Theo had just finished another unsatisfactory Thursday phone call with his mother and was making his way from Mr Beckett’s study. He was in a world of his own, struggling with the latest wave of homesickness and desperate for his first exeat, when quite unexpectedly Twitcher grabbed the top of his arm, pulling him back into the room.

His housemaster bent low and spoke directly into his ear. Theo could smell his piquant breath; he tucked in his lips to avoid inhaling it.

‘I have to say, I find it quite troubling that you can never think of anything informative to share with your parents, Montgomery. Listening to your weekly call is painful. Your father was head of house here! He’s a good man, paying a small fortune to turn you into a Vaizey boy, and yet you don’t have the courtesy to let him know how the 1st XV are doing or that the quadrangle race record was broken by Danvers only last week? These things matter, especially to an OVB.’

At the mention of the Old Vaizey Boys, Theo’s insides curdled. His father held regular and horribly loud dinner parties for other members of this esteemed club and the deafening noise of their reunions always floated up the stairs to his room. He had spied on them through the keyhole once. They were all dressed in dinner jackets and bow ties in their old house colours, and they were banging their palms on the white tablecloth and belting out a tuneless song about port and knickers, taking it in turns to swig the dark red wine from a silver cup.

‘But I think that’s the problem in a nutshell.’ His housemaster’s booming voice pulled him back to the present. ‘I don’t think these things matter to you.’

‘I... I...’ Theo’s mouth was having trouble catching up with his brain. This happened sometimes.

‘Tell me...’ Mr Beckett let go of his arm and walked towards the study window, which had an unusually good view along the field and all the way down to the crooked cottage. ‘Why do you hang around with the ground staff?’ His eyelid twitched as he clasped his hands behind his back.

Theo shrugged. ‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘Let me put it another way. What is the nature of your relationship with Porter, the groundsman?’

‘He... He’s my friend. Sir.’

‘Your friend!’ Twitcher guffawed. ‘Good God, man, don’t you have any friends your own age?’

‘No, sir.’ He felt his cheeks colour at the admission.

Mr Beckett stopped dead and turned, an expression of disbelief and disdain on his face. ‘None at all? Not one?’

‘No, sir.’ Theo’s shame wrapped around him like a heavy cloak, dragging him down.

Twitcher took a deep breath and spoke over Theo’s head, as if he were invisible. ‘Do you know what I think when I see a boy who, in a school of over six hundred pupils, in an environment where friendships flourish on and off the sports field, and where connections are made that can last a lifetime, still finds himself on his own?’

‘No, sir.’

‘I think it can’t possibly be the other five hundred and ninety-nine or so who are at fault. The odds are simply too high. I believe there has to be a reason for your isolation, and do you know what that reason is?’ He lowered his eyes to meet Theo’s.

‘No, sir.’

‘Weirdness.’

Mr Beckett was silent for a second, letting the horrible word with all its negative connotations sink in. ‘I’ve seen it before and will no doubt see it again. You have a weirdness about you, Montgomery, and weirdness is something that the other pupils, in fact all humans, fear more than anything. It’s like a disease and, believe me, it’s contagious. That’s why weirdos stick together in toxic little huddles, backs to the wall, eyes wide, waiting to see who might be picked off next.’

Theo wanted badly to cry, but doing so in front of Mr Beckett would be asking for trouble. Twitcher did not like weakness. On or off the field.

‘Do you want some advice?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Despite his housemaster’s hurtful words, Theo looked up with genuine hope, feeling a flash of excitement that there might be a cure for his toxic condition. Because what Theodore Montgomery wanted more than anything in the whole wide world was not to be weird!

He wanted a friend, a proper friend of his own age.

Mr Beckett leant in closer. Theo cocked his head so he could take in every detail of the advice that just might prove invaluable.

‘Stay quiet and stay out of sight. Become invisible. Go to ground and try not to take root.’

*

It was a strange thing, but as Theo turned his face into his pillow that night and waited, he was surprised to find that there were no tears. It was almost as if this wounding was so deep, so visceral, that he was hurt in a place beyond tears.

