‘Well, I don’t.’ His throat strains with the force of such whispering. ‘Get off!’
Martin looks at William, a crease at the top of his nose, then pulls away suddenly, drops back against the pillow. William glances at him. His eyes are silvery from the moonlight glancing in through the naked window.
‘Bloody hell, Martin,’ William whispers. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘I didn’t either. I just wanted to kiss you.’
‘I’m sorry.’ William talks to the ceiling. ‘I don’t.’
Martin returns to his own bed, his pyjamas bright in the moonlight.
28
Evelyn’s burgundy tweed dress is tight at her small waist. A cardigan the same colour is draped round her shoulders. Ash Wednesday is two weeks away, and as Martin had predicted, the ‘Miserere’ is William’s. In his pocket, folded up with his exeat, is a letter from Uncle Robert. He doesn’t know when he’s going to get it out, but he knows at some point he’ll have to.
Last night, having refolded the crumpled letter and put it in his trouser pocket ready for the next day, William calculated that he and his mother must have had twelve lunches at the Copper Kettle over the last three and a half years. There are other cafes, but they have always sat and gazed out on King’s Parade, at the lace-like stonework, the glassless windows and slender pillars tipped with crosses. Evelyn, always luminous at seeing him, has brought funny stories and baked treats in a box. She’s always dug for details of his chorister life; lessons, Martin’s misdemeanours, what nice things Phillip has said during choir practice. There have been times, of course, when hiccoughs of irritation interrupted their chatter, but on the whole, they’ve enjoyed their lunches and he’s looked forward to seeing her.
‘So, how’s that scallywag Martin?’ Evelyn pulls the cardigan round her shoulders before resting her forearms on the table and leaning towards him. ‘Any tales to tell?’
The pebble of pain plummets his body again. It’s been a month since he stayed at the Musseys’. He and Martin still sit together in choir and still sleep in adjacent beds. Outwardly everything is the same. But really, everything is different. Martin can’t look him in the face. Bold, badly behaved, unabashed Martin can’t meet his eye. William has tried to talk about it, wants to say it’s OK, he’s sorry he’s not, but it’s OK. Martin, though, has become skilled at avoidance and it’s rare they talk about much at all.
‘Not really.’ William shrugs. ‘He’s calmed down a bit this term.’
‘I bet that’s a relief to his parents. So’ – Evelyn nudges his knee under the table – ‘how are you feeling about your big day?’
Over his mother’s shoulder, William sees the approaching waitress. ‘Fine, but can we talk about Uncle Rob—’
She closes her eyes and holds both palms towards him. ‘Before we get into that, I’ve got some big news.’ Her eyes open wide, and her sudden smile and taut, petite body tell him that whatever it is, it’s going to affect him too. William is suddenly nervous.
The waitress stands at the table, notebook poised. ‘Ham, egg and chips twice, please,’ Evelyn tells her, ‘and two glasses of water.’
She watches her walk away then breathes in sharply. ‘I’ve been thinking. You’ll be leaving here in four months. We need to find you a good school and make sure you keep your music going.’
A wriggle of excitement moves in him. He’s been trying not to think about what’s next. Most of his friends, including Martin, will head off to other boarding schools, with reputable music departments and, more often than not, older siblings already there. He’s assumed he’ll be going to the local school back in Sutton where his old primary friends will have been for the last three years. It worries him that going back, he’ll become ordinary again.
‘Thanks.’ He smiles at the waitress who delivers their water.
‘I’ve think I’ve found somewhere we could actually afford a whole house. With a garden! But most importantly, the local school has an outstanding reputation for music and it’s a part of the world where young men, and older ones actually, are expected to sing. There are three different choirs within a ten-mile radius!’
‘What do you mean, part of the world? Where is it?’
She clasps her hands together. ‘Swansea!’ Her eyebrows lift. ‘South Wales.’
William stares back. It’s only now he notices her hands are trembling.
‘It’s by the sea! We could even get a house with sea views! A new start, just the two of us.’
He can’t help but catch a breath of her excitement. Living by the sea. Singing. A house with a garden. He smiles again. ‘When would we go?’
‘This summer, ready for you to start school in September, and I’ll look for a job!’
‘Wow.’ He sits back in his chair.
‘And you’ll never guess what?’
‘What?’
‘When I leave you today, I’m driving to Wales for two weeks to check it out. Then, I’ll come straight from there to hear you sing the “Miserere”!’ She leans back for the first time. ‘I’ve got a good feeling about this, William. A really good feeling.’
‘Where will you stay?’
‘In a B&B – I’m thinking of it as a little holiday. Then if I like it, you and I will go to look at houses and visit the school as soon as term ends.’
The prospect is certainly a lot more exciting than spending the summer in Sutton Coldfield. ‘Have you told Uncle Robert?’
She shakes her head. ‘Not yet, no need.’
Their food arrives; he stares at his plate for a moment. ‘They’ll miss us.’
‘They’ll miss you, William, let’s be honest, but I’m sure they’ll manage.’
He reaches into his pocket, hoping her good mood will make this easier. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Ash Wednesday. You told me in your last letter Robert couldn’t come because of his back.’
‘Yep.’ A slash of poppy red has bloomed on each of her cheeks. She concentrates on her plate.
Embarrassed and sad for her, he says, ‘You told him not to come.’