‘I know it’s just a building, but it doesn’t feel like just a building,’ he tried to explain to Martin once.
‘My dad doesn’t care much about church, but he says that coming to hear us sing is like being hugged by God,’ Martin offered. ‘Is it like that?’
‘Sort of, but the chapel feels like itself, not God. Bigger and older than us, but still letting us join in with a great game it’s been playing for hundreds of years.’
Martin shook his head and laughed, but as usual, it made William feel better, not worse about what he’d said.
‘Don’t tell anyone else, but when I’m singing, it feels like the chapel is smiling at me.’
‘That’s Phillip, not the chapel! He smiles at your voice all the time, but he tries not to, he’s not meant to have favourites.’
Missing the beginning of class every morning, William is spurred on by the constant need to catch up. It serves him well. The masters recognise he works hard and are impressed that, even though he seems joined at the hip to Mussey, he never gets into trouble. Classes are to be endured, prep a daily task to be completed. Fortunately, William finds he does have endurance, he is able to complete his prep, and he even has time to cajole his reluctant, restless friend to finish his.
? ? ?
With seasonal music oozing through his pores, he walks with Martin and two other choristers along the corridor towards the history room. It’s three weeks before Christmas, on a Wednesday morning, almost at the end of William’s first term. His fingers are a lilac colour from the cold and his nose is runny. William likes this particular classroom, which may be more cramped than others but is twice as warm. Martin holds the door open, bowing and gesturing extravagantly for them to go before him.
The cosy fug of bodies and the hum of radiator heat register first. He becomes aware that everyone is listening to music before he recognises what it is, but when he does, he comes to such an abrupt halt that Martin bumps into him.
Next to Mr Hawthorn’s desk is an upright square of pale wood with a metal mesh circle at its centre. The music coming out of it is well known to William; the blunt simplicity of the tenors’ plainsong about to bloom, the swooping harmonies and embellishments, the not quite human top C of the treble’s solo. Martin nudges William and flicks his head in the direction of two empty desks. William doesn’t move, held by silence like a basket holding the wonder of what’s just happened and the expectation of what’s about to come.
Allegri’s ‘Miserere’。
He was five, sitting on his father’s lap, staring at the record player’s leathery red and black casing, the stylus riding the grooves of the shining vinyl that rolled round and round and round.
‘Why are you crying?’ Evelyn laughed, reaching across to ruffle his hair. He slid from his dad’s lap, knelt by the record player, so close he could smell the heat and the plastic, see the slight undulations as the record revolved, the wisp of dust gathering on the needle.
‘Again. Put it on again, Mummy!’
When Evelyn told him that this beautiful, beautiful sound was made by a boy just a few years older than him, his world cracked open. If a boy like him could make a sound like that, what other magic was possible?
‘That’ll be you soon,’ Martin mutters, as he pulls him by the sleeve to sit down.
‘Mm,’ William replies. He unzips his pencil case and starts to sharpen a lead so blunt it’s almost flush with the wood, but he is too brisk and the new point snaps off, wedging itself between the blades of the sharpener. In the many hours they have spent together, William has told Martin all sorts of things. Martin is an exceptional listener, mainly, William realises, because he loves a story. So less than a term in, Martin knows William feels time spent with his uncle keeps his father from disappearing. He’s seen his photo of Howard, bookended with the identical brothers. He knows that Evelyn is pained rather than comforted by Robert and Howard’s presence and is determined that her son won’t go into the family business, but use his gift and do something musical. He knows William feels as if he’s flying when he sings, and that a place at the front of his skull buzzes when he hits the high notes. It feels as if he’s told Martin most things, except, to his surprise, this; singing the solo for Allegri’s ‘Miserere’ is what he’s here for.
‘You all know this piece of music, of course,’ Mr Hawthorn says once it’s over, walking back and forth before the blackboard, throwing and catching a small piece of chalk, ‘but does anyone know the background to it?’