Martin’s laugh is a gurgle deep in his chest. ‘Lavery, you’re a gem.’
As William takes in the dining hall, its scrubbed, woody smell, high windows and plain tables, he is relieved that it seems all he needs to do to be liked by Martin is to be himself.
14
When the boys gather in the vestibule after breakfast, bending double to put on outdoor shoes, William is excited for the first time since he arrived, busy putting his shoes on, bracing himself against the knocks and nudges of everyone doing the same. He’s not great at tying his laces, so he’s had to concentrate hard. It’s only when he straightens up that he notices boys putting on black gowns and funny square hats. He doesn’t have either of those. He and the unfriendly seven-year-olds, Charles, Edward and Anthony, stand in their blazers and feel the difference.
It was six months ago, in March, that William came here for his voice trial. Since then, he’s kept half an eye on the life he was living, but most of his time was spent imagining the future. He imagined entering the vast chapel, stepping across the glimmering black and white tiles that blinked when the light hit them. He imagined the bright beauty of the windows, like coloured diamonds turning ordinary light into something so amazing it almost hurt to look at it. He imagined gazing up at the friendly-looking saints with their arms out as if in welcome. He imagined being dressed in white and purple robes, breathing in to fill his chest with air. He imagined opening his mouth wide for the escape of his voice. He imagined how it would feel like flying.
What he stolidly ignored was the fact that he’d start his time here as a probationer, not a chorister. He won’t have the full uniform and he won’t be able to sing at evensong, so there’ll be no chance of a solo. He isn’t sure how long this in-between time will last. At his voice trial, Phillip, the choirmaster, was fuzzy about it.
‘The probationary period is usually about a year,’ he said, running through details of chorister life, ‘but as you’re considerably older … well, we’ll see.’
‘Walk with me, William,’ says Martin now, cheerful and hearty as the line of boys starts to take shape.
Once they have passed through the gate into the college playing fields, Martin’s hand darts out.
‘See that hole in the cricket pavilion window? I took it out last term with a cricket ball and no one’s fixed it yet. I got whacked for that.’
‘Oh.’ William keeps his head turned towards the pavilion so Martin knows he’s taking it seriously.
‘See that tree?’ Martin points to the left. ‘I fell off it and broke my little finger in my first year. Look!’ He waves his large hand before William’s face. ‘It set crooked.’
William thinks Martin’s mother must be very different from Evelyn. He imagines the horror of having to tell her he’d been hit by the headmaster for jumping on other boys’ beds without any pants. The other older boys are friendly enough towards Martin, but he seems to float free of any allegiances – unlike Charles, Edward and Anthony, who may as well have melded into one hostile person.
Once through the lofty iron gates of the college, their feet scrunch-scrunch-scrunch over the rusty gravel. William spots the chapel spire. Compared to these thick stone walls, he and all the boys are so very small and fragile, even Martin. But walking step by step closer to the chapel, a fluttering starts in his chest. They may be small, but they are special. His lungs feel sprung and strong. He imagines that the chapel can hear their footsteps and their chatter and is excited for the singing to start. But at the last minute, the procession bends away from the chapel entrance, off to the left.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Song room,’ says Martin.
‘Not the chapel?’
‘Choristers go there for evening practice and then evensong, but it’s here in the morning.’ It’s a small, very ordinary room, with cream walls and rows of benches. ‘Probationers sit over there.’ Martin points to the far corner and gently presses his back.
Even though William knows he’ll eventually become a chorister, a pebble of disappointment plummets the length of him. He sits with Charles on his left and wishes yet again he hadn’t bothered to try and cheer him up yesterday. Because now, you’d think he’d tried to hold all of their hands, or even kiss them on the lips, the way they shuffle away, and whisper and laugh without him. It’s all right for them, he thinks, they’ve got seven years here. As a ten-year-old latecomer, his time is much shorter.