Holland bowed his head.
“Mm-mm. I’ve seen mine,” he said in a low voice. “The blonde in front.” He gave a whimper of suppressed desire. Some boys looked round and smiled, complicity springing up instantly, like recognition.
“Right, everybody,” Prothero shouted, banging out a chord on the piano. “Page twenty-three, please.”
“And I’m never ever sick at sea,” Prothero sang.
“What, never?” boomed the chorus of sailors.
“No, never,” replied Prothero.
“What, never?” the chorus sceptically inquired again.
“Hardly ever,” Prothero admitted.
“He’s hardly ever sick at sea.…”
“Fine,” Prothero called. “Good. That’ll do for today. Thank you, ladies. Your bus should be outside. Scores on the end of the piano as you go out, please.”
The bus was late and the girls had to wait for five minutes outside the chapel. Niles took his time finding his coat in the vestibule and when he went outside, Holland and Panton were already talking to four girls. “Niles, Niles,” they shouted as he emerged into the watery sunlight of a February afternoon. “Over here.” He walked over, the blood pounding in his ears like surf. Holland stood behind a slim blond girl with moles on her face, Panton by a cheery-looking redhead. Niles approached. One of the two remaining girls was the tall, sharp-faced one he’d seen earlier. The other was small, with wispy fair hair and spectacles.
“This is Quentin,” Holland said. “Hero of the rugby field, captain of the squash team. Master flogger extraordinaire.”
“Shut up!” Niles exclaimed, appalled at this slander. “You bastard.”
“What’s a flogger?” Holland’s girl asked. Panton was doubled up with mirth. The tall girl looked on expressionlessly.
“Never mind,” Holland said. “Sorry, Quent. Little joke. Now, this is Joyce.” He indicated Panton’s girl. “This is Helen”—pointing to his own. “And”—he looked at the tall girl—“Alison? Yes, Alison. And, um …”
“Frances,” said the small girl.
Niles had moved round to stand beside Alison. Frances was clearly on her own. She stood undecidedly for a moment before wandering off without a further word.
Holland and Panton had instinctively sensed out the kind of girl they were after. Innuendoes were already being exchanged with a wanton suggestiveness. Niles looked at Alison. She was tall. In her high heels slightly taller than he. She appeared older, in her twenties almost, but the severity of her face was partly an illusion caused by her schoolmarmy bun. Her skirt was not as short as Helen’s or Joyce’s; it stopped two inches above her knees. Her legs were long and shapely. On the lapel of her blazer were numerous badges: three Robertson’s gollies, a small Canadian maple leaf, a yellow square, and a blue rectangular one with “monitor” written on it in plain silver letters. She wore a white shirt and a tie with the smallest knot in it Niles had ever seen.
He had to say something. He cleared his throat. “Campaign medals?” he said, pointing to the badges. He realised his finger was two inches from her right breast and he snatched his hand away. He thought she gave the thinnest of smiles in response but he couldn’t be sure.
“Cold, though,” he said, huffing and puffing into his cupped hands.
She rummaged in her blazer pockets. “Cigarette?” she asked, taking out a packet and offering it to him.
Niles was taken aback by this unselfconsciously adult gesture. “Christ, no,” he said hurriedly. “I mean, we’re not allowed.”
But she was already offering them to Joyce and Helen. Alison took out a box of matches and lit the others’ cigarettes. For some reason Niles was impressed by the capable way she did this — she obviously smoked a lot. Meanwhile, Holland and Panton aped nicotine starvation. When Joyce and Helen exhaled they chased the clouds of smoke about, beating it into their gaping mouths with their hands as if it were vital oxygen. The girls laughed delightedly.
“What I’d give for a fag,” said Holland through gritted teeth.
“Oh yeah?” said lissom Helen.
“Now see what you’ve done,” Niles said to Alison with more accusation in his voice than he’d meant.
Alison laughed briefly.
Niles brushed his teeth, alone at the row of basins. He rinsed his mouth out and went to stand in front of the large mirror by the urinals. He looked at his square face. He rubbed his jaw. He’d need to shave tomorrow. He had to shave every two days now. Somebody shouted “virile!” through the washroom door. Niles whirled round but he didn’t see who it was. When he turned back to the mirror his face was red.
He thought about Alison. Everything about her was maddeningly indistinct and ambiguous. All he’d heard her say was “cigarette?” and “bye.” It wasn’t much to build a relationship on. He had an image of the back of her long legs in their tan tights as she’d climbed onto the bus. He wondered what her breasts were like. Her “soft bosoms.”
He sighed and belted his dressing-gown tighter around him. He walked through the quiet, empty house towards his dormitory. A junior came padding down the corridor in pyjamas.
“Where are you going, Payne?” Niles said tiredly.
“For a slash, Niles.”
“Where’s your bloody slippers and dressing-gown then?”
“Oh, Niles,” Payne moaned.
“Get back and bloody put them on.”
“Oh, God, Niles, please. I just want a pee. I’ll only be a second.”
“Go on, you little shit.” Niles raised his hand menacingly. Payne turned and ran back up the corridor.
Niles walked on towards his dormitory. It was a small one, only eight beds. He opened the door quietly. It was well past lights out. The long room was quite dark. He closed the door softly behind him.
“Okay, folks,” came a voice. “Stop flogging. Here’s Niles.”
“Shut up, Fillery,” Niles said. Fillery was fat and wicked. His mother was an actress who lived in Cannes.
“What’s she like then, Niles?” Fillery said.
“Who?”
“Who? The bloody bird of course, that’s who. Pinafore. What’s your one like.”
“Yeah, go on, Niles,” said another voice. “Tell us, what’s she like?”
“Shut up. I’m warning you lot.”
“Come on, Niles,” Fillery said wheedlingly. “I bet she’s all right. I bet you got a good one.”
Niles got into bed. He lay down and put his hands behind his neck. “She’s okay,” he said grudgingly. “I’m not complaining.” There were soft groans of envy at this. “Not bad, I suppose,” he went on. “She’s got nice long legs.”
“What’s her name?”
“Alison.”
“Oh, Alison, Alison.” People tried out the name on their tongues as if it were a foreign word.
“Tits?” Fillery asked.
“You filthy bugger,” Niles said. “Trust bloody Fillery.” But Niles felt the lie rise unprompted in his throat. “They’re nice, if you must know,” he said. “Average size. Sort of pointy, if you know what I mean.” There was a chorus of groans at this, deep and despairing. Someone jiggled furiously up and down on his bed, causing the springs to creak and complain.
“Shut up,” Niles hissed angrily. “That’s your lot. Now get to sleep.”