It is a relief when Phillip Lewis, the choirmaster, walks into the room at last. William no longer has to pretend to be interested in the organ scholar sitting at the piano arranging his music. He chooses to ignore the unfriendly boys for the next hour; he will think only about this man who told his mother he has a special gift. He will listen to what he has to say about the music and how he should sing, and he will do as well as he possibly can.
‘Welcome back, everyone. And welcome to our new boys.’ Riffling through his papers, Phillip Lewis nods in the probationers’ direction but doesn’t meet anyone’s eye. William recognises the gentle, lilting Welsh accent from summer holidays in Port Madoc. Tall, stick-thin and quietly spoken, the choirmaster has a bald head with a remaining band of wispy grey hair that almost reaches his collar. ‘Let’s wander through a few arpeggios, shall we?’
‘Right.’ Phillip rummages through the music once the warm-ups are done, snatching one piece out. ‘Let’s take a look at the “Te Deum”。 Remember’ – his eyes flit from one boy to another – ‘listen. I want to hear one sound, one voice, not fifteen.’ His body looks relaxed, his face isn’t pent up with excitement like William’s choirmaster at home, and yet he is absolutely in control. ‘So, we’ll look at the Tallis, five-parter.’ His head is down and his large bony hands rest at last with the sought-after pages spread out before him. ‘Mussey? You take the first.’
As the singing starts, William challenges himself to distinguish the individual voices from the blend. He watches the back of Martin’s big ginger head, dipping and swaying to the music with a freedom no one else is showing, but because William can’t see his mouth, he can’t make out his particular voice until the solo.
When it happens, William smiles. He can almost feel his own skull vibrate as Martin’s voice goes its own way. He’s careful to hold his own in check, but he knows it could cut through the others like a knife through warm butter. Like Martin’s. Perhaps better. He’s pleased though to find his friend is so good, and when at the end of the piece Martin’s head twists round to catch William’s eye, they grin briefly at each other and William feels known.
15
‘What’s the matter, Lavery?’ Charles is smiling, and William knows straight away that they’ve done something with his pyjamas. He has looked under his pillow, under the blankets and under his bed. The silence bristles with pent-up laughter. He is exhausted. The choristers are having their post-evensong supper, so William’s on his own with the probationers.
Not trusting himself to speak, he sits on his bed in the hope one of them will tell him where they are, but it’s as if he’s invisible. He goes to the bathroom wearing his vest and trousers to clean his teeth, praying that when he returns his pyjamas will have appeared on his pillow. If so, he’ll smile, maybe even laugh, if he can manage it. As he looks in the mirror something catches his eye. He spins round. Dangling over the lip of the toilet bowl is one leg of his pyjamas; the other is submerged. The water is unmistakably yellow. He gags then blinks repeatedly to try and stop the tears. Unable to bring himself to touch the pyjamas, or even look at them any longer, he runs out of the bathroom and bumps into Martin.
‘What’s up?’
William doesn’t want to cry; he points to the toilet and heads back to the dorm, eyes on the floor, where he takes off his trousers and gets into bed in vest and pants.
‘Goodnight,’ he says with a normal voice. He turns away from them and tries to listen to his own breathing instead of the muffled whispers and giggles. If only his ability to conjure his mother’s voice was dependable. Tonight he can magic no comfort from her at all. He hears the spring and bounce of Martin getting into bed, but doesn’t open his eyes. When Matron comes to check on them, he pulls the blanket up high over his chin.
A gentle tap on his hand a few minutes later makes him jump. Martin is kneeling at his bedside, looking intently at him.
‘Give it ten minutes,’ he mouths, holding up his two hands, all digits splayed and white in the dark. William stares back, as Martin returns to his bed and lies still under the covers.
He counts groups of sixty, but he must have drifted off because he’s pulled back to himself by a tap on his arm. Martin is at his side again, white-striped pyjamas glowing. Carefully he is folding his blanket into a long thin column.
‘Bed crawl revenge,’ he whispers.
Like a surfer paddling out into the sea, Martin propels himself forward, under William’s bed, his big body positioned neatly along the length of the blanket, not making a sound. William hangs over the bed and watches Martin glide under and out and under and out of the beds to his left, surprisingly graceful. William can no longer see him, so he lies back down and waits in the thick quiet of communal sleep.