‘Martin?’ William mutters after completing three of the sums. ‘Can we practise “Myfanwy” together? Then I can sing it at Christmas too.’
By the memorial service four days later, Martin and William have sung the English and Welsh versions so many times they’ve been asked to be quiet by three masters, everyone in their dorm and the head gardener. William has even sung it in his Donald Duck voice, thrilled at the loud belly laugh it raised from Martin. Always, at the last lines, ‘So give me your hand, my sweet Myfanwy, For no more but to say “farewell”，’ Martin grips William’s hand with one of his, the other melodramatically over his heart.
? ? ?
Tiny, stick-limbed and hunched, Professor Hughes’s widow reminds William so much of a bird, he thinks she could hop right into the showy floral display at the front of the chapel and not be noticed amongst the bright fleshy petals. William stares at the three young children, who he presumes are the professor’s grandchildren, squirming between their parents on the front row. The dark army of gowned staff behind the family look too solemn for a celebration. William thinks it’s all a bit of a nonsense. Isn’t it always just sad when someone dies? He starts to picture his mother and uncle at his dad’s funeral, but it’s time to sing.
They leave the stalls to stand before the altar. William wants to watch the professor’s widow, but by now he is too well trained; he keeps his eyes on Phillip, who waits for complete stillness and attention before he lifts his hand.
The sound is rich and mellow with an insistent sadness that scoops deeper and deeper with every line. By the velvet bloom and fade of the last verse, with Phillip pulling the feeling from the music with every fluid move of his right hand, the surf of emotion rolling back to them from the congregation astounds William.
The instant Phillip ties off the final note, William glances at Mrs Hughes, in time to catch the look between her and Phillip. It lasts a fraction of a second, but her gratitude and his kindness bring instant tears to his eyes. Blinking, he bites the soft sides of his mouth, until the physical movement back to the choir stalls rescues him.
In bed that night, he can’t stop thinking of the service and all the stories about the professor that made everyone sad and happy at the same time. He wonders what stories would have been told about his father, with him and Evelyn, Robert and Howard sitting on the front row, the smell of lilies sharp and powdery in the air.
Someone, probably some vicar, would definitely say how much fun he was. How when he came near, William’s body would tighten a bit, get ready; to be picked up, thrown in the air, tickled, cuddled. How his dad always had to sit in the middle of the sofa when the three of them watched telly, so he could put his arm round both of them and say he’d got all he needed to be happy right here, tucked under each armpit. But, William wonders, how would a vicar know that? Only he and his mum knew about that. The vicar would probably say how proud his dad was to be an undertaker and to carry on the family business with his brother, and that makes his tummy tight because he knows it would make his mum feel left out and lonely.
The best memories a vicar wouldn’t know about, and anyway, William’s not sure what a best memory is; they’re all a muddle of good and bad, warm and cold. There is one of him sharing a private joke with his dad that he loves so much, it’s worth enduring the not so nice sequence of events that led up to it.
William was a poor sleeper as a baby, so his dad would leave the house with him on a Saturday morning to let Evelyn sleep. Howard and Robert soon joined them, and the fact that by the time he was two, William slept a solid twelve hours every night, was no reason to stop such an enjoyable routine. The men slipped back into their old camaraderie from school days, with the entertaining bonus of a biddable toddler.
During late spring of William’s fifth year, an early heatwave gave Robert the idea of them taking William fishing. No one thought to prepare the animal-loving boy for what was about to happen.
‘Stop!’ William screamed, when the silver-blue creature appeared, dangling by its mouth, its body flick-flacking. ‘You’re hurting it!’ he bellowed, appalled at the unprecedented cruelty of his uncle.
‘Woo-hooo! Halloooo, William! Isssn’t thissss fffun?’ It was Howard, speaking in a funny, splashy voice. ‘Pleassh can I dance on the gwassssy bank before you put me back in?’ The voice was happy, and as Howard spoke, he jerked and flicked his own body a bit like the fish.
William watched intently as Robert put it on the bank and gently removed the hook.