‘Is that their address?’ William points to the reverse side of the photo.
Colin nods.
‘You said you didn’t know where they lived.’
‘I could never show my face, so I may as well not know.’ Colin’s head drops. William’s afraid he’s going to cry. ‘When she took them to London, my wife said if I got myself straight, I could see them.’
‘Martin told me you couldn’t.’
‘I can’t if I’m on the booze. And I can’t come off it, so it’s the same thing. And anyway, I don’t want them to see me like this.’
‘Tea?’ William holds up the flask.
Colin nods but looks in the bag. ‘Club biscuits. Haven’t seen these since they were in my kids’ lunchboxes.’ His body straightens all of a sudden. ‘What’s the time?’
William checks his watch. ‘Ten past five.’
Colin stands up, lurches to one side and then falls back onto the seat. ‘It’s today, isn’t it? The “Miserere”。 Come with me.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Colin starts to walk in the wrong direction, dropping the photo. ‘Thanks for the food.’
‘You’ve dropped your picture.’
‘I know.’
‘Don’t you want it?’
He shakes his head. William watches from the bench as twice, Colin stumbles, but when he actually falls and knocks his shoulder on a gravestone, William bends down to pick up the photo, runs over to him, lifts his arm and puts it over his shoulder.
It takes them half an hour to get to the college. With his forehead dripping, his right arm stiff from supporting Colin, and his armpits sticky and damp, William breaks his promise to himself, and for the first time in thirteen years, walks through the college gates towards the chapel.
55
The doors are as high as he remembers. Their scale is grand whether you’re four foot or six foot. Still majestic and lofty, yet still （and this surprises him）， still it feels as if he’s being welcomed. Trusting Colin to support himself now, William enters the narthex and a waft of ancient air leaves a grainy taste on his throat.
‘Come on, William, you’re in for a treat,’ says Colin as they cross the threshold.
And here it all is; the rich ceiling, the glint of gold on the floor, and the deep colours, as window after window fills the chapel with refracted light.
Colin spots the others and sets off in a stumbling half-trot. The men shuffle up to make room on the pew. Jenny is here, excited and alert, pointing out something in the order of service to one of the men, a scarlet scarf over her jacket. William sits on the end with Colin to his right, but from further down the row, Martin stands up and waves his hands for everyone to move along so he can sit next to William at the end of the pew.
‘You’ve come.’ Martin pats him briefly on the leg.
‘By accident,’ he mutters.
He picks up the order of service: Rachmaninoff, Purcell, Weelkes. Old friends.
The pews are filling; raincoats, tweed jackets and anoraks like in his day, but now, bright wool scarves trail the floor, an afghan coat, a rainbow cardigan with toggles. There’s a flash of purple and white to his left, and here they come. He feels a surge of adrenaline, as if it’s him about to sing. Tiny and slight, tall and rangy, plump and spotty, in cassocks too long and too short, the boys process past, their light surplices billowing and white.
He glances down the line of Midnighters; they breathe heavily, sit awkwardly, crusty boots undone, dirty laces trailing. Maybe they’re his protection, his ballast against the past; broken men, sung to by little boys, certainly no angels themselves. Ordinary yet extraordinary, all of them. A rush of wonder flows through him. Maybe Martin was right, his family debris is insignificant compared to this grandeur, this depth. Ridiculous, he knows, but the feeling that this chapel loves him is strong as ever. Here’s Phillip! Still thin, more stooped, head tilting to one side with that sense of purpose, a job to be done. The choristers peel away, flowing into the stalls on either side of the aisle.
It’s then that William discovers there are no barriers to time travel here. Because nothing has changed; the candle holders, the lights, the kneelers, the ironwork at the end of each pew. As the boys take their places and arrange their music, William can’t stop the descent to a place deep within. He’s in dual time now, alongside the grown Martin and his shuffling, smelly Midnighters, but equally, alongside his thirteen-year-old self, about to sing Allegri’s ‘Miserere’。