‘Here we go.’
Gloria shakes her head, laughs an unpleasant laugh. He unwinds the window.
‘What drives me crazy,’ she says, ‘is that you can’t bear anything to be more than one story. You’ve blighted our marriage because you say you couldn’t bear to suffer like those poor parents of Aberfan. Well, you know what? You’re a bloody hypocrite.’
He didn’t expect an attack. She’s normally so gentle after an episode. A cat strolls onto the pavement and flops down into a plank of sunshine. Physically depleted, all he can do is stare at it.
‘You’ve been inflicting pain every day for years. On your own mother.’ She shakes her head. ‘You can choose not to be a father, but you can’t choose to stop being a son and she can’t ever stop being a mother.’ A couple are leaving the christening. They glance at the car, then, heads down and hands loosely clasped, they walk quickly towards their Morris Minor. ‘You think you’re this wounded, bleeding heart, but really, you’re a tyrant who hurts everyone who gets close to you.’ She waits. ‘Well?’ Her voice is sharp. ‘Have you got anything to say?’
‘You’re right,’ he replies eventually, eyes still on the cat licking its striped flank. ‘I’m a tyrant who hurts everyone close to me.’
‘So,’ she says. He hears her swallow and catches the slight uplift of her chin. ‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘Simple,’ he says, finally turning to look at Gloria’s troubled, beloved face.
Part IV
MIDNIGHT CHOIR
50
For all he knows, he sleepwalked to the station. William has no memory of boarding the Birmingham to Cambridge later that day. He registers dashes of fields, fresh growth on the trees. The sun on his left burns through the glass and makes the dusty seat smell toasted. He didn’t bring sunglasses, it’s only March. The corner of a shirt is poking out of his suitcase. He doubts he can carry it to Martin’s without the handle breaking, but has no cash for a taxi.
The walk to Jesus Lane tires him out, the sun a malign bore at his temples. He knocks the door and leans his head on the blue paint as he waits for Martin to come down the stairs.
He stands upright at the clink and rattle of the chain on the inside. ‘Hello? Can I help you?’
William registers blond curls on broad shoulders. The black and white stripe of the rugby shirt hurts his eyes.
‘Is Martin in?’
The face considers him, then turns and shouts up the stairs, ‘Martin! It’s for you!’
William thinks of introducing himself, but can’t summon the energy.
‘You should leave him in peace, you know,’ the man says quietly, leaning in, ‘he does have a life.’
William can only nod as he hears Martin thundering down towards them.
‘William! Have I forgotten something? I haven’t looked in my diary for days.’
‘No,’ he says, trying to raise a smile, ‘I’m not meant to be here.’
Martin puts his hand on his shoulder and guides him in. ‘Steve, this is my oldest friend, William.’
Steve smiles awkwardly. ‘Sorry, William, I thought you … you must think I’m a complete arsehole.’
‘Not at all,’ William says, putting out his hand to shake Steve’s but misjudging it and jabbing him in the stomach.
Steve turns to Martin. ‘Sorry, I thought he was …’
Martin scrunches his face. ‘You do look dreadful, William. Come on in.’ He gestures up the staircase. ‘Steve, put the kettle on, would you?’
‘Sure.’ Steve bounds up the stairs like a big cat.
‘I’ll get this,’ is all Martin says about the suitcase. ‘Up you go.’ William feels the steady pressure of Martin’s flat palm all the way up the stairs.
The sitting room’s bay window is full of the fresh magnolia leaves. The patterns of their shadows flicker and dance over the wooden floor. On the table are two willow pattern plates with half-eaten bacon sandwiches, a bottle of brown sauce, two mugs.
Steve appears from the little kitchen off the sitting room. ‘Tea or coffee?’
‘Coffee, thanks. Black.’ He thumps down onto the sofa and leans forward, his head in his hands. He feels the shift and sway as Martin sits gently next to him.
‘Do we have a problem?’
William’s throat constricts at the we. ‘We do,’ he says, grateful for how Martin never lets him feel alone.
Steve puts the coffee onto the little ebony table carved into the shape of an elephant. ‘I’ve got things to do, I’ll see you later.’
‘Thanks, Steve,’ he says.
After a few light bounds down the stairs, the door opens, closes, and then silence.
‘Who’s he?’ William asks. ‘I hope I didn’t interrupt.’
Martin shrugs. ‘Just a friend, don’t worry about it.’ He shifts in his seat to face William. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’
A weight pushes on his chest. He breathes in, sips the strong filter coffee and puts it back on the table. He stares at the pot plant’s two-toned leaves, vivid against the ebony wood.
‘William?’
His eyes wash warm. ‘I’ve left her.’
‘You can stay for a while, on two conditions.’
Martin has come into his bedroom to open the curtains. William covers his eyes as light slices his pillow. He’s obviously slept all night, but as he remembers where he is and why, William feels bone-tired.
‘Thanks. What are they?’
‘You help me with the choir.’ Martin pulls the sash window down an inch and leans against it, arms folded.
‘I’m sorry, Martin.’ He shakes his head. ‘Anything else, just not that.’
‘I could do with the help and there isn’t anything else.’ He has a hint of a smile on his face.
William can’t help but smile back. ‘I don’t have much choice then, do I?’
Martin steps towards the bed and pats William’s leg. ‘Marvellous! OK. I’m off to work. Today’s task is to type up the words for the new songs we’re working on this week. Scores are on the table, next to the typewriter. Then go to the reprographics department at college – one good thing about working in the library – say I sent you, and get twenty copies.’
‘Can I do it tomorrow?’