‘So.’ Martin lays the music under his chair. ‘Let’s warm up with some laa-ing, shall we?’ He checks the square clock on the wall. ‘Jenny should be here any minute, but we can manage this bit without her. Everyone up.’ Martin stands and there’s a rumble and shriek of chair legs.
The narrow windows that run around the top of the church hall are slightly ajar, but still, the smell of the men is bitter and musty. William decides not to try and identify the individual odours. They all seem to be wearing coats, though some of their clothes are so tattered and layered, it’s hard to identify what the items originally were. Martin, as usual, is in baggy cords and an open-necked shirt.
‘Remember, breathe from here,’ Martin says, his paw of a hand over his stomach. Some men adjust their posture, some don’t. He sings them their note, bottom D.
This is the first time William has heard Martin’s adult singing voice. They all knew, as choristers, that however exquisite their voices, there was no guarantee they’d be anything special later on, but Phillip always said their discipline and training would stand them in good stead to make the best of what they were landed with. William’s not at all surprised, though, that Martin is a lush, resonant bass.
He leads them up and down their scales and arpeggios. William is impressed. The overall sound is pleasing, albeit a bit gritty. He does his old trick of differentiating the voices, and this makes him notice individual faces, dissolves his sense that they are one, messy whole. He notices the delicate bone structure of the tenor opposite, his wire-wool hair roughly brushed and parted. He sees the wide-open mouth of the man to his left, with a front tooth missing.
‘William, can you give the files out, please?’ Martin points to a lopsided table in the corner and the pile of A4 ring binders, with ‘Midnight Choir’ written on the spines. They slither and slide in his arms as he walks round the circle. The men take the folders in both hands, two feet flat on the ground, sit up straight.
‘Number three then, to finish the warm-up. William, you’re going to have to play piano. Do you mind? I don’t know what’s happened to Jenny.’
He hasn’t touched a piano since he left Cambridge. Walking across the hall, he wishes that Martin had warned him he might be called on to play, but then the door opens and a woman William guesses to be in her forties runs in.
‘Sorry, Martin, I had a puncture.’ She hurries over to the piano, taking off her coat as she goes. ‘Had to go back and get my husband’s and I can’t cycle very fast on his. Hello, gentlemen.’ The woman waves quickly to the group and a ‘Hello, Jenny’ comes back. They like her, William thinks.
‘Not to worry,’ Martin says, ‘we’re just going to finish the warm-up with “Danny Boy”。 This is William, Jenny, an old friend who’s helping out for a bit.’
‘Hello, William.’ She smiles, laying her coat on the top of the piano and opening the lid.
Martin gives her a minute to find the music, then raises his hand and nods at her. She plays a few bars of the introduction, her back and head swaying. It’s striking how the men are holding their books. Straight-backed, heads up. Martin has been channelling Phillip.
It’s patchy of course, but there’s also a richness to it William didn’t expect. They’re really singing. And somewhere in there are one or two good voices.
On William’s left is a gangly, skinny man, impossible to age, but his long hair and wispy beard are mostly grey. He’s on edge, eyes flicking to William often, but never resting long enough for William to smile at him. He’s not on the right page and isn’t singing, but William is wary of helping him. He’s wary of all of them. But by the second verse, he can’t stand it any longer. He leans across, flicks forward two pages and points briefly at the words they are singing now.
‘But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow,
Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow.’
The man nods, looks briefly at him, but still doesn’t sing, and after a few seconds starts turning the pages again.
‘David can’t read,’ the man on William’s right says. William is embarrassed at his faux pas and barely acknowledges the comment. ‘He’s deaf,’ the man adds.
‘Oh,’ William mouths back, nodding. He sings along quietly; he doesn’t want to be heard.
‘Right. Let’s get serious about this, shall we?’ Martin’s eyes are bright; he looks even taller and broader than normal. He eyeballs the men, one by one, and extends his hand. ‘Come on. Mean it.’ His hand closes to a fist. ‘Mean it.’ He looks briefly at the lyrics, rests the tips of his fingers over his heart, then seeks out each man’s gaze again. ‘“And I shall hear – I shall hear, though soft you tread above me.”’ His lively eyes sweep the room. ‘“And all my grave will warmer, sweeter be.” Come on. Gentlemen, make me believe it! “For you will bend and tell me that you love me.”’ He pauses again, then adds softly, ‘“And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.”’