I liked, too, the
services in the old church on Sunday nights, when the lights were
lowered for the sermon, and I would put my hands over my ears and
hear the voice of the preacher like the drone of a distant bee. After
church the choral society used to practise in the Great Hall, and as
I walked round the school buildings, snatches of their singing would
beat against my face like sudden gusts of wind. When I listened at
the doors of my form-room I heard the boys talking about football
matches, or indulging their tireless passion for unimaginative
personalities; I would stand on the mat outside wondering whether I
would be allowed to read if I went in.
I looked forward to Tuesday night, which was my bath-night,
almost as much as to Sunday. The school sanitary arrangements
were primitive, and all the water had to be fetched in pails,
and I used to like to see the man tipping the hot water into the
bath and flinging his great body back to avoid the steam that
made his grey flannel shirt-sleeves cling to his hairy arms.
Most of the boys added a lot of cold water, but I liked to boil
myself because the subsequent languor was so pleasant. The
matron would bring our own bath towels warm from the fire, and I
would press mine against my face because it smelt of childhood
and of home. I always thought my body looked pretty after a
really hot bath; its rosiness enabled me to forgive myself for
being fat.
One very strong impression was connected with the only master in the
school whom I did not like.
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