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you immediately. Would you wish me to attend, my lord?’
    ‘Very feudal of you but I think not. You can patch me up me when I return. If ever I do,’ he added gloomily.
    Less than an hour later he arrived at the church in a taxi – having decided not to risk the Lagonda in Hoxton – and was greeted by a wildly enthusiastic Tommie. ‘I knew you would come,’ he said, meaning he had expected him not to. ‘You know most of the others, don’t you?’
    Edward felt better when he had shaken the hands of fellow victims of Tommie’s moral blackmail, some of whom he had not seen since leaving school. Everyone seemed as disinclined for the fray as he was which cheered him. Another taxi drew up and Guy Baron got out. As Edward greeted him, he smelled the liquor on his breath. He seemed very excited. ‘What fun,’ he trilled. ‘It’s so difficult to meet working-class youths in the West End. It’s going to be so delicious to be stamped on by the proletariat!’
    Tommie looked doubtful. ‘You will behave, Guy, won’t you? You’re supposed to be setting an example. Good clean fun and all that.’
    ‘Bugger that!’ Guy giggled.
    They all walked round the corner to the ‘pitch’ which was little more than a piece of wasteland with goal posts at each end, bare of grass in the main but at least, Edward noticed, clear of broken bottles and tin cans.
    ‘Aren’t you playing, Tommie?’ Edward asked, surprised not to see him in his sports gear.
    ‘No, I’m holding myself neutral. It’s better that way.’
    ‘What a sell!’ Edward grumbled. ‘You could have played instead of dragging me out.’
    ‘That doesn’t sound like the Edward Corinth I used to know,’ the vicar said piously. ‘I hope all that good living hasn’t rotted your soul.’
    The two teams shook hands awkwardly and the Hoxtonites took off their cloth caps and rubbed their hands meditatively. The Old Etonians took off
their
caps – mostly gaily striped, recalling schoolboy triumphs – and jogged up and down stretching, with the exception of Guy who, capless, took a long swig from a small silver flask he had in his pocket and then collapsed on the ground. He was helped to his feet by Edward and Tommie who patted him doubtfully and asked if were all right.
    ‘Fit as a fiddle!’ Guy said, tripping over his bootlaces.
    Without further ado the game began. There were a number of spectators – families and friends of the players, Edward supposed. He could not see Verity but he caught sight of Gerda’s red hair and the thought that she was watching made him determined not to shirk. The referee was a thin, unprepossessing, bearded man who, Tommie said, was his curate. Edward took one look at him and decided he would not be able to control the game if it turned rough, as he suspected it might.
    In fact, the first half passed without any major incident and Edward began to relax. His knee was bearing up well and he had even scored a goal. He looked out of the corner of his eye to see if he could spot Verity but there was still no sign of her. He began to think longingly of a bath and a well-earned whisky and soda.
    He could not but notice that the Old Etonians were larger and healthier than their opponents. A poor diet and too much bad beer, combined with having nothing to do all day but wander around the streets, did not make for physical well-being. However, the captain, a man called Hawthorne, was a burly fellow who, Edward felt instinctively, had no particular love for Old Etonians. It was soon apparent that his restraint in the first half was merely a ruse to lull the opposition into a false sense of security. He seemed particularly incensed by Baron and Edward decided there was something about Guy’s manner which could easily infuriate. He was not effete but he was ‘camp’ – a word he had heard his friend Adrian Hassel use. He flirted – that was the only word for it – with Hawthorne in particular, inciting him to retaliate. Guy often had to