‘And just think,’ she says in a whisper, her watery eyes bright, ‘one day I might be coming to hear you sing the “Miserere”.’
The boy he saw over his mother’s shoulder turns away from his parents and is propelled forward by another slap on the back from the father, who looks insanely happy and shouts, ‘Bye, Charles,’ in a plummy voice that William has only ever heard on the radio. Mother and father loosely link hands and walk towards a grey car with a little statue on the bonnet of a woman with wings. A man in a hat sits at the wheel.
‘And you’ll be on the front row,’ he says, making his face happy and strong, ‘and I’ll give you a wink.’
William glances at the boy called Charles heading towards the school – this place that somehow is also going to be their home – and notices the boy’s red lips stretch suddenly across his open mouth.
‘Bye, Mum,’ William whispers, kissing the knuckles on Evelyn’s left hand, feeling the cool of her wedding ring on his lips. ‘I’ll go with him, he’s upset.’
Evelyn holds his chin with one hand, ruffles his hair and turns. William knows she won’t turn back, that she’s crying now too and doesn’t want him to see it. He’s grateful that she managed to keep herself in check. Of the four new choristers – known as probationers – starting this term, William, at ten, will be the oldest. The others will all be seven, the age you’re meant to start at. It would be awful to be the oldest and the cry-baby. His mother knows this. It is both a comfort and a torment, this understanding they have, that skips back and forth between them.
William and his mum only found out how special his voice was last year, when he joined the local church choir. The choirmaster said he’d never heard anything like it and had his mum ever considered applying for a scholarship at one of the university choir schools? So she did, and here he is now, having to walk away from her.
William slips alongside Charles as they enter the wood-panelled vestibule, and does what he thinks everyone does to comfort someone who is upset. He scoops up the boy’s hand. Charles’s distorted face jerks towards him, angry and scared as he wrenches his hand away.
‘Get off!’
A knuckle cracks, but William can’t be sure whose. The boy’s jaw is suddenly made of stone, and he marches off into the hall where men in black gowns stand with clipboards.
William waits at the threshold, hoping Evelyn didn’t see, determined not to look back, until a much bigger boy bumps his shoulder on their way past and he stumbles into the room.
13
The three other probationers, including Charles, are huddled together in the corner this morning when he wakes. A tight knot of exclusion, they glance at him as he gets up from his skinny mattress for the first time. That hand holding was a big mistake.
Last night, curled up in a ball, wondering how he could possibly fall asleep without his mother nearby, William discovered that he could conjure her voice.
My job in life, William, is to love you like no one on earth, and I have to say, I think I’m doing a pretty good job … You’re special, the college choirmaster said so. You’ll be singing solos before you know it.
It was as if he could literally hear her speaking, feel her breath across his face, see the pretty ridges on her white teeth. Now though, watching the three boys leave the dorm together, Evelyn feels so far away, she may as well not exist.
He jumps as a set of soft, large fingers close around his arm. ‘Come on. Let’s get the dips over with, then I’ll take you to breakfast.’
‘Dips?’ says William, letting himself be led into the corridor by a tall, plump boy with short red hair that has a rigorous wiggle running through it. ‘What’s that?’
‘You’ll see,’ says the boy, releasing his grip. ‘You get used to it. You get used to everything eventually.’
‘How long have you been here?’ William runs a couple of steps to catch up.
‘Three years.’ The boy’s face is broad and flat with smudgy freckles and wide front teeth with a gap in between them. ‘I’m Martin Mussey.’ He strides ahead on sturdy legs. ‘I’ve got a good voice, awful attitude. I’ll never be head chorister, but I get plenty of solos.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’ Good manners cost nothing, Evelyn has taught him, but work magic. ‘I’m William Lavery. Thank you for inviting me.’
Martin laughs and stops until William is level with him again. ‘You might not thank me in a minute. But Matron’s not so bad.’
There’s a sharp-as-a-needle smell in the bathroom. Everything is pale blue or white. The bright light makes William squint. Following Martin’s lead, he takes off his pyjama top and drops it on the floor behind him. They stand adjacent to another boy at the bath and another joins them to William’s left. Martin is the only one with any spare flesh on him. He even has boobs.
The woman dressed like a nurse holding a large metal jug must be Matron. The muscles in her arm flex through the saggy flesh as she lifts the pitcher.
‘Down!’
The boy leans over and rests his hands on the floor of the bath. His spine curves into a frill of little bumps. As Matron pours the water over his head and body, he exhales quickly as if he’s been punched. A couple of drops ricochet onto William. He flinches. It’s freezing.
The boy uncurls, scurries to a row of pegs and snatches one of the thin towels. Matron refills the jug from the sink behind her. Martin steps sideways into the vacated space. His belly wobbles slightly as he puts his broad hands flat on the bath and his upside-down face scrunches into a different shape.
‘Shuffle up!’ she snaps at William, once Martin has moved away and started rubbing his body, beaming with relief, or maybe encouragement. But William doesn’t move. He waits for what seems a long time for Matron to look up from the bath. When she finally meets his gaze, William smiles politely and shakes his head.