‘William! Do you want me to write a letter about that cold water?’
He waves, shaking his head, and goes inside.
18
‘It’s always worse – after the first exeat.’
William thought he was managing to cry silently. Martin is lying on his side in the next bed, his head propped up in his plate-like hand.
The memory of his mother calling after him, asking if she should write to Mr Atkinson about the dips, with her hurt knee, squeezes his heart so tightly his breathing comes in soft grunts; the urgency of her voice, the folds of her face concentrated so keenly on him.
‘Don’t worry, you’re like me,’ whispers Martin, who, for such a raucous person, has the quietest voice when he wants to. ‘Once you’re back in the chapel you’ll feel better.’
Martin’s right. In the chapel, it’s easy for William to forget his mother. And sooner than he could have hoped, Porter’s voice starts to squeak and wobble him out of usefulness, so by the end of October, William is fast-tracked from probationer status. A heavy black cloak to walk to chapel in, a mortarboard with a silky tassel swinging at the edge of his vision, and a purple robe transform him into what he was always meant to be. A chorister.
Daily routines are rigid. Lessons and prep are slow and dull compared to his time in the chapel, but they have to be done, and by the time they are done, minutes and hours have passed and it’s time to sing again. Even the rehearsal room, which on William’s first day was such a disappointment, pleases him now. Small and plain, it seems the perfect place for introductions between choristers and music. Later, just before evensong, they’re ready to present themselves to the mysterious chapel and let it work its acoustic magic on what they’ve practised.
‘Morning, gentlemen,’ Phillip says this morning, the usual tentative smile lifting his cheeks.
William spots sheets of pristine music on top of Phillip’s folder. Something new. William has noticed new pieces draw something different from Phillip; a lightness, a gentle spirit of adventure. Rehearsing things that have been sung here for two hundred years, William wonders if the chapel ever thinks, Not this one again! And with pieces sung for the first time, he imagines the chapel tasting their sounds, harmonies and rhythms for the first time. But this morning, after spending twenty minutes on Bach’s ‘Herr Gott, nun schleuss den Himmel auf’， and then quarter of an hour on Tallis’s five-part ‘Te Deum’， William wonders whether they’ll make it to the fresh scores. Then Phillip smiles at them.
‘Now, something a little different.’ He lifts the smooth white paper and holds it loosely in his hand, so it flops slowly towards them. ‘You may have heard that Professor Hughes, Regius Professor of History, died last week. Wonderful old soul. There’s a memorial here on Tuesday afternoon.’
‘Excuse me, sir.’ William finds himself with his hand up and speaking before Phillip has even nodded back at him. ‘Is that the same as a funeral?’
Phillip pauses long enough for William to regret calling out, but when he finally answers, his voice is kind.
‘No, Lavery, not quite – there’s no coffin at a memorial because the funeral has already happened. It’s more of an opportunity to remember and give thanks for the person who’s died. More of a celebration, really. Of a life.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ William nods and frowns down at his music.
William was eight when his father died. His mother told him children weren’t allowed at funerals, but a year later, a schoolfriend had the afternoon off school to be at his grandmother’s.
‘Oh, darling,’ his mother said, pulling him into her slim body. He’d come home from school in tears, wanting to know why she’d lied and why he hadn’t been invited to his dad’s funeral. ‘We were so sad and it was so awful, I didn’t want to put you through it.’
‘It shouldn’t be too gloomy,’ Phillip continues now. ‘Professor Hughes was a ripe old age, so there’s a lot to be thankful for.’
What he means, William thinks, is that when someone dies at an unripe age, like thirty-two, there isn’t.
‘So’ – Phillip looks round at the boys – ‘we’re going to do something rather special. Professor Hughes was Welsh and loved this piece. It’s been in the Welsh popular culture for many, many years.’ He hands Bishop, the new head chorister, a pile of papers to give out. As William reaches out for his, he sees there’s an English translation too, which is unusual.