‘I was a Prog

‘I was a Prog,’ Wilson said.
‘Oh well,’ Harris admitted in a tone of disappointment, ‘there were some good chaps among the Progs.’ He laid the photograph flat down again as though it were something that hadn’t quite come off. ‘I was thinking we might have an old Downhamian dinner.’
‘Whatever for?’ Wilson asked. ‘There are only two of us.’
‘We could invite a guest each.’
‘I don’t see the point.’
Harris said bitterly, ‘Well, you are the real Downhamian, not me. I never joined the association. You get the magazine. I thought perhaps you had an interest in the place.’
‘My father made me a life member and he always forwards the bloody paper,’ Wilson said abruptly.
‘It was lying beside your bed. I thought you’d been reading it.’
‘I may have glanced at it’
‘There was a bit about me in it. They wanted my address.’
‘Oh, but you know why that is?’ Wilson said. ‘They are sending out appeals to any old Downhamian they can rake up. The panelling in the Founders’ Hall is in need of repair. I’d keep your address quiet if I were you.’ He was one of those, it seemed to Harris, who always knew what was on, who gave advance information on extra halves, who knew why old So-and-So had not turned up to school, and what the row brewing at the Head’s special meeting was about. A few weeks ago he had been a new boy whom Harris had been delighted to befriend, to show around. He remembered the evening when Wilson would have put on evening dress for a Syrian’s dinner-party if he hadn’t been warned. But Harris from his first year at school had been fated to see how quickly new boys grew up: one term he was their kindly mentor - the next he was discarded. He could never progress as quickly as the newest unlicked boy. He remembered how even in the cockroach game - that he had invented - his rules had been challenged on the first evening. He said sadly, ‘I expect you are right. Perhaps I won’t send a letter after all.’ He added humbly, ‘I took the bed on this side, but I don’t mind a bit which I have...’
‘Oh, that’s all right,’ Wilson said.
‘I’ve only engaged one steward. I thought we could save a bit by sharing.’
‘The less boys we have knocking about here the better,’ Wilson said.
That night was the first night of their new comradeship. They sat reading on their twin Government chairs behind the black-out curtains. On the table was a bottle of whisky for Wilson and a bottle of barley-water flavoured with lime for Harris. A sense of extraordinary peace came to Harris while the rain tingled steadily on the roof and Wilson read a Wallace. Occasionally a few drunks from the R.A.F. mess passed by, shouting or revving their cars, but this only enhanced the sense of peace inside the hut. Sometimes his eyes strayed to the walls seeking a cockroach, but you couldn’t have everything.
‘Have you got The Downhamian handy, old man? I wouldn’t mind another glance at it. This book’s so dull.’
‘There’s a new one unopened on the dressing-table.’
‘You don’t mind my opening it?’