This isn’t the first time they’ve sung in Phillip’s native tongue. It’s a funny language and there’s simply no guessing how to pronounce it. Once, Martin asked what the Welsh had against vowels. Phillip, in good humour, said perhaps because the language is so old, vowels hadn’t been invented.
‘Right, have a quick read of the English so you get a feel of it,’ he says now, apparently scanning the words himself. William’s eyes skitter down the Welsh before settling on the translation of the last verse.
Myfanwy, may your life entirely be
Beneath the midday sun’s bright glow,
And may a blushing rose of health
Dance on your cheek a hundred years.
I forget all your words of promise
You made to someone, my pretty girl
So give me your hand, my sweet Myfanwy,
For no more but to say ‘farewell’。
‘As you see, it’s called “Myfanwy”，’ Phillip says, ‘composed by Joseph Parry, first performed around 1875. A sad, noble song. The beloved – Myfanwy – has fallen out of love with the poet, but this is his generous acceptance of the fact, setting her free.’ William sees Charles roll his eyes at his friend, but Martin, next to him, who loves a story, is hooked. ‘He wants above all her happiness and to hold her hand one last time, to say farewell.’ Phillip raises his eyebrows. ‘Bit soppy, you may think, but it’s terribly affecting when performed well. One of those songs whose music perfectly reflects the sentiment behind the words, thus giving birth to those very feelings in the listener.
‘There’s disagreement over the words’ origins, but it was probably written by the poet Hywel ab Einion.’ William loves the effortless switch in Phillip’s voice to Welsh pronunciation. ‘We’ll sing in Welsh. No solos. It’s often sung by male voice choirs, a giant tap of Welsh nostalgia, and that’s not a bad thing for a memorial service, but don’t worry, I’ll take care not to drown you.’ Phillip usually makes jokes with a deadpan delivery and it can take a moment and a look between the boys to confirm they’re meant to smile. ‘We’ll be unaccompanied, so it’s vital we get the pronunciation right. We’ll start with that.’ He waits for them to gather themselves. ‘Let’s just say the words. Ready?’
Daily, they sing in Latin, or Italian, or German, but with Welsh, the boys feel an added pressure to get it right.
‘Paham mae dicter, O Myfanwy,’ Phillip says with great precision. ‘Everybody?’
They say it back to him.
‘Right,’ Phillip continues, business-like, ‘it’s important to get the poor girl’s name right, don’t you think? It’s Muvanwuay, Got it? Muvanwuay. Everybody say it. Go.’
‘Muvanwuay.’
‘Better. Good. Next line, a bit tricky …’
19
‘That was juicy.’ Martin has been humming the melody across the playing fields.
‘What colour?’ William’s foot slides on mud and he grabs Martin’s arm to right himself.
‘Plum, of course, D flat.’
William always understands Martin’s choice – violet for ‘Faire is the Heaven’， egg-yolk yellow for ‘God is Gone Up’ – but he could never come up with them himself.
Martin hangs up his coat next to William’s before they make their way with four others to maths on the far side of the school. ‘Pity there aren’t any solos.’ Martin bends down to pick up a conker in the middle of the corridor and slides it in his pocket. ‘Will singing at the memorial be tough?’ Martin keeps his eyes on the ground. ‘Because of your dad?’
‘Not sure.’
Martin puts his heavy arm round William’s shoulders briefly before he opens the classroom door.
It took a few weeks for William to get used to arriving late for the first lesson of the day, but now he quite enjoys walking in once everyone has started and having a quiet few moments with the teacher to catch them up. As they weave through the desks in the room of bent heads, Martin mutters, ‘I’m going to learn it in English, and I’ll sing it for my party piece at Christmas.’
Mr Shrubs comes to their desks and drops a worksheet before each of them. He crouches down, resting his big index finger on William’s purple bander copy. ‘Long division. More practice, carrying on from yesterday.’
William can do long division. Fractions and percentages, not so good. As he scans the worksheet, he wonders if he could sing at home this Christmas. Martin’s huge sprawl of a family are always performing to each other. He’s told William about school holidays when he, his four siblings and nine （nine!） cousins spend all day writing and rehearsing a play; making a stage set, ransacking wardrobes for costumes, and then performing to the adults in the evening after supper. Imagine that! William thinks of himself, with just his mum, Uncle Robert and Howard sitting in the lounge together, quiet and tense. Still, they would love to hear him sing.