I’m weird. Weird. The word tumbled around his head until sleep claimed him.

* * *

There was a burble of excitement all through the school: everyone got to go home for three whole days and they weren’t due back at school until Monday. Theo had packed a day ago and now sat by his bed with his tan leather suitcase at his feet and his eyes glued to his watch, waiting for the minute hand to tick again, each cycle taking him closer to the comfort of his father’s car and escape. His leg jumped and his heart raced; the moment could not come soon enough.

And then, like a vision, there she was, standing in the doorway – his mother. Her floral scent permeated the air, red lipstick shone from her pale face and her impossibly long dark eyelashes fluttered upwards. She looked... She looked beautiful. Soft, pretty and familiar in an environment that was none of those things.

‘Theodore!’ She giggled in her high-pitched way, which sounded to him like the tinkle of glass.

At the sight of her, his reserve disappeared and he ran into her, gripping her tightly about her waist, inhaling her smell with his head buried against her chest.

‘Darling! Now that’s quite a welcome. How lovely.’ She patted his head before easing him away by his shoulders, turning the whole embrace into something a little embarrassing. ‘Come on, Daddy’s in the car. We don’t want to keep him waiting, do we?’

Theo lifted his small suitcase off the ground, letting it bang against his skinny leg with every step.

‘If it isn’t Mrs Montgomery!’ Twitcher called from his open study door in a loud, happy voice.

‘Well, hello you!’ she shouted back.

Theo shrank, not sure if his mother or indeed anyone was allowed to talk to his housemaster in such a fashion. Apparently she was forgiven, as Mr Beckett trotted out from behind his desk and held her in a tight hug, smiling in a way Theo hadn’t seen before. He noted with a twinge of envy that their hug lasted at least twice as long as his had.

‘So good to see you!’ Mr Beckett beamed.

‘You too, darling.’ His mother gripped Twitcher’s forearms with her dainty hands and stared into his face.

She called him “darling”! Theo looked over his shoulder with trepidation, checking no other boys were around to witness this. But he was the last to be collected, so he was quite safe.

‘So are we seeing you at Le Mans? Tiffany has had the house redecorated apparently and is very keen for us all to go and admire it. I’ve been assured that the plumbing actually works now!’ His mother spoke with her hand resting on Twitcher’s chest; it was a gesture so intimate, it made Theo’s heart race and his stomach flip. He thought he might be sick.

He wanted to hurl his suitcase to the floor and shout out, ‘He’s mean to me, Mummy! Don’t be happy to see him! He says I’m weird, and I hate it here! I hate it! Please don’t be his friend. Be on my side!’ But of course he didn’t, because he was seven and he had neither the confidence nor the wisdom to know when to shout.

‘Do you remember the great bathroom fiasco?’ his mother continued. ‘Poor Gerry, he’s still mortified, by all accounts. I have this image of him running onto the veranda starkers and with a scalded bottom! I shouldn’t laugh really.’ She hid her mouth with her hand and laughed anyway.

‘God, don’t remind me. I still haven’t recovered from last year!’ Mr Beckett bellowed and the two laughed like old friends.

‘Oh, please don’t be boring, Becks, I’m counting on you. No one, but no one makes a Manhattan like you do.’ His mother dipped her head and spoke with lowered lashes.

‘Stella, you know that where you are concerned, flattery will get you everywhere.’ He winked. The phone rang on his desk. ‘Duty calls,’ he shouted as he made his way back into his study. ‘Love to Perry!’

‘Of course. Come on, Theo.’ She walked ahead and clicked her fingers.

As he skipped to heel, he wondered if once again she might have got him confused with Rollo the terrier.

He waved at his father, who’d parked the shiny dark blue Aston Martin V8 across two parking spots reserved for staff. This was another reason for Theo to feel anxious.

‘Mind the paintwork!’ His father winced as he approached with his suitcase. He sprang from the car, placed his lit cigarette in his mouth, popped the boot and lifted the luggage with such ease that Theo’s arms seemed to weaken in protest.

