If only he could undo the things he ought not to have done recently. As the congregation thunders its way through the Lord’s Prayer, Uncle Robert and Howard still look uncomfortable. His mother remains focused on William, with what Martin would call her slices-of-fruit smile.
With not so much as a glance at Phillip, William sings the responses he has sung hundreds of times.
‘O Lord, open Thou our lips.
And our mouth shall shew forth Thy praise.
O God, make speed to save us.
O Lord, make haste to help us.
Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost;
As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be:
world without end. Amen.
Praise ye the Lord.’
The congregation sits and there’s a settling, a concentration of focus onto the choristers. The main event. In the silence, William opens his music, and for the first time in four years, approaches a solo without his eyes locked onto Phillip’s.
A nudge from Martin and a split second late, he joins in.
‘Miserere mei, Deus …’ Trebles, tenors and basses blend, like the easy flow of water over pebbles in a stream. Have mercy on me, O God.
Uncle Robert is looking at William now.
William pulls his attention back to Phillip and notices how tight his choirmaster’s face is and how intense his gaze on him. He stays for two bars.
‘Secundum magnam,’ they sing in unison.
Now the tenors lead – ‘misericordiam’ – now basses, now trebles, whose rising voices hint at their imminent, startling ascent.
But William can’t help himself. Evelyn, Robert and Howard are all watching him intently. He sings with the trebles and basses as they weave together, silken and soft into the gently stretched close of the line, ‘Tuuuu-aaaam.’ According to your great kindness.
Back to Phillip, whose eyes are fierce now, demanding his attention, but they’re in the first deep basket of silence and after that, the basses have another whole line before they even get to him.
Evelyn still has no idea. She gives him a gentle nod.
‘Et secundum multitudinem miserationum tuarum.’ The plainsong blossoms, powerful and mellow, filling the chapel. According to the multitude of Your mercies.
What’s Howard doing, rummaging at his feet? Uncle Robert is reaching forward to his mother; he wants her to know they’re there, before he sings.
‘Dele iniquitatem meam,’ the basses finish – Do away mine offences.
Uncle Robert’s hand is on her shoulder. The first solo is coming for him. Phillip will be leaning forward, his inclined head ready to nod his invitation. But look! Evelyn jumps and spins round. Robert gives a muted wave and – oh! – a flash of blood in Howard’s hand. Tulips! He’s giving her red tulips! Only the back of her head is visible to him.
The music gathers.
With swift efficiency, Evelyn knocks the flowers from Howard’s hand and slaps his face. Robert’s body jumps in surprise and the tulips fly upwards, towards the startled saints above. Single scarlet petals take wing, following their own trajectories for a second before drifting down, to land on a shoulder, a head, a forearm. The bouquet lands with less grace on Mr Mussey’s lap.
William’s throat locks. He can’t breathe. Now! ‘Amplius lava me ab iniquitate mea.’ Sky diving without a parachute. The chapel fills with the otherworldly, almost inhuman sound. Pure. Perfect. Top B.
Wash me thoroughly from my wickedness.
The clerk swoops down on Evelyn like a raven and holds her elbow. He’s taking her away. She looks over her shoulder at him she leaves.
Here it comes. ‘Et a peccato meo munda me.’
Top C.
And cleanse me from my sin.
Drop down to the B. Rock-steady as the tenors weave and curl around it.
Howard has a red stripe on his cheek. His mother has been removed from the chapel. His uncle’s eyes are tiny silver saucers.
He can’t stand this. He can’t look any more. Yet now, the simple act of switching his gaze back to Phillip is like a jump from one planet to another. But he must stop this torture, return to the safe place of his choirmaster’s face. And it’s only then, when he sees that Phillip’s concentration is not on him at all, but on his friend beside him, that it hits him. With an icy tingle running from head to toe, William realises he hasn’t sung a single note. It was Martin all along.
There are four solos left. He won’t waste a second more on his despicable mother. He’s back and he’s ready and it’s all he has left. William breathes, straightens, focuses entirely on Phillip. With two bars to go, he follows each note on the score, his eyes switching from music to Phillip. Music, Phillip. Nothing. Else. Phillip. Music.