Free Noisy at the Wrong Times by Michael Volpe Page A

exciting anticipation of this regime. If I had my way now, all schools would insist that their pupils wore the most exquisite morning suits with brutally strict rules about how to wear them. Today I understand the value of such protocols, like those at Eton, for example. It is not about conformity, this insistence on ultraformality, it is quite the opposite and encourages the boy to feel proud and to walk tall. Behind the outward appearance of ‘uniformity’ is the facility for each boy to believe fully in his value within the ranks of his contemporaries. From the point of view of social value and boundaries, a boy’s appearance ishugely significant. I think of it as looking after the pennies and the pounds looking after themselves; if the first thing a young man has to concern himself with in the morning is how well his shirt is ironed and his tie formed, his energy for less desirable behaviour might be curbed or diverted. Woolverstone was in no way like Eton from the sartorial point of view, but I wish it had been. In fact, I would probably have babies in nurseries wearing firmly starched nappies. Back at Waterloo on my first day, I think I was at least unconsciously aware of the point.
    Anyway, a trunk full of this clothing, shoes and other accoutrements had been sent ahead by road freight, but we still had to struggle with suitcases through the concourse and out onto a small road that ran along the perimeter of the station. All about us was a growing number of Woolverstone boys in the same uniform. I could make out the first formers, who were small, pale and terrified. Some were small, black and terrified but there was no mistaking the fear in their eyes as other groups of older boys gathered together, smoked and made fun of each other. Serge was now in the third form and had done this many times, so as we reached the coaches, he began to greet friends, and it became clear he was at least popular in his year, but he was now less my brother and more someone who had been tasked to keep an eye on me, like a chaperone. He had a coterie of friends to whom he could clearly better relate, their shared experience being as obvious as was the lack of it with us new kids. For the first time, I came to realise the distinct worlds he inhabited – home and school. Knowing some of the people for whom he was now so keen to desert me on the pavement was strangely comforting, and I was able to work out for myself that it was only the unfamiliarity of others that was daunting; even Serge’s friends would have seemed threatening had I never met them before. I also noticedthat some of the kids spoke well, looked clean, very tidy and had smartly dressed parents. Crucially, they had
two
parents. Later I would discover that these boys were fairly rare and were often Forces children.
    I’d had wealthy friends in London, and some of them had two parents as well, but they weren’t posh. Addison Gardens was peculiarly placed in west London, between Hammersmith, Shepherd’s Bush and the affluent, graceful enclave of Holland Park. Wealthy parents sent their children to Addison because it was a good primary school, and so we all mixed happily together, our respective financial positions being largely irrelevant. My best friend for a while was Manus Egan, who lived in a mansion flat in Holland Park that was so luxurious and of such vast proportion that his mother had to gently coax mine through the front door when she came to collect me after a play date. The white pile carpet in the hallway that brushed your ankles as you walked through it had the same effect on Mum that trying to jump off the top board at Putney baths had on me: she would stand at the threshold of the flat and rock backwards and forwards, always just about to take the leap only to lose her courage at the last second. Eventually she would be encouraged to plunge her feet into the shag pile but she insisted on taking her shoes off first.
    The most amazing thing about the Egan’s