His father ruffled his hair as Theo climbed into the back seat. He liked the weight of his dad’s palm against his scalp and could feel its heat for a while after. The car smelt of leather, cologne and cigarettes and Theo hoped he wasn’t going to be sick.

‘All set?’ his father asked, looking at him in the rearview mirror. His mother buckled up in the front and twisted the chunky green glass bangle on her wrist.

Theo nodded.

‘God, I bloody love this building!’ His father beeped the horn and whooped as they drove out onto the lane. ‘Spent the best years of my life here, and when I come back, it’s like coming home! I don’t want to wish your life away, Theo old son, but I can’t wait for you to feel like this!’ He beeped the horn again.

His mother turned round and pulled a face at Theo. It made him smile, but it was a fake smile. He knew he was never going to feel anything other than hatred for the whole place.

His mother ran her arm along the back of the leather driver’s seat and toyed with the lick of dark hair that curled at his father’s neck. ‘I saw Becks. He’s moaning about last year’s Le Mans hangover, sounded like he might be wimping out of the trip. Can you believe it?’ she drawled, reaching into her clutch bag for her cigarettes.

‘Tell him to man up! For God’s sake.’

‘I did, more or less. He’s such a darling. He won’t miss it, of course. I think he’s teasing, fishing for compliments.’ She lit her cigarette and in a well-practised motion flipped the gold Zippo lighter. It closed with a loud thunk.

Theo stared out of the window, watching the hedgerows whiz past. He pictured the wrens, blackbirds and dunnocks that would make them their home when the time came and hoped they wouldn’t get their heads stuck in an old crisp packet or a strip of newspaper. He patted his pocket to make sure his trusty pen torch was where he could find it.

As they left Muckleford and continued along twisty Dorset lanes, heading towards London, Theo listened to his parents chatting and laughing and playfully slapping each other’s hands away from the radio dial. He liked being in their company but he wondered if he should cough, remind them that he was there. Just as he was considering this, his mother turned to him.

‘Have you had supper?’

Ignoring the growl of hunger in his gut, he smiled at her, not wanting to be any more trouble than he already was, interrupting their busy lives to travel down to Dorset and bring him home. ‘I’m fine,’ he lied.

‘Thank God for that!’ She giggled, resting her hand on her husband’s thigh. ‘I’m not sure what we have in?’

‘You are a crap wife! The crappest!’ his father yelled in jest.

‘Don’t listen to your father, Theo. I am an exceptional wife! I can’t help it if cooking and food shopping and all that stuff bores me rigid.’ They both laughed. ‘Ooh!’ She raised her index finger to indicate that an idea had occurred. ‘I think I have some cheese in the fridge and a tin of crackers in the larder – that’ll do. We’ll make a meal of it, bottle of plonk, none for you, Theo, but some of Edith’s chutney... We could even eat by candlelight!’ She laughed, turning to him briefly before reaching for another cigarette.

It felt like an age before the car pulled into the gated driveway of their grand red-brick home in Barnes. No longer laughing, the three had travelled for the last hour in silence, his father gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles.

Now his father tutted as he alighted from the car. His face was thunderous, his anger coming off him in waves. ‘Out you jump,’ he instructed, his tone curt and his eyes blazing.

Theo clambered out on wobbly legs. The fresh air was a welcome tonic.

‘I’m very sorry, Daddy.’

‘So you said, and it’s not your fault, but a bit of notice would have been nice and no amount of sorrys is going to get rid of that bloody smell.’

Theo looked at the dark stain on the pale brown leather where his vomit had splashed. ‘Shall I wash it for you?’

‘No!’ his father barked. ‘For God’s sake don’t take a scourer, or detergent or in fact anything to the leather, you’ll only make it worse.’ He ran his hand through his hair.

‘He’s only trying to help!’ his mother called across the wide bonnet.

His father pinched the bridge of his nose and Theo knew he was angry with him. The whole horrible journey home had burst the happy bubble that had filled him up all day. He’d been so excited about coming home, but now he felt nothing but awkward and embarrassed, and rather than enjoying his exeat, he was already dreading the drive back to school, knowing that the combination of cigarette smoke and winding roads might have the exact same effect on the return journey. The only thing he was dreading more than the drive back to school was arriving there.

