Silent Noon by Trilby Kent

revealing pointed teeth stained a bright orange.
    Michael Swift had paused nearby to speak to them in a fellow-to-fellow sort of way. There were lines at the corners of his eyes now, drawn by the wind on long runs across the chalk ridge. Just
five years ago, Mollie had mistaken the blue-eyed French master for one of the older boys.
    “Got there in the end.” Her husband, spruce in a summer suit that had perhaps become just a little snug around the middle, appeared at her elbow with the tea and a plate of
meat-paste sandwiches.
    “Is that a new boy?” She settled herself on the blanket. The tea was lukewarm and weak.
    “Ah, yes. Holland. Scholarship chap from London.”
    “I see he’s hit it off with Henry Cray’s old friend.”
    Her husband didn’t reply, focusing instead on blowing imaginary steam from his cup. He had never understood her questions about the boys’ private lives – his term for their
friendships and personal interests – as if they were fully formed human beings worthy of considered discussion. He did not see the point in spending time analysing them as individuals, when
it was the disordered mass that he was tasked with handling in the classroom and the dormitories.
    “I thought I’d do a roast chicken tonight – the girls will like that.”
    “Sounds lovely.”
    Mollie waved a fly away. “Belinda’s been eating like an ox lately. I caught her chewing blotting paper the other day.”
    “Must be another growth spurt.”
    “I think she’s bored.”
    Flood turned to look at his wife. “What on earth has she got to be bored for?”
    “I suspect she misses her friends. There’s not much here for a girl of her age. She doesn’t make any effort to pretend to enjoy coming to the shops with me on the weekend. All
she wants to do is have baths. I caught her running her third of the day last night. And she’s been hideous with Lucia the last few evenings…”
    “That’s perfectly normal.”
    Mollie peered into her teacup. A gnat was floating in what remained of her tea, drifting on the cloudy brown tide as it slapped against the sides.
    “Is he awfully deprived?” she said. To look at him one might have thought they’d lost the war. She ignored her husband’s sideways glance as she tipped the dregs of her
tea onto the grass. “He’s not at all troubled? Coming from London, I mean.”
    “Not that I’ve been told.” The youngest boys in the school tended to be less complicated than the ones old enough to have experienced bewilderment or grief for fathers returned
from abroad or dead in the war. They didn’t feel entitled to the same battle-weary attitude, these lads who had to be evacuated with their mothers, or in some cases hadn’t been
evacuated at all. “You’d have heard about it if there was anything untoward in Belinda’s set.”
    “Would I?” This was not the sort of place where word spread quickly:
loose lips sink ships
was a hard mantra to forget. The masters’ wives were friendly, of course
– they hosted tea parties and knitting circles – but these were cagey affairs dominated by shows of unflagging loyalty to their husbands. Mollie didn’t understand their forced
jolliness or the smiles that said
Aren’t we lucky never to have left school?
– but she tried to emulate their matter-of-fact pride at being too busy with their own families to
bother trying to be substitute mothers for the boys. Mollie had never got along particularly well with the Head’s wife, although she pitied her for being married to a man whose overbearing
solicitude concealed what Mollie considered to be a transparent contempt for women.
    The three boys, meanwhile, were picking their way across the green, scattered with clusters of students enjoying their tea in the sunshine. Mollie noticed the young seraph nudge the new boy in
the ribs, nodding in the direction of Ormer House. Her elder daughter was emerging from the side door: barefoot, in Peter Pan blouse and blue capris.