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was enough to make him push on.
    Following a tiny lane and the familiar railway cutting, Peter reached the bank overlooking the playing fields just as the bells signaled midnight. He felt no less nervous than when he had come to peep at the girls from the woods, with every night-time sound magnified and invested with unseen fears, emotions that grew sharper as he stepped out onto the moonlit playing fields. For all his cultivated rationality, his imagination peopled the shadows with huge, vindictive nuns determined to protect their precious charges, and worse, especially where the chapel pushed out to one side and the pale light showed the angular shapes of gravestones.
    The buildings were dark but for a few pallid rectangles, most on the upper floors, which suggested the possibility of catching sight of girls in a state of undress, a thought that gave him fresh courage. There was an athletic pavilion nearby, a low wooden building with its back to the woods, allowing him to keep in shelter for a little longer. As he reached it, he reflected that it would be the perfect place to stage his group spanking, perhaps on a quiet evening when anybody coming across the playing fields would be seen in plenty of time to allow him and his friends to melt unseen into the woods. The back door had even been left open and he peered briefly inside, drawing in the scent of wood polish and girlish exertion, before returning outside to check the voyeuristic possibilities of a line of high, algae encrusted windows at the back. They proved ideal, with the bank allowing him to stand in moderate comfort and look down into the changing area, and he was grinning as he moved on.
    With no choice but to cross the open fields, he ducked low and ran, imagining the angry cry of some prowling nun with every step until he had reached the shelter of the wall. Nothing happened, but the wall rose a good two feet above his head and was as well defended as the one at the front; and the single iron gate which offered access to the convent was chained securely shut. Getting in was clearly going to be difficult and dangerous, finding Tiffany would be harder still. Feeling somewhat foolish, he tried to tell himself that the trip had been worthwhile both as a reconnaissance and an act of defiance, but the figure of his Uncle Charles rose up in his mind once more, chiding him for his cowardice and telling him to think out his strategy.
    High above him the upper part of the convent was a muddle of roofs, gables and leaded flats. He knew that Tiffany’s window looked out over the playing fields from the top floor. He could count eight that might be the one, all dark, two rows of three and a pair, but if she had three neighbors it surely had to be one of the pair. To think of her beyond the window gave him fresh determination. Looking around, there seemed to be two possible ways in. The graveyard wall was low and looked easy to climb. But, while the chapel beyond was sure to have several doors, they seemed likely to be locked. In the opposite direction a long, low building thrust out from the wall—clearly an addition after the convent had first been built. If he could get onto the roof it might be possible to cross the main wall, but a row of windows showed pale with light. He moved closer, keeping to the shadow of the high wall, slow, and slower still as he caught a strange, irregular thumping, then a voice, soft and feminine, singing a psalm. Curiosity overcame his caution and as he reached the first of the windows he peered within.
    The building was a laundry, with a double row of tubs and various other more mysterious machines. A nun was working at the tubs, her back turned to Peter as she used a baton of bleached wood to push clothes down into the water. But it wasn’t what she was doing that made his eyes grow round and his mouth drop open. She had taken off her habit and wimple, presumably to add them to the wash, leaving her in nothing but her