‘I know,’ she said after a moment, leaning on his shoulder. Then she pulled out of his embrace. ‘I’ll try harder, but I’ll tell you this: if Howard ever sticks a bunch of red tulips in my face again, I’ll not be held accountable for what I do with them!’
Dad laughed then, and though William didn’t get the joke he was relieved it was all OK again.
A couple of weeks later, William was telling his dad about a teacher scolding a boy in his class. The boy had tutted, sending the teacher off into an even worse rage. When the boy was eventually allowed back to his desk, he sat down, and after a couple of seconds’ silence, he tutted again.
‘And?’ William’s dad said, eyes wide. ‘Did she explode?’
William nodded.
‘Like a red rag to a bull,’ his dad said.
‘What?’
‘It means something that’s sure to make someone angry. If you flash a red rag in front of a bull, it will charge at you.’
William nodded again. ‘Like a red tulip to Mum.’
His dad started laughing, and that glorious thing happened; something ignited, and they kept going till they could barely breathe and their stomachs hurt.
20
By the time December arrives, moist and grey, and the walks to and from college are in the dark, William is enjoying himself. The putting on of his cassock and the graceful, weighty swing of the gown at his ankles makes him excited and eager to get to morning practice, or even better, evensong. With Martin at his side, talking, laughing and singing their way from school to college, scrunching down the gravel avenue towards the chapel, William’s heart expands to make space for his new home. The classrooms, the austere dorm, and the dining hall heavy with its smells, are no longer strange to him and have no more nasty surprises, but it’s in the chapel that he feels himself expanding. It’s in here he is often so happy, so full up with joy, he has to wiggle his toes and fingers to stop himself laughing, or whooping or bouncing up and down.
‘I know it’s just a building, but it doesn’t feel like just a building,’ he tried to explain to Martin once.
‘My dad doesn’t care much about church, but he says that coming to hear us sing is like being hugged by God,’ Martin offered. ‘Is it like that?’
‘Sort of, but the chapel feels like itself, not God. Bigger and older than us, but still letting us join in with a great game it’s been playing for hundreds of years.’
Martin shook his head and laughed, but as usual, it made William feel better, not worse about what he’d said.
‘Don’t tell anyone else, but when I’m singing, it feels like the chapel is smiling at me.’
‘That’s Phillip, not the chapel! He smiles at your voice all the time, but he tries not to, he’s not meant to have favourites.’
Missing the beginning of class every morning, William is spurred on by the constant need to catch up. It serves him well. The masters recognise he works hard and are impressed that, even though he seems joined at the hip to Mussey, he never gets into trouble. Classes are to be endured, prep a daily task to be completed. Fortunately, William finds he does have endurance, he is able to complete his prep, and he even has time to cajole his reluctant, restless friend to finish his.
? ? ?
With seasonal music oozing through his pores, he walks with Martin and two other choristers along the corridor towards the history room. It’s three weeks before Christmas, on a Wednesday morning, almost at the end of William’s first term. His fingers are a lilac colour from the cold and his nose is runny. William likes this particular classroom, which may be more cramped than others but is twice as warm. Martin holds the door open, bowing and gesturing extravagantly for them to go before him.
The cosy fug of bodies and the hum of radiator heat register first. He becomes aware that everyone is listening to music before he recognises what it is, but when he does, he comes to such an abrupt halt that Martin bumps into him.
Next to Mr Hawthorn’s desk is an upright square of pale wood with a metal mesh circle at its centre. The music coming out of it is well known to William; the blunt simplicity of the tenors’ plainsong about to bloom, the swooping harmonies and embellishments, the not quite human top C of the treble’s solo. Martin nudges William and flicks his head in the direction of two empty desks. William doesn’t move, held by silence like a basket holding the wonder of what’s just happened and the expectation of what’s about to come.
Allegri’s ‘Miserere’.
He was five, sitting on his father’s lap, staring at the record player’s leathery red and black casing, the stylus riding the grooves of the shining vinyl that rolled round and round and round.
‘Why are you crying?’ Evelyn laughed, reaching across to ruffle his hair. He slid from his dad’s lap, knelt by the record player, so close he could smell the heat and the plastic, see the slight undulations as the record revolved, the wisp of dust gathering on the needle.
‘Again. Put it on again, Mummy!’
When Evelyn told him that this beautiful, beautiful sound was made by a boy just a few years older than him, his world cracked open. If a boy like him could make a sound like that, what other magic was possible?