His mother climbed the steps to the front door and as she put the key in the door he heard Rollo’s bark.

‘There he is! There’s my baby boy!’ she said in a baby voice that sent a tingle of envy through him. ‘Look! It’s your brother! Theo’s home!’ She lifted the lithe Jack Russell and waved a paw in Theo’s direction.

His father jogged up the steps in his brogues, bent forward, kissed Rollo’s nose and muttered something to his mum. The occasional word floated down to Theo and made his tummy hurt. ‘Fucking smell... vomit!... bloody expensive... idiot!... what the fuck is wrong with him?’

Theo went inside and climbed the stairs. Ignoring the stabs of hunger, which seemed almost insignificant now, he sat on the end of his bed. The pale green and pink floral carpet he’d always hated had been vacuumed ahead of his visit, but the place was still thick with dust. The room had been decluttered. Gone was his collection of Matchbox cars, which had once filled an entire bookshelf, and his Rupert the Bear annuals were missing too. There was a new reading lamp, a mahogany sideboard and a flowery chair that he hadn’t seen before. These items had probably been brought up from the basement, where his grandpa’s furniture was stored.

He unbuckled his suitcase and pulled out his pyjamas, red-striped and edged with white piping. They smelt of school and because of that he was loath to put them on. He’d forgotten that his bedroom could be quite noisy with the traffic on the road between their house and the river and the shouts of people returning home from the pub. It would take a bit of getting used to after the quiet of Vaizey College and all that countryside.

He slipped between the cold sheets and laid his head on the flannelette pillowcase. He liked its soft bobbles; they comforted him and reminded him he was home. Curling his feet up under his bottom to try and get warm, he reached into his discarded blazer for his pen torch and, twisting it on, fired shafts of light up towards the ceiling. A thousand million particles of dust danced in the beam; he disturbed them with his fingers before settling into the dip in the mattress where the springs had gone a little slack.

‘What’s that you’ve got?’ his mother asked from the doorway.

‘It’s my pen torch. My friend gave it to me.’

‘Oh, Theo, I’m so pleased you have a friend! Well done you. Is he nice?’

‘Yes,’ he whispered.

‘What’s his name?’

‘I... I don’t know.’

His mother snorted her laughter. ‘You don’t know his name? You are a funny little thing.’

You don’t need to keep saying that to me. I already know!

‘I don’t want to go back to school, Mummy.’ He switched off his torch and toyed with the silky edge of the wool blanket.

‘Yes, you do! It’s a wonderful school, with wonderful opportunities for you.’

He stared at her and for the first time her full smile had the opposite effect to the one intended. Instead of reassuring him that things were okay, he knew that even though she might be listening, she didn’t actually hear him, and that made him feel invisible.

‘I hate it there.’

‘No, you don’t, not really. Everyone feels like that when they first start – ask Daddy or Uncle Maxim. Even Grandpa felt like that in his junior years! And they grew to love it, all of them. They would all say their time at Vaizey was the best time in their whole life and look at some of the amazing things they’ve done. And you are a Vaizey boy – it’s in your blood! Goodness me, you’re even named after Daddy’s house.’

‘I wish I wasn’t named after Daddy’s house. I wish I was called John. And I don’t have any real friends,’ he whispered, carefully placing his torch on the bedside table.

‘Well, making friends takes two, you know! You have to make the effort, put yourself out there a bit, chat!’

‘What should I chat about?’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Theo! You’re being a wee bit silly! You know what to talk about!’ She sounded irritated now. ‘Sport? School subjects? Good God, the weather? Anything!’ She threw her hands in the air before sweeping across the room to his bed and kissing him firmly on the forehead.

He fought the temptation to reach out and pull her to him, clinging on as if his life depended on it. Instinct told him that she might think that was a wee bit silly too.

