‘Steady on, that kind of behaviour could land you in a lot of trouble!’
‘Take the mickey all you want!’ William can’t help but laugh. ‘I like talking to her and I like drinking cocoa.’
‘If you do want to step things up, and you need any advice, I’m your man. Let’s just say I’ve packed an orifice or two in my time.’
William winces, can’t help it.
Ray’s confidence visibly falters. ‘I know you think I’m a loser, but you could at least try and hide it.’
‘I don’t think that,’ he half lies, feeling guilty, ‘sorry.’
Ray softens at the apology. ‘Who’d have guessed there were boys in this world who spent Saturday mornings putting make-up on stiffs?’ Ray warms to his theme. ‘Not me, that’s for sure.’
‘Not every Saturday.’ William laughs. ‘And not until I was fourteen.’
‘Why fourteen?’ Ray frowns. ‘Is that the age of initiation?’
‘It’s when I moved in with my uncle.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘I might not know where a carotid artery flows from and to, but I’m sure I can follow your living arrangements.’
William is relieved to see the time on his watch. He gulps down the rest of his drink and picks up his coat. ‘Right, I’m off.’
Ray looks at the clock on the wall. ‘We’ve got ten minutes yet.’
‘I haven’t. I’m going out with Arthur.’
‘Where?’
‘Home visit, council bigwig. His wife wants him embalmed at home.’
‘I see,’ Ray says, his face closed down, smile gone. ‘Golden Boy to the rescue.’
Arthur has never invited Ray to a home embalming, and this is the third time William has been asked. But the flicker of sympathy William feels is extinguished by a sudden and strong feeling of superiority.
‘Talking of advice, I’ve got some for you.’
‘What’s that then?’ Ray stands and puts his coat on.
‘Get a haircut. Even if your marks improve, you won’t get asked on any home visits looking like that.’
William’s afternoon goes well. Arthur praises his work and professional, solicitous manner with the councillor’s widow. But the whole thing is sullied for him because of the fiery colour that rose on Ray’s face before he had time to laugh it away.
? ? ?
If his mother had come to get him sooner, before the summer holidays, William would have gone. But after the gazumping, the new house wouldn’t be ready until the end of October, and the unexpected promotion she got when her boss had a heart attack meant she was incredibly busy, so it was agreed he’d see the half-term out in Sutton. Before Ash Wednesday, the thought of moving to Wales had some appeal, but after he’d gone cold turkey on choral music and promised himself never to sing in public again, the last thing he wanted was Evelyn pushing him to join a male voice choir. And anyway, by then, William was certain about his future. He kept telling Uncle Robert and Howard he wanted to stay with them, but neither seemed to hear him.
And then, half-term arrived and one day there she was, all perky and bright getting out of her new Ford Anglia, which, William noticed with irritation from his window, matched her burgundy lipstick and shoes.
Robert, Howard and Evelyn were standing in the hall, the first time they had been together since the dreadful evening of the ‘Miserere’。 Still in his room, he put the suitcase that Robert thought had been packed for two days back on top of his wardrobe, breathed in deeply and walked downstairs.
‘Here you are!’ Evelyn watched him descend, beaming. She registered his empty hands and her smile hardened. ‘Everything’s ready for our big adventure.’ She tried to take his hand but he pulled it out of her reach.
‘I don’t want an adventure.’
Evelyn didn’t miss a beat. ‘You’ll meet people your own age. All the young men down there sing in choirs.’
‘I don’t want to sing. I want to be an embalmer. Here.’
‘How can you possibly know that?’ Her smile was getting weaker, her tone sharper.
‘Because I’ve been doing it. Every day.’ From the corner of his eye, he saw Robert and Howard look at each other.
‘For goodness’ sake, Robert.’ Her head swung to him. ‘A fourteen-year-old boy spending his time in a funeral home? What were you thinking?’
‘It was my idea,’ William interjected. ‘I’m good at it, aren’t I, Uncle Robert?’