Martin puts his head to one side and purses his lips as they arrive at Mr Atkinson’s office. ‘Fair point.’ It is beyond William how there can be even a ghost of a smile on Martin’s face as he leans against the wall.
The others appear. Even though Mark is four years older than Charles and Anthony, he is barely taller than them.
‘My dad’s going to go mad if he hears about this.’ Mark glances at the younger boys. ‘We didn’t write the letters! Why should we get punished for something we didn’t do?’
‘Yes!’ says Anthony, in a bold voice that doesn’t match his frightened eyes.
William’s buttocks tighten, imagining the whacks he’ll get as scribe of all four letters.
Mark jabs William’s chest. ‘You did it! You need to own up.’
‘Rubbish!’ says Martin. ‘You’d have thanked us if it had worked.’
‘But it didn’t’ – Mark’s pinched face is getting redder – ‘that’s the point!’
Martin ignores him and turns to William. ‘Go back to class, quick, before Mr Atkinson comes.’ He nudges him away. ‘You don’t need to be here.’
‘What?’ says Mark, two deep furrows at the top of his delicate nose. ‘He’s the only one that needs to be here. He wrote the letters!’
‘The letters were from your parents, asking for things you wanted.’ Martin is calm and matter of fact. ‘Go on, get lost, William, quick.’
‘But I did it!’ William says.
‘No, you didn’t.’ Martin shakes his head. ‘I did.’ He turns to the others, his body still loose and easy. ‘And if any of you say any different, I’ll make your lives so miserable you’ll wish you’d had a whacking from Atkinson every day for a week, instead of having me to deal with.’
Charles clamps his lips together, fighting tears.
‘No,’ William says, ‘that’s not fair.’
‘Go!’ Martin pushes him hard, so he stumbles backwards.
He looks at the others. They’re resigned; they’re not going to argue. Before he has time for any other thoughts, he walks away as quickly as he can, fizzing with shame, already regretting it, but knowing he isn’t going to turn back.
24
FEBRUARY 1959
It’s a high-wire act, this solo, like floating above a canyon. Getting up there isn’t the problem; William can get to an F, never mind a C. The problem is holding the G in perfect pitch, rock steady, without cracking or fading while all the parts below are changing. Allegri’s ‘Miserere’. It still thrills him how his breath, his voice, can fill the chapel, soaring up to its high ceiling, piercing the silence, or slicing through other voices. And when he’s a soloist, there’s the thrill of knowing the others’ voices are there to frame and magnify his own. It’s magic. Pure magic.
He thinks he’s done a good job; buoyed by the lingering sense that he was soaring, not just his voice.
Phillip is looking into the distance, as if William’s voice is visibly hanging there. William doesn’t take his eyes off him.
‘Not bad,’ Phillip says eventually, still considering what he’s just heard. ‘Remember, it’s not reaching the high notes, it’s keeping control of what’s either side.’ Finally, he looks, lightly, briefly at William. ‘You mustn’t swoop up, and then of course,’ he says, as casually as if he’s talking about how to butter a piece of bread, ‘it’s too easy to smudge the quaver ornament on the way down.’ He smiles a little. ‘But we’ll get there. No doubt about that. Right, let’s move on …’
‘It’s like Narnia,’ says Martin, as they approach the frosted copper beech. A wren sits on the grass to the left of the path cocking its head at them as they pass, fearless of the noisy procession of boys.
‘Imagine Matron on a sleigh. Our very own White Witch.’ As usual, it pleases William that Martin’s laugh makes the boys ahead turn round to see what they’re missing.
This is William’s second term of his second year as chorister. He is almost as tall as Martin now, though much slighter. The rolling grind and crunch of the gravel through the soles of his shoes still satisfies him, and the tall plane trees on either side of the path still salute him as they did when he first arrived. If anything, he feels it all the more keenly now, aware that it can’t go on forever. Although he came late as a chorister at ten, it is forgotten now. The younger boys who started last September only know William as a soloist, and best friends with the other main soloist, Martin.
‘Your mum’ll be cock-a-hoop,’ Martin says. The grass looks like starched sea anemones, and the trees are bony and dark against the vivid sky. Small clouds of breath bloom from sixteen mouths.
It’s passed now, but even the most fidgety novice choristers felt it. Sometimes, something happens to this gang of boys, who fart and burp and pick their noses, when they know that what they produce is bigger and better than they are. Afterwards, stepping in puddles, telling jokes, it fades. But they never forget it.
‘You punched that C in the mouth.’ Martin leaps over the silver slash of water on the path.
The robust breeze plays with Martin’s dense hair, buffets William’s face and whips round his ankles. But singing Lent music has put a breath of spring in the air for him.
‘Thanks.’ He grins. ‘I just wish it went on for longer.’
Martin laughs. ‘Than twelve minutes?’
‘Mum says she could have it on all day and then get into bed and fall asleep listening to it.’
‘She won’t sleep between now and Ash Wednesday when she finds out.’
William laughs. ‘Once I’d been accepted here she cried every time she looked at me for about a week.’
‘She’s like a fairy godmother,’ Martin says as they reach school.
‘Why?’ William sits down in the vestibule to change his footwear.
Martin stamps his foot into his shoe. ‘She’s beautiful, she’s strong. She’d do anything to make you happy.’
‘So would your mum, wouldn’t she?’