‘Not for me, thank you, Matron. It’s too cold.’
The boy on his left sniggers, then stifles it. Matron’s face is surprised into a moment of softness before she grabs him, her thumb easily meeting her fingers round his upper arm, and pulls him next to her.
‘I’m afraid his Lordship doesn’t get to choose.’
He hears another laugh from the boy on his left. Then his head is pushed down and a cascade of cold water shoots up his nose, into his eyes, through his ears, and its icy fingers curl around his tummy. The pale lino glitters with water. His gasp is loud and high.
He straightens up, water blurring his vision, and hurries away. He buries his face in a towel for a few seconds before wiping himself down.
? ? ?
‘If you’re on the way to a whacking, nick a handkerchief from here.’ Dressed now, they leave the dorm to go for breakfast, and an invigorated Martin points towards a huge cupboard on the landing. ‘Mr Atkinson can tell if you’ve got a towel stuffed down your trousers, but handkerchiefs slide nicely into your underpants.’
‘A whacking?’ William has only met the headmaster twice, but he hadn’t seemed at all violent. ‘What do you get that for?’ His body is still smarting from the cold water.
‘Last one was for bed hopping.’
‘What’s that?’ William’s feet patter lightly down the staircase behind the rhythmic pound of Martin’s two-steps-at-a-time leaps.
‘Two minutes before Matron’s due to check lights are out, you jump from bed to bed till you’re back at your own.’
They are overtaking Charles and the other probationers in the corridor. William concentrates on Martin as they slip into the dining hall ahead of them.
‘How many beds?’
‘Ten.’
‘Crikey.’
‘And you do it naked.’
‘Pardon?’
‘You do the bed hop naked.’
William has never seen a naked body apart from his own and can’t quite believe that anyone would do such a thing.
‘I got more whacks than anyone last year.’ Martin leads the way to a serving hatch. A wide woman with a blue apron taut across her massive bosom is lifting a ladle from a tin pot and dropping porridge into green bowls. Martin takes one without speaking to her. ‘If I didn’t sing well I’d be out on my ear.’
A milky smell stirs a trace of hunger William didn’t know he had as he waits for the woman to ladle a lumpy grey spoonful into his bowl. She glances briefly at him. The edge of the ladle clips the bowl and a spot of porridge lands on the counter.
‘Thank you very much,’ he says.
She says nothing, but nods her head at him and a coil of dark hair bobs up and down.
William follows Martin to an empty table where he screeches a chair back on the parquet floor. There’s an energy to Martin’s speech and movement that lifts William’s spirit and makes him feel braver. Since his father died two years ago, William has had to tighten up his insides and work hard to cheer his mother up. She does seem to wake up lighter again, and be playful like she used to be, but he feels a relief as Martin’s carefree manner slides comfortably over his shoulders.
‘Not for me, thank you, Matron,’ Martin says, in what William supposes is meant to be a Midlands accent. But the brief weight of Martin’s hand on his shoulder, soft and heavy, stops his feelings from being hurt.
‘My mum calls me his Lordship’ – William swirls his spoon through his gloopy breakfast that smells of salt – ‘but it sounds different when she says it.’
Martin’s laugh is a gurgle deep in his chest. ‘Lavery, you’re a gem.’
As William takes in the dining hall, its scrubbed, woody smell, high windows and plain tables, he is relieved that it seems all he needs to do to be liked by Martin is to be himself.
14
When the boys gather in the vestibule after breakfast, bending double to put on outdoor shoes, William is excited for the first time since he arrived, busy putting his shoes on, bracing himself against the knocks and nudges of everyone doing the same. He’s not great at tying his laces, so he’s had to concentrate hard. It’s only when he straightens up that he notices boys putting on black gowns and funny square hats. He doesn’t have either of those. He and the unfriendly seven-year-olds, Charles, Edward and Anthony, stand in their blazers and feel the difference.
It was six months ago, in March, that William came here for his voice trial. Since then, he’s kept half an eye on the life he was living, but most of his time was spent imagining the future. He imagined entering the vast chapel, stepping across the glimmering black and white tiles that blinked when the light hit them. He imagined the bright beauty of the windows, like coloured diamonds turning ordinary light into something so amazing it almost hurt to look at it. He imagined gazing up at the friendly-looking saints with their arms out as if in welcome. He imagined being dressed in white and purple robes, breathing in to fill his chest with air. He imagined opening his mouth wide for the escape of his voice. He imagined how it would feel like flying.
What he stolidly ignored was the fact that he’d start his time here as a probationer, not a chorister. He won’t have the full uniform and he won’t be able to sing at evensong, so there’ll be no chance of a solo. He isn’t sure how long this in-between time will last. At his voice trial, Phillip, the choirmaster, was fuzzy about it.
‘The probationary period is usually about a year,’ he said, running through details of chorister life, ‘but as you’re considerably older … well, we’ll see.’
‘Walk with me, William,’ says Martin now, cheerful and hearty as the line of boys starts to take shape.
Once they have passed through the gate into the college playing fields, Martin’s hand darts out.
‘See that hole in the cricket pavilion window? I took it out last term with a cricket ball and no one’s fixed it yet. I got whacked for that.’