‘William!’ Robert said. ‘What have you done?’
‘Sorry.’ William put the tweezers down.
Robert shook his head quickly, smiling. ‘I wasn’t admonishing you. He looks marvellous!’
‘Really?’ William looked back at Kenneth.
‘Really!’ Robert stood close. ‘You’ve tidied those eyebrows up without butchering them. And the hair! It’s perfect. He looks his very best self.’ Robert looked up from Kenneth and frowned at William. ‘He didn’t bother you?’
‘No.’ William smiled. ‘He was very polite and kept his eyes closed the whole time.’ They both laughed. ‘I liked getting on with it. No one watching.’
Robert patted William’s back. ‘You’ll be ready for an audience again one day,’ he says softly.
‘No, I won’t.’
‘That’s how you feel now, it’s still raw. I’m just saying, don’t rule singing out. Never say never.’
‘Never.’ William dropped the tweezers in the cosmetics bag and it was right then that the idea landed. ‘I want to be an embalmer like you and Dad.’
Robert let out a gentle laugh. ‘You’re fourteen! I’d rather see you out making friends than hanging around in here with me and Howard.’
‘I don’t want friends. I’m no good at it.’
Some of the boys at Bishop Vesey’s Grammar had been at the same primary school as William. Thankfully, none had shown the slightest interest in what had happened to him while he was away. He’d tried to fit in these last couple of weeks. He’d even sat with a few of them in the cinema car park on Saturday night, eating fish and chips and drinking cider. The trouble was, not one of them could ever be anything like the friend Martin was. And if he could throw that away, what business did he have making new ones?
The discipline of his chorister days meant he was a good student without looking as if he was trying. He was friendly and polite, but made no attempt to get to know anyone, joined no clubs, and if he was invited out after school, he declined with a smile and a no thank you.
Robert sighed. ‘If your schoolwork doesn’t suffer, you’re welcome in here any time, my boy – though your poor mother’d be appalled.’
‘It’s none of her business.’
‘Come on now, she’s your mother.’
William sighed. ‘Why don’t you hate her?’
Robert turned to face William. ‘Because I know grief, William. Your father has been dead six years, and I still think of him every day. I need to do that with a clear conscience and a lightness of spirit. Your father loved your mother. If I hold on to bad feelings towards her, I couldn’t ever think of him without guilt. And I couldn’t bear that. So, when enough time has passed, I’ll hold out my hand to her and I’ll keep doing so. No matter if she refuses it, slaps it, or bites it off for that matter. She was the light of your father’s life. And anyway, you’ll be off to live with her soon.’
William looked back at Kenneth, and gently smoothed his hair again.
34
William doesn’t feel immediately at home at the Finches’; how could he? But he does feel welcome. Mr Finch, with furry little hoods of grey eyebrows, is formal yet warm. Mrs Finch is tiny, and wears slippers with a strap of light, feathery fluff, and high heels. When he first arrived, he was moved at how they took his hand in both of theirs. More than a handshake. Their daughter, Gloria, a trainee nurse, was eating out on his first night. After shepherd’s pie and peas, he excused himself to go and do his homework.
Now in his room, with its two single beds and striped wallpaper, he looks at his envelope, pristine, full of promise. Name the branches of the carotid arteries and trace the arteries and veins a particle of fluid from the big toe to the left ear would use. Roger and Simon opened their envelopes that afternoon but William slipped his into his briefcase for later.
After being with strangers all day, he takes comfort in lifting the familiar Scudamore from the shelf, flicking through it to find the right chapter, smiling at the musty breath of it and how it feels like a bit of his uncle’s and dad’s souls right there before him. He reads it thoroughly, then composes his answer, first in rough, then neatly. Two hours pass in which he has happily disappeared from himself. The knock at the door is gentle, but it still makes him jump.
‘Cocoa in ten mins if you want it.’ The voice is bold. London. Female. Must be Gloria.
‘Thank you,’ he says, listening to the footsteps going downstairs.
Is he meant to follow her? Will she bring it up? If she does, should he ask her in? If he goes downstairs, should he bring it back to his room, or should he sit down there with them? He sits at his desk, checking his watch every few seconds.
At four minutes and counting, he is delivered. ‘Come on down,’ calls the voice, ‘it’s ready.’
She’s waiting in the galley kitchen doorway, with a tray holding two cups and a plate of biscuits. ‘Take this to Mum and Dad, and then we can have ours in here. They’re watching Armchair Theatre, and no one’s allowed to speak, or Dad loses track.’
William takes the tray from the attractive young woman he thinks is roughly the same age as him, catching his thumb between her fingers as she hands it over. The silvery TV light reflects off Mr and Mrs Finch’s spectacles. He gently puts the tray on the small table in between their two seats and leaves with neither acknowledging his presence.
‘Thank you, William,’ Mr Finch shouts, making him jump in the doorway.
‘Yes, thank yoooou,’ sings Mrs Finch.
‘My pleasure,’ shouts back William. ‘What’s so funny?’ he says to Gloria.
‘You’re very polite.’ She smiles, wiping a circle of cocoa from the work surface with a sponge.