‘I wanted to surprise him,’ Martin says.
‘We postponed it,’ says Richard, reaching for more chicken. ‘Till tomorrow, so you could be in it.’
Wrapped up in coats and scarves, William and Martin are sitting in adjacent apple trees with their legs dangling over the unkempt grass. The darkness is softened by light from the kitchen. Surrounded by an old brick wall with eight apple trees, two cherry trees and a pear tree, the garden is like something out of a picture book.
‘I’m worried I won’t be any good – in the play.’ William rubs his finger along the fissured tree bark. He adjusts his position to ease the pressure of his waistband, which has been digging into his middle since the second helping of apple pie.
‘That doesn’t matter,’ Martin says, emitting a cloud of breath. ‘Aren’t you pleased?’
‘Yes,’ William says, ‘and petrified.’
Martin laughs. ‘There won’t be any cousins, so it won’t be quite such a big deal.’
‘Oh!’
‘They came on Boxing Day. They’re back in London now.’
William doesn’t mention his surprise at Flo, or how pretty his sisters are; he doesn’t want to discuss any of it, he just wants to enjoy it. And anyway, he is so touched that this big, sophisticated family would rearrange things just for him, he would probably cry if he opened his mouth.
Evelyn wouldn’t like the sprawling clothes on the landing, or the old newspapers scattered across the sitting room, or the splats of toothpaste on the bathroom mirror, but William loves the idea that style and elegance don’t depend on cleanliness.
‘Your house is splendid,’ he says, taking off his trousers, his legs goose-bumping instantly. William wonders that no one has drawn the curtains, but without neighbours to overlook them, he can see why they wouldn’t bother. The room contains four single beds, but still, there are broad swathes of space in between them.
‘Thanks.’ Martin strips off his vest and drops it on the floor.
‘Our flat is tiny compared to this,’ William says, glancing at his skinny body in the wardrobe mirror across the room.
‘I bet it’s cosy. It’s freezing here unless we have a heatwave.’ Martin’s voice is distorted from within his pyjama top. ‘And I bet your mum keeps everything tidy.’
Martin won’t hear a word against Evelyn; So elegant, lipstick that makes her mouth look like slices of fruit, butter biscuit baker. But tonight William finds himself drawn to the Amazonian mother figure of Mrs Mussey, with her broad-brush approach to housework and mothering.
‘It’s strange, isn’t it?’ says William, settled into the trough of the bowed mattress, under sheets that though musty are smooth and heavy. ‘Before Cambridge we had completely different lives. Then for four years we’ll have done almost exactly the same thing every day, and then for the rest of our lives we’ll do completely different things again.’
‘Do you think you’ll do music or funerals?’
William told Martin long ago that his father and Robert clearly wanted him to go into the family business, while Evelyn wanted him to have a life in music. After his dad had died, Evelyn had been very keen for William to join a reputable choir and couldn’t have been happier when the choirmaster thought it was worth his while trying for Cambridge, even though he was nearly ten.
‘If I’m good enough, music, I think.’
‘You’re good enough,’ Martin says.
‘What about you?’
‘I don’t like to think about it.’ Martin climbs into bed and pulls the miniature chain hanging from his bedside lamp. There’s a soft ping as the brightness folds away. ‘I can’t imagine life without you.’
In the darkness, smiling at the warmth of Martin’s friendship, William rolls onto his side and decides not to waste his time here worrying about how cold it may feel once it’s gone.
‘By the way,’ Martin says a few minutes later, once William’s mind has started a lazy drift from thought to thought, ‘Mum says if you keep staring at the twins like that every mealtime, I’m to pour cold water over you.’
‘I wasn’t staring at them like that!’ William is wide awake. ‘It’s because they’re twins. Promise me you’ll tell her.’
‘You tell her,’ Martin says, rolling over to face the little sprigs of cherries, blueberries and apples that sit in neat diagonal rows across the wallpaper, and have bloomed back into visibility now William’s eyes are used to the dark.
If he begs, Martin will only tease him more, so he waits. Just as he starts to think he’s waited too long and Martin’s asleep, a soft voice says, ‘I’ll tell her before breakfast. Don’t worry.’
26
When Isobel and Imogen saunter into breakfast in plaid skirts and Aran sweaters, hair sleep-rumpled and gorgeous, William realises that overnight his interest in them as twins has been superseded by his appreciation of how very, very beautiful they are.
The girls sit down opposite him, lazy and languid, with their smooth, gently freckled skin that looks sprinkled with brown sugar, their green eyes and dark eyelashes, their lips, like Martin’s, full and cushioned. Just as he starts to imagine what it might be like to kiss them, Mrs Mussey places a bowl of something hot in the middle of the table and he forces his eyes down to the food before him.
‘Would you like some, William?’ Mrs Mussey asks, holding her hair back in a ponytail in one hand, her other poised with a spoon over the bowl. To William’s surprise it contains rice – not something he’s ever had for breakfast.
‘Yes, please. What is it?’
‘Kedgeree,’ says Edward, plunging his own fork into the bowl, receiving a rap on the knuckle from Mrs Mussey’s spoon. ‘Have you not had it before? I can’t imagine life without kedgeree.’
‘Doesn’t say much for your imagination, Edward,’ says Imogen, buttering her toast. Martin laughs, and Isobel, William notices, is smiling.