‘I told her not to worry about that.’
‘Well done.’ William gets on with the final touches to the hair.
While William tips hot water onto a flannel, Martin leans in towards Colin and starts to sing ‘Myfanwy’. William wipes Colin’s face, rubbing at the corners of his eyes and the encrusted edges of his lips. The skin feels thin and tired against the pull of the flannel. Shaving cream expands like a living thing on his palm. William is soothed by Martin’s voice, the resistance of the stubble to the razor, and the clear path of fresh skin that appears with each stroke.
William trims the eyebrows, then shapes them with his dampened thumbs until they lie sleek and thick, with a touch of grey. Martin’s back at the first verse, but William has no idea how many times he’s sung it. With the remaining water, he washes Colin’s hands, dragging his nails through the bar of soap, then scooping out the gunge with a nail file. He cuts the fingernails down to a slim arch of white. Once the hands are dry, he files each nail. Finally, he dowses the toothbrush in mouthwash and carefully slides it into Colin’s mouth.
Colin looks ten years younger, thinner, smaller. William smooths the left eyebrow again with his thumb and then sits next to the bed opposite Martin.
‘Sing the last verse with me,’ Martin says, nodding towards Colin’s other hand, which William scoops up.
‘He was in London,’ William says after a few moments of silence. ‘He watched his daughter come out of school.’
Martin exhales. ‘Poor thing. At least he got back for the “Miserere”.’
The room smells of soap, shaving cream and antiseptic. It’s dark outside. William stares at Colin’s neat crescent thumbnail. ‘If I’d had my wits about me, I could have grabbed him. Saved him.’
Martin shakes his head. ‘Try not to waste any time on that, William. You did more for Colin than anyone.’ He smiles gently.
The second hand on the wall clock clunks its way through another minute.
‘We’ll miss him, won’t we?’ William swallows. ‘All of us, I mean, the whole choir.’
‘Yep.’ Martin nods. We’ll have to sing something special next week. To remember him.’
Neither of them speak for a while. Colin snatches at breath, making them jump, but then seems to settle, his mouth hanging a little open.
‘How was it then?’ Martin’s voice is barely a whisper. ‘Being back there.’
‘Horrendous,’ William answers, ‘it was the first time I actually let myself remember the whole thing. God! It was awful.’
‘I’ve always wanted to tell you,’ Martin says, ‘I was hoping Phillip would let you back in after you missed the first one. It’s bothered me that you might have thought I stole it from you.’
‘I never thought that. Imagine if you hadn’t! What would have happened then?’
‘We’ll never know.’
‘I’ve been so ashamed, Martin, for so long. The most spectacular balls-up in the history of the choir.’
Colin gulps for air again. They watch him for a few moments until he’s quiet once more.
‘It’s not how I remember you,’ Martin says. ‘And I bet you anything it’s not how Phillip remembers you. If you were the worst, you were the best too. Stunning. Absolutely stunning. However’ – Martin sits up a little straighter and looks William full in the face, a hint of mischief in his eyes, a twitch at the corner of his mouth – ‘there’s no denying, it was the most delicious moment of high drama, you ripping down the aisle like a bat out of hell.’ He smirks. ‘You should have seen Phillip’s face! He didn’t move a muscle, just stared after you!’ Martin lets out a giggle. ‘I thought I was going to have to conduct the choir, as well as sing the solos.’
Martin puts his head back and laughs. William recognises this moment for what it is, sees the chance, and decides to take it. After thirteen years of wrestling it down, William allows the whole messy bundle of suppressed memory to surface. And like a miracle, laughter bubbles up with it.
‘You’re forgetting my skid on the tulip halfway down the aisle,’ he says through the laughter.
Martin’s face lights up and his body ripples with mirth. ‘Oh yes! Much more decorous than a banana skin!’
Soon, both of them are fighting for breath, holding their stomachs. Martin’s face in laughter is timeless and William feels thirteen again; the same boy, but this time, free.
The shriek of trolley wheels in the corridor brings them back to themselves, their bodies relaxed, their faces aching.
‘God, that feels good!’ William says eventually. ‘I never thought, in a million years, I’d be able to laugh about that.’ He inhales deeply. ‘I feel cleaned out.’
Martin nods. ‘Best medicine and all that.’
‘Thank you, Martin,’ William says.
‘You know me, always up for a good laugh.’
‘Not for that.’
‘Oh.’
William watches Colin. ‘For everything. Saving the “Miserere”. Being pleased to see me outside the college with Gloria. Letting me stay.’ On the periphery of his vision, he can see Martin’s face looking at him. He finally looks back. ‘I don’t deserve you.’
Martin smiles and shakes his head slowly. ‘I’ve told you before, no one deserves anyone.’
‘Thank you.’
Martin nods at Colin. ‘You’ve performed a minor miracle here today, my friend. He can’t tell you himself, but it’s a fact that he’d be extremely grateful for this.’
A surge of hope pushes on William’s lungs. He’s not sure for what, but it propels him to the foot of the bed. ‘Let’s make sure the sheets are tucked in at the bottom – if his wife sees the state of his toenails, we’re rumbled.’
Once they’ve both attempted a hospital corner, Martin rubs his hands together. ‘Right! I’m going to find us both a disgusting cup of tea.’