‘If your dad was still alive,’ Martin asks, ‘would Robert and Howard come to hear you?’
‘It depends who won the argument. Mum would have wanted Robert to come on his own and Dad would have said that wasn’t fair.’
‘Are you going to tell her you want them both to come?’ Martin leans into the classroom door.
‘Yes, in my next letter.’ William pulls at his tie as he and Martin enter. He’s much too hot and he has the feeling there’s something about to explode in his head.
‘She’s just trying to protect you,’ Martin says as they walk to the two empty desks at the back.
William finds the statement so odd and bewildering, he doesn’t reply.
The dry dollop of mashed potato thuds onto his plate. Usually he’s ravenous by morning break, let alone lunchtime, but he doesn’t feel hungry today.
‘Thank you.’ William smiles at Cook, whose eyes soften when she sees him. He doesn’t slip in early any more in the mornings like he did in his first year to watch her make breakfast, her corseted torso bumping occasionally against his, but he always makes sure to be friendly.
‘William, want to join me?’ Nigel Wynne, a slender, graceful boy, is head chorister now. ‘Where’s Martin?’ Nigel looks round the dining hall.
‘Head’s office.’
‘What for this time?’
‘Back-chatting.’
Nigel smiles. ‘Do tell.’
‘He was messing around in history this morning. Hawthorn told him playing the clown isn’t funny. Martin said, “With respect, it is funny, sir, that’s the point of clowns.”’
Since William let the others take the blame for the letters he wrote last year, he has refused to take part in any of Martin’s shenanigans; stealing sunglasses in Woolworths, smuggling a college duck into Matron’s bedroom, or dropping a bottle of cochineal into the porridge. Martin always seems to find someone else to get into trouble with and never puts William under any pressure. William’s aware of an understanding amongst the boarders, that he is somehow under Martin’s protection. The stories of the wee-soaked pyjamas and the forged letters are part of school folklore. William sometimes feels a bit cut off from the other boys because of it, as if he can never quite get on with anyone else on his own terms. He is grateful for Nigel inviting him to sit with him.
‘Well, if he gets a whack, we’ll all be treated to a close-up of his bruised backside tonight.’ Nigel laughs.
‘And every night this week, to watch it change colour.’
‘Sometimes I think he likes it.’ Nigel’s smile drops to a frown. ‘Are you OK? You look a bit odd.’
‘I think I’ve got a temperature,’ William says, touching his damp forehead.
‘You can’t be ill,’ Nigel says, ‘not until after Ash Wednesday.’
In the song room the following day, William takes off his gown, which is now above his ankles and has long stopped whispering over the ground, soaking up mud and puddle water. He’s glad to sit down after the walk from school and hasn’t even got the energy to laugh at Martin’s impression of the organ scholar’s squint. He wishes he had a bit more oomph. When Phillip arrives and asks them to warm up with some scales, William takes a breath and a loud volley of coughs bursts from his mouth.
For two days he fights it, won’t admit he’s ill, can’t bear the thought that he might not be able to sing the ‘Miserere’， but then Phillip sends him to Matron halfway through practice and he almost passes out on the way.
? ? ?
It’s flu. Full-blown, vicious, drawn-out flu. William is in sickbay for ten days. The fever, the aching arms and legs, and the raw red of his blocked nose mean he doesn’t think of much at all to begin with. He feels hard, dried up inside and most of all, angry. Ash Wednesday comes and goes. Matron tells him that Nigel took the solo as she bustles around his bed, filling his glass with lemon barley water, replacing his bundled handkerchiefs with two ironed ones on his bedside table. William stares at the ceiling and pinches his left thigh between two fingernails until it hurts more than thinking about Nigel singing his solo. He continues to do that for the rest of the day and by evening has to switch to his right leg.
After a few days, Martin is allowed to visit him for fifteen minutes in the afternoon. The sickbay is south-facing and filled with intense spring sunshine. William’s head throbs and his limbs still feel filled with concrete.
‘Bad luck, but it’ll be yours next year,’ says Martin, landing heavily on the end of William’s bed.