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By Root 1234 0

off the wheat-fields through the open windows, and mixed with the smell that he knew was slightly sickening of hot plastic and motor oil. In the noisy bluster of air perhaps they didn’t need to say very much; he explained about the imminent Open Day, the cricket match and the new Museum, but without feeling Paul took it in; and then: “Well, here we are”—the line of woods was approaching, and he hoped Paul saw, far back from the main road, the flèche on the chapel sticking up among the trees. Here was the lodge-house, a diminutive foretaste of the mansion itself, a cluster of red gables, with a corner turret and a spirelet of its own. The huge wrought-iron gates stood perpetually open. And what Peter always thought a lovely thing happened. As he slowed and changed down and turned off into the chestnut-shadowed drive they seemed to slip the noose of the world, they entered a peculiar secret—in the rear-view mirror, quickly dwindling, the cars and lorries still rushed past the gateway; in a moment they could no longer be heard. There was a magical mood, made out of privilege and play-acting, laid over some truer childhood memory, the involuntary dread of returning to school—Peter tested and even heightened his own feelings by peeping for them in the face of this new friend he barely knew, and yet suspected he knew better than anyone had before. On their right, through the wide strip of woodland, the playing-fields could be glimpsed, the thatched black shed of the cricket pavilion. “These woods are out of bounds, by the way,” he said. “If you spot a boy in there you can give him the hairbrush.”

“The hairbrush …”

“On the BTM.”

“Oh,” said Paul after a moment. “Oh, I see. Well, let’s have a look for one later,” and blushed again at the surprise of what he’d said. Peter laughed and glanced at him, and thought he had never met a grown man so easily and transparently embarrassed by anything remotely risqué. He was a hot little bundle of repressed emotions and ideas—perhaps this was what made the thought of sex with him (which he planned to have in the next hour or two) almost experimentally exciting. Though what colour he would turn then … “Now, here we are.” There had been some talk about Corley at Corinna’s party, but Peter hadn’t told him what to expect. He slowed again at the second set of gate-piers, and there suddenly it was. “Voilà!”

Some form of stifling good manners, or perhaps mere self-absorption, seemed to keep Paul from seeing the house at all. Peter let his own smile fade as they trundled across the gravel sweep and came to a halt outside the Fourth Form windows, the sashes up and down to let in air, and the curious heads of boys doing prep turning to look out. The indescribable atmosphere of school routine and all the furtive energies beneath it seemed to hang in the air, in the jar and scrape of a chair on the floor, the inaudible question, the raised voice telling them all to get on with their work.

In the front hall Peter said quietly, “I’m sure you’re dying for a drink.” In his room he had plenty of gin and an unopened bottle of Noilly Prat.

“Oh … thank you,” said Paul, but wandered off round the hall table to gaze with unexpected interest at the Honours Boards. On the two black panels scholarships and exhibitions to obscure public schools were recorded in gold capitals. There were annoying variations in the size and angle of the lettering.

“You notice D. L. Kitson?”

“Oh, yes …?”

“Donald Kitson … No? Anyway, he’s an actor. The school’s main claim to fame.” There were squeaky footsteps behind them, on the polished oak of the stairs, the Headmaster’s crepe soles. He came towards them with his usual air of having leapt to a conclusion—this time, perhaps, a favourable one.

“Ah, Peter, good. Praising our famous men.” He must have seen the car return, the stranger come in.

“Headmaster, this is my friend Paul Bryant—Paul …”—and he rather mumbled the HM’s name, as if it were either confidential or unnecessary. He had the keenest sense yet of breaking the rules.

“Well, welcome to Corley Court,” said the Headmaster,