Martin walks up the stairs. ‘OK, William.’ He shakes his head. ‘If that’s what you want to tell yourself.’
And there it is again; the cocktail of fear and anger he felt in the car with Gloria. A bloody hypocrite, she called him. He reaches the top of the stairs, the familiar darkness rising in him, the same overwhelming dread.
‘Tea?’ Martin calls from the kitchen, but William goes straight to his room.
52
The thick, white-tipped buds of the magnolia in the back garden are so hefty they look in need of hinges to open. The shared back garden is scattered with purple crocuses, which already he and Martin have inadvertently trampled on. Some recover and stand themselves up again; some stay prone on the lawn, their squash of purple and yellow insides exposed.
After three weeks, William has a routine. He gets up once Martin’s left for work and sits at the table overlooking Jesus Lane, at cyclists hurtling to nine o’clock lectures, and Midsummer Common filling out for early spring. The first whiff of freshness and soil still takes him back to Gloria dating Ray in London, but there’s something else now too; relief, for the Midnighters. The clocks have gone forward so it’s light when they leave choir. On nights when he has felt the chill in the air as he undresses for bed and goose bumps sweep his bare legs, he thinks of Colin, and David and Andrew. He wonders how cold they are, where they’re sleeping, if they’re hungry. The night air is still cool, but its bite much softer.
Watching life flow past, and with a second cup of coffee, William sometimes calls Uncle Robert. William promised to keep in touch and it’s the least he can do. Howard has found a locum to help two days a week. Gloria went back to Stepney at first and then last week she went on holiday. Where, or who with, he doesn’t ask, but he’s relieved.
Once he’s done errands in town – printing lyrics, sourcing music, liaising with the church to organise a piano tuner – he returns to the flat and pulls out one of Martin’s LPs. Sometimes he simply listens, eyes closed, concentrating, and wonders how he’s survived without this beauty all these years. It amazes him that classical music, so important to him for so long, has never been a part of his marriage. In the evenings, he goes to concerts that Martin can get them into for free.
For the last two weeks at Midnight Choir, he’s worked with the small group of tenors for half an hour, leaving the basses to Martin. Initially, he was so nervous, he didn’t notice much beyond his own shaking hands and bland comments, but last week was different. For twenty minutes they lost themselves to each other, and the sound they made when they came back as a group and sang to the basses was so much better, William could have punched the air.
‘Martin’s a hard act to follow, but you taught us well,’ Colin said, and William felt a rush of pride and gratitude.
‘Thanks, Colin. You’ve got a lovely voice there.’
‘I’ve got a lovely voice?’ Colin laughed softly. ‘You’re our very own Pavarotti.’
William twiddled with the button on his cuff. ‘Do you like opera?’
‘Used to,’ he said. ‘I saw him live once in Covent Garden.’ The remembered pleasure reached his eyes, so that William noticed for the first time what an unusually deep green they were.
This morning, he forces the old sash window down a few inches, and studies the lemon centres of the milky magnolia flowers. Leaving the window open, he gathers up his and Martin’s bowls, rinses them off under the tap, then sits down at the table.
The phone’s shrill ring makes him jump.
‘Cambridge 57912?’
‘William! How are you?’
‘Uncle Robert, hello. I’m OK, what about you?’
‘Missing you. Keeping our heads above water.’
‘How’s the locum?’
William hears his uncle inhale before he speaks. ‘I’ve let him go; he wasn’t much help I’m afraid. Gloria’s father has been coming from London for two days a week, but can’t do it much longer. If it comes to it, we’ll just have to give some business to Bunts.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Robert’s time is usually spent working out how to take business off Bunts, not give it to them. Robert doesn’t respond. ‘I’ll be back soon. How’s Gloria?’
‘Still away. Comes back in two days. But heartbroken, William. Heartbroken.’
He’s empty, can’t think of anything to say.
‘Just stay in touch, all right?’
‘I’ve promised.’
‘You’d better. Anyway, the reason I’m calling is to let you know I’ve just forwarded something to you in the post from your mother, and I’m not asking, I’m telling. You must open this one, William. And if you need to talk about it, I’m on the end of the line. Any time, night or day.’
His mouth has gone dry. Is she ill? He’s spent years ignoring his mother and justifying his behaviour to himself, but he’s always known at some point, he’ll have to square up to it all.
‘Suppose there’s no point me asking you what it is?’ He attempts a lightness of tone.
‘It’s her news, not mine.’
53
‘So,’ says Martin to the group, scraping his hand through his thick hair. ‘There’s a spring festival at my old college next week, which means we get another chance to hear the “Miserere”. Hands up who wants to come?’
Every hand goes up. Fifteen here tonight. Colin leans towards William smiling, and grasps his cuff to lift his hand up. William snatches it away so quickly Colin flinches.
Martin hasn’t warned him about this. He feels tricked. ‘I’m not going.’
‘Why not?’ asks Colin. Everyone’s listening. ‘It’s free.’
‘I know. I just don’t fancy it.’ William looks round and sees Jenny’s watchful gaze on him.
‘So, seventeen of us then,’ Martin says without so much as a glance his way. ‘Marvellous. And cocoa afterwards at the Copper Kettle.’
A few of them cheer.
‘Are you really not going to come?’ Martin sits with a cup of tea on the settee later that night.