emerging easily from under the next bed to William, ‘I’ll come tomorrow night. And the next.’
William counts to thirty and then whispers to Martin, ‘Tell him he can take them off now. Don’t make him wear them all night.’
‘He’s got to learn his lesson,’ Martin whispers softly. ‘You don’t want to have to put up with this for the next four years, do you?’
‘But what will Matron say in the morning? It’ll look like he’s wet himself.’
‘Trust me, William, he’ll leave you alone now.’
As Martin’s breathing quickly deepens, William is horribly aware of Charles’s restless shivering six beds away. It is a long time before sleep relieves his mind of the puzzle of how his new friend can be both so kind and so cruel.
16
Dear William,
Thank you for your letter – even though it made me hopping mad. I’m sorry to hear how unkind one of the boys has been, and can’t help but be pleased about how thoroughly your friend taught him a lesson, even though it was a tough one. Martin sounds quite a character – I think I’m glad you’ve got him looking out for you.
You were quite right not to tell your mother. And I’m happy to be the one you turn to when things aren’t so good. We all know that after your dear father died, your mother needed you all to herself for a while. We understand, but we’ve missed you. We might pop up to Cambridge for evensong every now and then, though I’m not sure how your mum would feel about that.
Anyway, I’ve been racking my brains for a way to make you feel better. I decided to hunt down something of your father’s – a good thing about still living in the house we grew up in! I found the shrivelled old conker he beat mine with in 1933 but it doesn’t look very impressive nowadays. You came dangerously close to getting a cracked old soap on a rope he once gave me for Christmas. Then I remembered you saying that apart from clothes, a blanket was about the only possession you were allowed. Bingo! Your father’s old blanket was ready and waiting in the bottom of the ottoman in his old bedroom. It’s stood the test of time better than the conker and soap, that’s for sure.
Think of the blanket as a big hug from your dear dad （and me） whenever you need it.
Your loving Uncle Robert
PS Howard says hello in his best Donald Duck voice.
PPS Nice touch to put your tuck rations under Charles’s pillow for the last two weeks, though I’m not sure he deserves it and I think you should enjoy them yourself from now on.
On the Monday morning of William’s fourth week, he is walking through the playing fields which are shiny and soggy from a night’s clattering rain. Apart from singing, this walk with Martin is William’s favourite thing. He still can’t quite believe how large and soft and friendly Martin is, and when they’re walking along side by side, it seems there is nothing to worry about. It astonishes him that Charles doesn’t seem to bear Martin any grudge, and, as predicted, he and the other probationers leave him alone.
His father’s grey and green blanket, with its fiery red stitching and inky camphor smell, has been a comfort over the last three weeks. The routine is starting to feel, not quite familiar, but not quite so foreign either. Up at six. Dips. Instrument practice （piano for him, clarinet for Martin）。 Breakfast: egg and tomatoes on Monday, porridge on Tuesday, egg and beans on Wednesday, tomatoes on toast on Thursday, kippers on Friday, variable at weekends. Choir practice. Lessons. Lunch. Lessons. Early tea to keep the choristers going until after evensong. Prep. Supper.