‘Get off him!’ Charles shouts at Martin, and both boys start to pull William out of the cubicle.
‘I’m fine.’ William shakes them off. ‘Get lost!’
‘Anthony, go and tell a master!’ shouts Charles. Anthony looks at William and Martin as if needing their permission.
‘Don’t!’ says William, zipping up his flies. ‘I’m OK.’
‘He was hurting you!’ Charles is breathless. ‘We heard!’
‘If this gets back to the masters’ – William’s voice is surprisingly commanding – ‘I’ll make life hell for you. Understand?’
The boys look uncomfortable, glancing from Martin to William.
‘Tell them, William,’ Martin says quietly, ‘tell them I wasn’t hurting you.’
William sees it flit between the two boys; the thrill of thinking they’ve interrupted a forbidden act. He knows full well how quickly it will spread. How easy for all of them to believe that this is what their friendship has really been about these four years. William can see exactly how the next few months will go: the giggling, the knowing looks, the sudden quiet when they enter a room.
No, he decides, he simply won’t take it. It was Martin, not him, who caused all this. Quickly buttoning his waistband, he turns to Martin. ‘I’ve told them not to tell a master, isn’t that enough?’
A tap drips. Martin’s eyes fill, the first time William has ever seen that happen.
‘William,’ Martin says, ‘tell them.’
Charles and Anthony look at William, waiting. They’re loving it, he thinks, taking a step out of the cubicle. They separate to let him through.
‘Just stay away from me, OK?’ William says over his shoulder to Martin and strides out into the corridor, stuffing both handkerchiefs in his pockets.
A week later, William is called back into Mr Atkinson’s study. Phillip has persuaded him that never has a boy wanted a solo so much, and never has a boy with a voice quite like William’s graced these chapel walls. So Mr Atkinson tells William that though it is highly unusual to reverse a disciplinary measure, he will sing the ‘Miserere’ on Ash Wednesday after all.
This headmaster will have plenty of time to reflect on that decision, and on how things might have played out differently for William if he hadn’t given in to the pleadings of his passionate choirmaster.
Part III
FAMILY BUSINESS
31
SEPTEMBER 1965
‘Can’t I take yours, Uncle Robert?’
They’re in the hallway, about to leave for the station. Howard is putting William’s suitcase in the car boot. The large case contains seven pairs of new Y-fronts, two pairs of pyjamas, two shirts and two T-shirts, a pullover, two pairs of slacks and a blazer. Eighteen-year-old William is wearing his new suit. Also in the case are the clothes he will need for training in the embalming room: a pair of white surgeon’s boots, a plastic gown, a plastic apron, two pairs of strong rubber gloves, one pair of plastic arm sleeves and a face mask.
Uncle Robert frowns at the book William is holding. ‘It’s so tatty!’
‘That’s why I like it.’
Together they survey the worn grey book in William’s hands, Embalming – Theoretical and Practical by Edwin Frank Scudamore FBIE.
‘You’d rather that scruffy old tome than the new edition I got you with the nice gold lettering?’
‘Yes.’ William smiles, tightening his grip on it. ‘It was Dad’s.’
Robert smiles. ‘Of course you can have it. As long as I get to keep the new one.’
Ten minutes later, the three of them stand on the station platform. The oak trees are on the turn, yellow flashes amongst the green. A breeze washes over William’s face as he hugs Howard. He feels self-conscious in his black suit and tie and posh overcoat, but trusts his uncle’s judgement that it will show respect to the family he’s staying with. The Finches are an other third-generation undertaking family. They live in Stepney, a half-hour walk from the Thames College of Embalming where William will be studying for a year.
A cotton wool cloud dabs the sun out, and as William turns to Robert, he suddenly feels scared.
‘Remind you of anything?’ Uncle Robert asks.
‘A bit,’ William says, used to Robert’s ability to tune in to his feelings, and already trying to resist the memories of the first time he left home.
‘Remember, you can come home at the weekends at the drop of a hat. No blummin’ exeats needed.’
‘I know, but I’ll try and get on with life in London. Christmas will be here before we know it.’
‘You know your bed’s always here for you.’ Robert puts his hand on William’s arm.
‘I’ll work hard and I’ll make you proud.’
‘I’m already proud.’ Robert looks at Howard, who stands, tranquil as ever, a gentle smile on his face. ‘We’re already proud.’
The train pulls in and William hugs Robert, and though he’s never done it before, he kisses him on the cheek. Then he hugs Howard again, who squeezes back tightly. He picks up his suitcase and briefcase and climbs aboard.
‘Don’t wait to wave, I’ll get sad,’ he says, suddenly wanting to be on his own.
‘Good idea,’ Howard says, ‘or we’ll all be bawling our eyes out.’ He chuckles, and softly turns Robert round. The diamond ring on his little finger winks at the sun before he folds his hands behind his back and the two men walk away from the train. William sees them turn slightly towards each other – Howard is saying something – and then, in perfect unison, without turning, they each lift both their hands and wave.