Lessons are hard. The other boys seem to have a bottomless pit of knowledge, general and specific, that he simply doesn’t. But he knows that a chorister is expected to excel at everything, so he always tries.
During choir practice, William is alert and alive. The younger probationers yawn, lean heavily on their elbows, sometimes struggle to know what page they’re on, come in a little early or late, or fail to listen and don’t blend their voices as Phillip asks. He wishes he didn’t have to stand with them, but as soon as the piano plays, and Phillip’s graceful hand invites him to sing, everything but his breath, his voice and the music, is forgotten.
‘Blimey, I don’t feel so good,’ Martin says now, as a thrush flies low across their path. He skims his plump belly with both hands but still manages a smile as he looks at William.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Just don’t feel right.’
Abruptly, Martin pitches forward and is sick on the path. The boys behind make sounds of disgust and skitter away from the steaming puddle, pinching their noses. Martin is bent over, hands on his knees, breathing hard.
‘Are you all right?’ William says.
‘Not finished!’ he garbles, and belches up more onto the grass.
The rest of the boys, to William’s dismay, have all walked on, and it is only then that he realises his hand is softly patting Martin’s back.
‘Is that it, do you think?’ William puts his hand into his pocket.
Martin straightens and takes a deep breath before puffing out loudly. ‘Think so.’ He strides off. ‘Come on, we’ll be late.’
‘Shouldn’t you go back?’ William runs to catch up, feeling a bit sick himself now and relieved at the cool breeze.
‘I’m fine. Better out than in!’ Martin says, cheerful again and on his way.
As usual, William sits alongside Charles, Edward and Anthony. Occasionally there is a waft of sick, and he suspects it’s his shoes.
‘Right, boys,’ the choirmaster says, ‘we’re starting with the Stanford in G from the top. Mussey, you’ll be taking the solo.’
There’s a sudden movement on the front row and Martin runs with his hand over his mouth out of the song room. They all stand listening to the deep heave and the slap of liquid on the flagstones.
‘Oh dear!’ Phillip says quietly, looking over his glasses at the empty doorway. He turns to Ian Mills, number two chorister.
‘Take him back to the house, Mills, but go via the Porters’ Lodge, tell them there’s some clearing up to do, would you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ says Mills, running light-footed out of the door.
‘Right,’ says Phillip, glancing up from his papers, ‘we need a soloist.’
He looks straight at William and it feels as if somewhere deep inside has been pierced by a needle. Their choirmaster will often look over their heads as he talks to them, but William discovers that when he does choose to meet your gaze, it is very direct. He wills himself not to look away.
‘Right then, Lavery.’ He says it so casually and softly, William wonders if it was his name he heard after all. ‘Let’s hear what you’ve got, shall we?’
Charles, to his right, lets out a little gasp and spins round to look at the others. William suspects this won’t help with his popularity, but when he is beckoned to the front row, and he goes to stand with the choristers, all he feels is a rock-steady readiness.
Simon Porter, head chorister, points at the music to show him where he should be, but William knows, and anyway, it’s a piece his mother has been playing to him his whole life. There is a tricky bit, but its shape and pattern are set deep in his bones. It’s what he sang for his sight test at his voice trial and he suspects Phillip remembers this.
‘Ready, Lavery?’ He glances at William. ‘From bar fourteen, everyone.’
Porter points again to the music and William smiles at him briefly. The piano starts. His cheeks burn and buzz. Six bars to go. The swell of the boys’ voices lifts and lightens him; it is as if their sound glides between the soles of his shoes and the flagstones, raising him an inch from the ground.
Three bars. Lungs emptying and filling, eyes fixed on Phillip. One bar. A quick glance at the music then back to his choirmaster, who nods, as William catches the breath he needs.
Phillip’s mouth turns up slightly and his head dips to the right as William sings his first solo, confident and clear, with a solid thump of joy in his heart.
The organist lifts his hand from the key. Silence. Porter clears his throat. William glances round. Every face is turned to him. He looks down and then quickly back at Phillip.
‘Nice work, Lavery,’ he says, already leafing through his music for the next piece, ‘nice work. That’ll do for tonight. Porter? Make sure he’s gowned up properly.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Porter tidies his music.
? ? ?
The oily liquid dotted with blobs of vegetable doesn’t deserve to be called soup, but William is so hungry he knows he will eat every drop. He heads for Martin who, after a day in sickbay, is now sitting in the corner of the dining room.
‘Hello.’ William puts his bowl down next to Martin and climbs over the bench seat from behind. ‘Are you better?’
‘Think so,’ Martin says, glancing up and swallowing. ‘Matron says I should wait till morning to eat, but stuff that. I haven’t eaten since breakfast! We’ll see what happens after this.’
‘Fingers crossed.’
‘So’ – Martin wipes his finger round the bowl, all his bread gone – ‘anything to tell me?’
William feels his cheeks flame. He concentrates on the greenish lump of something on his spoon. ‘I’m glad you’re feeling better.’
‘Are you?’ Martin’s skin is even paler than usual; his freckles are livid, scampering over his nose. His spoon hovers above his empty bowl.
Something stirs in William, a resolve. If he can’t do this without cringing and apologising, his time here will be ruined.
‘I am pleased you’re feeling better, but I’m pleased I got to sing a solo too and that Phillip liked it. I’d be crackers if I wasn’t, wouldn’t I?’