‘You’re probably just tired. Things will iron out, you’ll see, they always do. Now then, I need to go and let Rollo out for his night-time tinkle. Sleep well, John.’ And with her delicate laugh floating in the air, she closed the door.

Theo did his best over the weekend to keep quiet and stay out of his father’s sight. Every time he thought about being sick in the car, he felt like crying. This was not how he had envisaged his time at home, not at all. His parents had got their weekends in a muddle and had invited the Drewitt-Smiths over to dinner, even though it was his special Saturday night at home. While the adults squawked laughter from the dining room and popped in periodically for bottles of wine from the fridge, he sat in the kitchen with the portable TV for company. He watched Dad’s Army when the picture wasn’t too fuzzy and ate chicken pie with mashed potatoes and green beans while Rollo sat on the seat next to him. Theo petted him and fed him tiny morsels of chicken.

‘You can stay here with me if you promise not to make a noise,’ he whispered. Rollo laid his head on Theo’s leg. ‘Do you ever think about running away, Rollo? I do, but I don’t know where to go. And I don’t like the dark.’

It was as he lay in his bed, wide awake and staring at the ceiling while the adults screamed their laughter below, that a sad realisation came to him. He didn’t want to be anywhere, not at school, not in the back of his father’s car, where cigarette smoke and fast corners had made him sick, not in the cold kitchen with the fuzzy TV, where there was no one to talk to, and certainly not in this bedroom filled with antiques from his grandpa’s house. And that left only one question: if he didn’t feel comfortable anywhere, then where was he supposed to be?

*

Relieved that he’d made it back to school without vomiting, Theo knew he had to be brave. He felt sick at the prospect of not seeing his parents for another six weeks and even sicker at the thought that he’d been looking forward to the exeat for so long and now it was over. In truth, it hadn’t gone as he’d hoped. He tried to quash the ache of disappointment.

As they left, his mother kissed him warmly on the forehead and hugged him too tightly; his father ruffled his hair briefly, before looking at his watch and clapping his hands together.

Theo watched the car drive away, waving until they were completely out of sight, in case they could see through the scratchy hawthorn hedge.

‘Who are you waving at, homo?’

And there they were, the torturous words that marked his return. He’d been praying for a gentle easing back in, but no. Theo whipped round to see Wilson standing with muddied knees in his hockey kit, twirling his stick in the air and catching it with one hand. He felt torn, knowing that to leave the question unanswered might invite further attacks and yet to answer without knowing fully what a homo was would leave him wide open to ridicule.

‘I was waving at my... my parents.’ He cursed the wobble to his bottom lip.

‘My parents! Boohoo! But at least I’ve got old Porter the homo to keep me warm!’ Wilson mimicked Theo’s voice and pretended to cry.

Theo dug deep, ignoring the taunt. Recalling his mother’s advice, he plucked a desperate piece of small-talk from the swirl of nerves in his stomach. ‘I... I quite like hockey!’

‘You quite like hockey? Well you’ll never make a team, because you can’t run with a stick and your hand–eye coordination is shit – you can’t even catch a bloody ball!’ Wilson jeered.

While Theo tried to remember what had come next on his mother’s list of suggestions – was is the weather? – Wilson walked towards him and raised his hockey stick, making as if to strike him at close range. Theo flinched and covered his eyes, awaiting the full force of the blow. His reaction sent Wilson into fits of laughter.

‘You, boy!’ The bellowed words echoed off the old walls.

Theo looked up to see Mr Porter pushing a wheelbarrow full of compost along the path.

‘You! Mr Wilson!’ Mr Porter barked, his finger extended in Wilson’s direction.

Theo’s blood ran cold as Wilson slowly turned on his heel and walked back to where Mr Porter stood in his plaid shirt and corduroy trousers held up by leather braces. His sleeves were rolled above the elbow, revealing his brawny arms.

‘Did I see you with a hockey stick in this area? Because that’s against the rules. It should have been put away at the end of the session and I would hate to have to recommend you for a detention.’

‘Then don’t,’ suggested Wilson calmly.

