William and Martin stand where they performed the play, while every chair is landed on by the adults and every space on the floor occupied by the young Musseys.
Martin nods at William. ‘You tell them about the song.’
William suddenly feels raw, standing there in drag, about to tell them something so beautiful and tender. As if he’s about to peel off a layer of skin.
‘It’s about a boy who loves a girl called Myfanwy. They’ve promised to be together, but he knows she doesn’t love him any more, so although he’s heartbroken, he releases her from the promises she made to him.’ William is much more aware now than he was during the play of the faces watching him. ‘Because more than anything, he wants her to be happy. In the last verse, he asks her to hold his hand one last time, but only to say goodbye.’
‘Oh, dear God! I’m welling up already,’ says Mrs Mussey, pulling a hanky out from her sleeve and dropping it on her lap in cheerful readiness.
‘Sounds marvellous, boys, off you go,’ says Martin’s dad, who sounds weary and might just want to go to bed.
With their vocal cords already warm and elastic, they start, with what Martin would call a juicy, plum pie sound. In spite of all the excitement and adrenaline of the evening, William relaxes his eyes so he can focus on the sound, not anyone’s face.
They’re done and there it is – that heavy beat of silence – the mute thump of emotion before the startled burst of applause. Martin’s grandfather stands and claps with his hands above his head. Imogen and Isobel both whistle with their fingers in their mouths, clapping each other’s spare hands. Mrs Wickers is crying. He and Martin bow and bow again, so drawn out is the clapping. William allows himself to look at everyone’s faces, meet their eyes, but it’s not until he notices that Mr and Mrs Mussey are holding hands that he realises he is holding Martin’s, with no idea how they came to be like this. He gently pulls it free.
William finally drops onto the soft mattress shortly after midnight for his last night before returning to school. Martin only just walloped down on his seconds ago, but his breathing already seems to be deepening.
‘Martin?’
‘Mmm?’
‘I’ve had a great time.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Thanks for inviting me.’
‘You’re welcome – Bella.’
William is asleep within seconds.
He can’t breathe. The huge, sinewy mermaid is writhing on top of him. He struggles to free himself from her strong, wet tail which is coiling round his waist. Her mouth is all over his, salty, sea-swilled. He gasps and recoils and doesn’t understand why he should have an erection when he is so revolted by the fish woman on top of him.
Wait. He really can’t breathe. The mermaid has vanished. He is awake, but his mouth is still covered; a body weighs down on his. In a panic, he shoves it away, is finally able to breathe in, ready to shout out, but a big fleshy hand stifles it.
‘Shhh, it’s only me.’ Martin’s whisper is quieter than breath. His face eclipses the room.
‘What are you doing?’ William’s heart is flinging itself against the cage of his ribs.
‘I thought you wanted it.’ William feels Martin’s erection against his stomach. He pushes him away again, twisting his face from Martin’s.
‘Well, I don’t.’ His throat strains with the force of such whispering. ‘Get off!’
Martin looks at William, a crease at the top of his nose, then pulls away suddenly, drops back against the pillow. William glances at him. His eyes are silvery from the moonlight glancing in through the naked window.
‘Bloody hell, Martin,’ William whispers. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘I didn’t either. I just wanted to kiss you.’
‘I’m sorry.’ William talks to the ceiling. ‘I don’t.’
Martin returns to his own bed, his pyjamas bright in the moonlight.
28
Evelyn’s burgundy tweed dress is tight at her small waist. A cardigan the same colour is draped round her shoulders. Ash Wednesday is two weeks away, and as Martin had predicted, the ‘Miserere’ is William’s. In his pocket, folded up with his exeat, is a letter from Uncle Robert. He doesn’t know when he’s going to get it out, but he knows at some point he’ll have to.
Last night, having refolded the crumpled letter and put it in his trouser pocket ready for the next day, William calculated that he and his mother must have had twelve lunches at the Copper Kettle over the last three and a half years. There are other cafes, but they have always sat and gazed out on King’s Parade, at the lace-like stonework, the glassless windows and slender pillars tipped with crosses. Evelyn, always luminous at seeing him, has brought funny stories and baked treats in a box. She’s always dug for details of his chorister life; lessons, Martin’s misdemeanours, what nice things Phillip has said during choir practice. There have been times, of course, when hiccoughs of irritation interrupted their chatter, but on the whole, they’ve enjoyed their lunches and he’s looked forward to seeing her.