The sound is rich and mellow with an insistent sadness that scoops deeper and deeper with every line. By the velvet bloom and fade of the last verse, with Phillip pulling the feeling from the music with every fluid move of his right hand, the surf of emotion rolling back to them from the congregation astounds William.
The instant Phillip ties off the final note, William glances at Mrs Hughes, in time to catch the look between her and Phillip. It lasts a fraction of a second, but her gratitude and his kindness bring instant tears to his eyes. Blinking, he bites the soft sides of his mouth, until the physical movement back to the choir stalls rescues him.
In bed that night, he can’t stop thinking of the service and all the stories about the professor that made everyone sad and happy at the same time. He wonders what stories would have been told about his father, with him and Evelyn, Robert and Howard sitting on the front row, the smell of lilies sharp and powdery in the air.
Someone, probably some vicar, would definitely say how much fun he was. How when he came near, William’s body would tighten a bit, get ready; to be picked up, thrown in the air, tickled, cuddled. How his dad always had to sit in the middle of the sofa when the three of them watched telly, so he could put his arm round both of them and say he’d got all he needed to be happy right here, tucked under each armpit. But, William wonders, how would a vicar know that? Only he and his mum knew about that. The vicar would probably say how proud his dad was to be an undertaker and to carry on the family business with his brother, and that makes his tummy tight because he knows it would make his mum feel left out and lonely.
The best memories a vicar wouldn’t know about, and anyway, William’s not sure what a best memory is; they’re all a muddle of good and bad, warm and cold. There is one of him sharing a private joke with his dad that he loves so much, it’s worth enduring the not so nice sequence of events that led up to it.
William was a poor sleeper as a baby, so his dad would leave the house with him on a Saturday morning to let Evelyn sleep. Howard and Robert soon joined them, and the fact that by the time he was two, William slept a solid twelve hours every night, was no reason to stop such an enjoyable routine. The men slipped back into their old camaraderie from school days, with the entertaining bonus of a biddable toddler.
During late spring of William’s fifth year, an early heatwave gave Robert the idea of them taking William fishing. No one thought to prepare the animal-loving boy for what was about to happen.
‘Stop!’ William screamed, when the silver-blue creature appeared, dangling by its mouth, its body flick-flacking. ‘You’re hurting it!’ he bellowed, appalled at the unprecedented cruelty of his uncle.
‘Woo-hooo! Halloooo, William! Isssn’t thissss fffun?’ It was Howard, speaking in a funny, splashy voice. ‘Pleassh can I dance on the gwassssy bank before you put me back in?’ The voice was happy, and as Howard spoke, he jerked and flicked his own body a bit like the fish.
William watched intently as Robert put it on the bank and gently removed the hook.
‘Thank you, Wobert,’ the fishy voice said, in time with its flipperty tail, and the horror started to ebb as William dared to believe in the goodwill of it all. His eyes switched from the fish to Howard’s impression of it, till they melded into the same thing. Robert, smiling at Howard, took the fish and threw it into the air.
‘William, want to come for a sschwim in my world?’ He hadn’t even noticed Howard taking off his shirt, and his shorts, before diving in. ‘Come on in!’ the fishy voice called.
‘Can I, Dad?’
His dad responded by taking off his own shirt and trousers, then helping William with his.
‘Where are you, fish?’ William called in his best Donald Duck voice, doggy-paddling towards Howard. And there followed a glorious half-hour of William’s Donald Duck talking nonsense to Howard’s fish.
On the way home, soggy but warm, exhausted but content, they stopped for petrol and Howard plucked a big bunch of red tulips from a bucket outside the station. When Evelyn answered the door to four bedraggled figures, Howard bowed low and offered them to her in the stupid voice.
‘For Madam, fwom Laverwy, Sssons and Gwandsssson.’
She took them from him, trying to smile. ‘Goodness, look at you all!’ She held her arms out to William. ‘What were you thinking, Paul?’ – the smile and the words horribly at odds with each other.
Later he saw the tulips lying in the sink while Evelyn cooked tea. ‘They need water, Mum.’
‘Give it to them then.’ She shrugged, still out of sorts. He put them in a mug, but had to lean them against the wall to stop them falling over.
Under the misapprehension that the flowers had been a hit, Howard bought an identical bouquet the next week. William looked at his dad, wondering if they should stop him, but he shook his head and whispered, ‘He’s being kind.’
This time, once she’d closed the door on Howard and Robert, Evelyn let out a clenched scream.
‘Lavery and Sons and Grandson!’ She rammed the flowers into the bin and a few petals dropped onto the floor, like thick drops of blood. ‘Howard’s not even family. I’m Mrs Lavery …’ She paused, on the verge of tears. ‘And anyway, why aren’t I ever invited?’
‘Maybe if you weren’t so prickly with Howard,’ William’s dad said softly. ‘He thinks you don’t like him. He’s just trying, and anyway, the point is to give you some peace and quiet.
‘He’s my son,’ Evelyn said, as if he hadn’t spoken, ‘don’t I get a say in what he does with his life?’
‘Of course you do.’ His dad kissed the top of her head. ‘You’re his mother, and you’re magnificent.’
‘One thing’s for sure – if William goes into the family business, that’s the end of it. He’ll be one of your tight little gang and I’ll always be on the outside.’
‘Oh, Evelyn,’ his dad said, pulling her close to him, ‘there’s enough love to go round, you know?’