Theo didn’t recognise the voice Mr Porter used. If his usual voice was like warm, soft toffee, this one was like cold, sharp glass.

‘Here’s the thing, Mr Wilson. You need to be very careful that you respect everyone in your path, as you never know where they’ll pop up again. And, trust me, the path we walk is long and winding.’

Wilson smirked. ‘Got it – long and winding.’ He nodded and turned back to walk across the quad.

‘Did he hurt you?’

Theo shook his head.

‘Did you have a good exeat?’

Theo shook his head again.

‘Want a cup of cocoa?’

This time he nodded and fell in step beside Mr Porter.

Mr Porter heated some milk in the green enamel kettle that sat on the stove top and with mugs of hot cocoa in their hands they sat side by side on the bench, looking out over the cottage garden and the field beyond. Their breath sent plumes of vapour up into the air. Mr Porter liked to be outside in all weathers, as if he was most at home there, surrounded by nature.

‘What’s a homo? I think I know, but I’m not sure,’ Theo asked as he sipped the warm froth from his drink.

Mr Porter placed his mug on the table and twisted a little so he could look Theo in the eye. ‘It’s a horrible word, and like all horrible words, if used enough it will make the person who says it ugly on the outside as well as on the inside.’

Theo nodded.

‘What do you think it is?’ Mr Porter eventually asked.

Theo looked up at him, kicking his legs back and forth. ‘Um, I think it’s a boy who loves other boys.’ He scratched his nose.

‘Yep, that’ll do. And if a boy loves another boy, that’s just fine.’

‘They call you “homo”.’ This Theo offered in the spirit of their pact that they would never lie to each.

‘I know.’ Mr Porter picked up his cocoa and slurped it.

‘Are you a homo?’

‘No, I am not and if I were, as I said already, that would be absolutely fine. Let that be the last time you use that word.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Theo looked into his mug.

‘It’s okay, you weren’t to know, but now you do, do not say it again.’ This was said in the voice that was more sharp glass than soft toffee.

‘I won’t.’

There was a moment of quiet. Then Mr Porter said, ‘I love girls, if you must know. Well, one girl, to be exact.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Her name was Mrs Porter, or Merry to me, and she was merry and beautiful.’ Mr Porter twisted the worn gold band on his finger.

‘Did she die?’

Mr Porter coughed, nodded and pulled his white handkerchief from his top pocket. He blew his nose and dabbed at his eyes. ‘Something in that compost must have got to me.’

And there it was again, the quiet.

‘I told my mother about you and she asked me what your name was and I didn’t know. Apart from Mr Porter, I mean.’

‘My name is Cyrus.’

‘Cyrus,’ Theo repeated, trying it out. ‘Doesn’t it make you angry when they call you a name like the one I’m not allowed to say any more?’

‘No, it doesn’t.’ Mr Porter rubbed at his stubbly chin.

‘Why not? It makes me angry when they call me names.’

‘It doesn’t make me angry. It makes me sad. Because, like you, they’re only children and they do that because they’re afraid and I don’t like the idea of anyone being afraid. In fact I fought a war so that no one would be afraid.’

Theo pictured his pen torch. ‘What are they afraid of?’

‘Who knows, Mr Montgomery? Not being heard, having their own secrets discovered... But it’s best to learn to rise above the things they say and the things they do, otherwise a man can spend his whole life fighting, and I reckon we’ve all had enough of fighting.’

Theo nodded to show that he understood, even if he didn’t.

‘Having said that, are you familiar with Gandhi? He was a fine man and he said something similar to this: “Where there is only a choice between cowardice and violence, I would advise violence.”’

Theo shook his head. ‘No, I haven’t heard of him.’

Mr Porter took a deep breath. ‘Well, I’m beginning to think it might be time you did.’

‘Why did Mrs Porter die?’

‘Oh, now there’s a question I ask myself every hour of every day.’

Theo and Mr Porter stared ahead and sipped their cocoa. That wasn’t even close to a satisfactory answer, but Theo could tell by the set of his friend’s face, and the silence, that it was the only one he was going to get.