Once they are seated and the headmaster starts to speak, William suddenly needs the toilet.
‘It pains me to have to start the term with a disciplinary matter.’ Mr Atkinson hasn’t even said welcome back, or Happy New Year. Martin nods at William’s bouncing left leg and frowns. William tries to sit still. ‘But I have received what can only be described as ridiculous letters purporting to be from parents requesting idiotic schoolboy favours. I am not a fool and will not be treated as one by foolish boys who should know better. All those involved – you know who you are – will come to my office straight after assembly.’
Mark Nettles, sitting along the row from William, twitches his head to the right slightly, but doesn’t look at him. He can’t see the younger boys, Charles and Anthony, from where he is. A pulse beats in the ball of his sweaty right foot. He remembers Charles whimpering through the night in William’s wet pyjamas back in September, and imagines how frightened he must be now. Martin’s face is innocent and calm as ever, singing the hymns as if he means it, closing his eyes for prayers, listening to the notices. William struggles to stay on his seat. The dark green tweed of Mr Atkinson’s trousers and the shine of his brogues, once admired by William, are now filled with menace.
‘Those boys coming to see me, wait outside my room,’ he says after the last hymn, gathering his papers from the podium, ‘I’ll be along shortly.’
‘I’m going to be sick,’ William says, as he and Martin walk along the corridor. Mark, Charles and Anthony are still in the body of boys funnelling through the hall door.
‘They should have thought of better requests,’ says Martin as they climb the broad stairs. ‘It’s their fault, not ours.’
‘Shoe lace liquorice?’ William says.
Martin puts his head to one side and purses his lips as they arrive at Mr Atkinson’s office. ‘Fair point.’ It is beyond William how there can be even a ghost of a smile on Martin’s face as he leans against the wall.
The others appear. Even though Mark is four years older than Charles and Anthony, he is barely taller than them.
‘My dad’s going to go mad if he hears about this.’ Mark glances at the younger boys. ‘We didn’t write the letters! Why should we get punished for something we didn’t do?’
‘Yes!’ says Anthony, in a bold voice that doesn’t match his frightened eyes.
William’s buttocks tighten, imagining the whacks he’ll get as scribe of all four letters.
Mark jabs William’s chest. ‘You did it! You need to own up.’
‘Rubbish!’ says Martin. ‘You’d have thanked us if it had worked.’
‘But it didn’t’ – Mark’s pinched face is getting redder – ‘that’s the point!’
Martin ignores him and turns to William. ‘Go back to class, quick, before Mr Atkinson comes.’ He nudges him away. ‘You don’t need to be here.’
‘What?’ says Mark, two deep furrows at the top of his delicate nose. ‘He’s the only one that needs to be here. He wrote the letters!’
‘The letters were from your parents, asking for things you wanted.’ Martin is calm and matter of fact. ‘Go on, get lost, William, quick.’
‘But I did it!’ William says.
‘No, you didn’t.’ Martin shakes his head. ‘I did.’ He turns to the others, his body still loose and easy. ‘And if any of you say any different, I’ll make your lives so miserable you’ll wish you’d had a whacking from Atkinson every day for a week, instead of having me to deal with.’
Charles clamps his lips together, fighting tears.
‘No,’ William says, ‘that’s not fair.’
‘Go!’ Martin pushes him hard, so he stumbles backwards.
He looks at the others. They’re resigned; they’re not going to argue. Before he has time for any other thoughts, he walks away as quickly as he can, fizzing with shame, already regretting it, but knowing he isn’t going to turn back.
24
FEBRUARY 1959
It’s a high-wire act, this solo, like floating above a canyon. Getting up there isn’t the problem; William can get to an F, never mind a C. The problem is holding the G in perfect pitch, rock steady, without cracking or fading while all the parts below are changing. Allegri’s ‘Miserere’。 It still thrills him how his breath, his voice, can fill the chapel, soaring up to its high ceiling, piercing the silence, or slicing through other voices. And when he’s a soloist, there’s the thrill of knowing the others’ voices are there to frame and magnify his own. It’s magic. Pure magic.