‘As you see, it’s called “Myfanwy”,’ Phillip says, ‘composed by Joseph Parry, first performed around 1875. A sad, noble song. The beloved – Myfanwy – has fallen out of love with the poet, but this is his generous acceptance of the fact, setting her free.’ William sees Charles roll his eyes at his friend, but Martin, next to him, who loves a story, is hooked. ‘He wants above all her happiness and to hold her hand one last time, to say farewell.’ Phillip raises his eyebrows. ‘Bit soppy, you may think, but it’s terribly affecting when performed well. One of those songs whose music perfectly reflects the sentiment behind the words, thus giving birth to those very feelings in the listener.
‘There’s disagreement over the words’ origins, but it was probably written by the poet Hywel ab Einion.’ William loves the effortless switch in Phillip’s voice to Welsh pronunciation. ‘We’ll sing in Welsh. No solos. It’s often sung by male voice choirs, a giant tap of Welsh nostalgia, and that’s not a bad thing for a memorial service, but don’t worry, I’ll take care not to drown you.’ Phillip usually makes jokes with a deadpan delivery and it can take a moment and a look between the boys to confirm they’re meant to smile. ‘We’ll be unaccompanied, so it’s vital we get the pronunciation right. We’ll start with that.’ He waits for them to gather themselves. ‘Let’s just say the words. Ready?’
Daily, they sing in Latin, or Italian, or German, but with Welsh, the boys feel an added pressure to get it right.
‘Paham mae dicter, O Myfanwy,’ Phillip says with great precision. ‘Everybody?’
They say it back to him.
‘Right,’ Phillip continues, business-like, ‘it’s important to get the poor girl’s name right, don’t you think? It’s Muvanwuay, Got it? Muvanwuay. Everybody say it. Go.’
‘Muvanwuay.’
‘Better. Good. Next line, a bit tricky …’
19
‘That was juicy.’ Martin has been humming the melody across the playing fields.
‘What colour?’ William’s foot slides on mud and he grabs Martin’s arm to right himself.
‘Plum, of course, D flat.’
William always understands Martin’s choice – violet for ‘Faire is the Heaven’, egg-yolk yellow for ‘God is Gone Up’ – but he could never come up with them himself.
Martin hangs up his coat next to William’s before they make their way with four others to maths on the far side of the school. ‘Pity there aren’t any solos.’ Martin bends down to pick up a conker in the middle of the corridor and slides it in his pocket. ‘Will singing at the memorial be tough?’ Martin keeps his eyes on the ground. ‘Because of your dad?’
‘Not sure.’
Martin puts his heavy arm round William’s shoulders briefly before he opens the classroom door.
It took a few weeks for William to get used to arriving late for the first lesson of the day, but now he quite enjoys walking in once everyone has started and having a quiet few moments with the teacher to catch them up. As they weave through the desks in the room of bent heads, Martin mutters, ‘I’m going to learn it in English, and I’ll sing it for my party piece at Christmas.’
Mr Shrubs comes to their desks and drops a worksheet before each of them. He crouches down, resting his big index finger on William’s purple bander copy. ‘Long division. More practice, carrying on from yesterday.’
William can do long division. Fractions and percentages, not so good. As he scans the worksheet, he wonders if he could sing at home this Christmas. Martin’s huge sprawl of a family are always performing to each other. He’s told William about school holidays when he, his four siblings and nine (nine!) cousins spend all day writing and rehearsing a play; making a stage set, ransacking wardrobes for costumes, and then performing to the adults in the evening after supper. Imagine that! William thinks of himself, with just his mum, Uncle Robert and Howard sitting in the lounge together, quiet and tense. Still, they would love to hear him sing.
‘Martin?’ William mutters after completing three of the sums. ‘Can we practise “Myfanwy” together? Then I can sing it at Christmas too.’
By the memorial service four days later, Martin and William have sung the English and Welsh versions so many times they’ve been asked to be quiet by three masters, everyone in their dorm and the head gardener. William has even sung it in his Donald Duck voice, thrilled at the loud belly laugh it raised from Martin. Always, at the last lines, ‘So give me your hand, my sweet Myfanwy, For no more but to say “farewell”,’ Martin grips William’s hand with one of his, the other melodramatically over his heart.
? ? ?
Tiny, stick-limbed and hunched, Professor Hughes’s widow reminds William so much of a bird, he thinks she could hop right into the showy floral display at the front of the chapel and not be noticed amongst the bright fleshy petals. William stares at the three young children, who he presumes are the professor’s grandchildren, squirming between their parents on the front row. The dark army of gowned staff behind the family look too solemn for a celebration. William thinks it’s all a bit of a nonsense. Isn’t it always just sad when someone dies? He starts to picture his mother and uncle at his dad’s funeral, but it’s time to sing.
They leave the stalls to stand before the altar. William wants to watch the professor’s widow, but by now he is too well trained; he keeps his eyes on Phillip, who waits for complete stillness and attention before he lifts his hand.