‘Yes and yes.’ Martin nods, sitting back, his stomach pushing against the checked shirt. ‘After university – I failed, by the way – I went to Ivory Coast with VSO for three years. Every teacher and tutor I ever had told me how selfish and lazy I was, so I decided to prove them wrong. Loved the people, loved the climate, could have stayed there, to be honest, but Mum got ill, and I came back to help look after her for the last six months.’
William tries to imagine robust Mrs Mussey on her deathbed. ‘I’m sorry.’
Martin dips his head. ‘It was three years ago now. Dad shed this mortal coil too, a year later. Wasn’t any point for him without her.’
William is ashamed and sad. In another life, he would have been at their funerals.
‘Anyway,’ Martin continues, his broad face etched with fine lines, freckles still dotting his nose and cheeks, ‘I came into a fair bit of dosh and went slightly berserk in true prodigal fashion. Did too much of everything that wasn’t good for me, not enough of what was. Lived in San Francisco for a while, and London. Then I had a particularly painful break-up, and when I sorted myself out, had a think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.’
‘And you came back here?’ Gloria’s East London accent always turns up a notch when she’s concentrating.
‘Only for a sort of holiday at first, to reconnect with my musical roots. Music was one of the things I’d decided was good for me. On my first night, after a drink here, I was walking back to my bed and breakfast and came across two drunks sitting on the kerb singing. I sat down and joined in.’ William laughs at how easily he can picture this. ‘They were surprisingly good, so I taught them a few harmonies. It was a hoot. Then I taught them “Bird on the Wire”。’
‘What?’ William asks.
‘Leonard Cohen?’
William and Gloria shake their heads.
‘Where have you been?’
‘Sutton Coldfield,’ they say together, making Martin laugh again.
‘You should check him out,’ he continues. ‘The man’s a genius, check that song out. It’s what gave me the idea, and the name.’
‘What idea?’ Gloria asks, like a child on a story mat. ‘What name?’
‘The Midnight Choir. We meet every week in a church hall on Hills Road and once a term I bring them here. I have to tip Phillip off, to have a word with the porter so we don’t get turned away.’
‘That’s fantastic,’ William says. ‘How many of them?’
‘On a good night’ – Martin looks to the ceiling, counting – ‘fifteen.’
‘Is that your job?’ asks Gloria.
‘If only. I work in the Rare Books reading room in St John’s library. Can you believe it? I have to whisper all day. Me!’
‘What do you sing?’ Gloria leans her elbows on the table opposite Martin.
‘Pop songs, golden oldies, and hymns. They love a good hymn.’
‘I’m glad you’re still singing,’ William says.
‘Don’t tell me you’re not?’ Martin frowns from William to Gloria.
There’s a beat of silence. ‘Oh, he sings every day.’ Gloria leans closer towards Martin and whispers, ‘But only to dead people. Similar repertoire to you; pop songs, old people songs – but no hymns.’
William sees the twinkle in Martin’s eyes, getting the measure of her, warming to her humour. Martin turns from Gloria and puts his head on one side to look at William.
‘But you’re not in a choir?’
William shakes his head. ‘My performing days are over. Unless, as Gloria says, the audience is dead.’
‘So you joined the family business after all?’
William nods.
‘Don’t go all modest, William,’ says Gloria.
He grimaces.
Gloria looks vexed, turning to Martin. ‘He’s the best embalmer in the country.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ William nudges her.
‘With Uncle Robert?’ Martin smiles.
‘Yep.’
‘How is he?’
‘Good, thanks. Gets tired, but no real health problems.’
‘And Howard?’
‘Yep, still going strong.’
‘We live with them.’ Gloria leans under the table and, after a brief rummage in her bag, brings out the Fitzbillies box. ‘Fancy one of these?’
‘If you weren’t married, I’d propose immediately.’ Martin reaches into the box and bites off half a bun in one easy movement. ‘So, William,’ he says with sugars-peckled lips, ‘how’s the lovely Evelyn?’