A Terrible Kindness(16)
What he stolidly ignored was the fact that he’d start his time here as a probationer, not a chorister. He won’t have the full uniform and he won’t be able to sing at evensong, so there’ll be no chance of a solo. He isn’t sure how long this in-between time will last. At his voice trial, Phillip, the choirmaster, was fuzzy about it.
‘The probationary period is usually about a year,’ he said, running through details of chorister life, ‘but as you’re considerably older … well, we’ll see.’
‘Walk with me, William,’ says Martin now, cheerful and hearty as the line of boys starts to take shape.
Once they have passed through the gate into the college playing fields, Martin’s hand darts out.
‘See that hole in the cricket pavilion window? I took it out last term with a cricket ball and no one’s fixed it yet. I got whacked for that.’
‘Oh.’ William keeps his head turned towards the pavilion so Martin knows he’s taking it seriously.
‘See that tree?’ Martin points to the left. ‘I fell off it and broke my little finger in my first year. Look!’ He waves his large hand before William’s face. ‘It set crooked.’
William thinks Martin’s mother must be very different from Evelyn. He imagines the horror of having to tell her he’d been hit by the headmaster for jumping on other boys’ beds without any pants. The other older boys are friendly enough towards Martin, but he seems to float free of any allegiances – unlike Charles, Edward and Anthony, who may as well have melded into one hostile person.
Once through the lofty iron gates of the college, their feet scrunch-scrunch-scrunch over the rusty gravel. William spots the chapel spire. Compared to these thick stone walls, he and all the boys are so very small and fragile, even Martin. But walking step by step closer to the chapel, a fluttering starts in his chest. They may be small, but they are special. His lungs feel sprung and strong. He imagines that the chapel can hear their footsteps and their chatter and is excited for the singing to start. But at the last minute, the procession bends away from the chapel entrance, off to the left.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Song room,’ says Martin.
‘Not the chapel?’
‘Choristers go there for evening practice and then evensong, but it’s here in the morning.’ It’s a small, very ordinary room, with cream walls and rows of benches. ‘Probationers sit over there.’ Martin points to the far corner and gently presses his back.
Even though William knows he’ll eventually become a chorister, a pebble of disappointment plummets the length of him. He sits with Charles on his left and wishes yet again he hadn’t bothered to try and cheer him up yesterday. Because now, you’d think he’d tried to hold all of their hands, or even kiss them on the lips, the way they shuffle away, and whisper and laugh without him. It’s all right for them, he thinks, they’ve got seven years here. As a ten-year-old latecomer, his time is much shorter.
It is a relief when Phillip Lewis, the choirmaster, walks into the room at last. William no longer has to pretend to be interested in the organ scholar sitting at the piano arranging his music. He chooses to ignore the unfriendly boys for the next hour; he will think only about this man who told his mother he has a special gift. He will listen to what he has to say about the music and how he should sing, and he will do as well as he possibly can.
‘Welcome back, everyone. And welcome to our new boys.’ Riffling through his papers, Phillip Lewis nods in the probationers’ direction but doesn’t meet anyone’s eye. William recognises the gentle, lilting Welsh accent from summer holidays in Port Madoc. Tall, stick-thin and quietly spoken, the choirmaster has a bald head with a remaining band of wispy grey hair that almost reaches his collar. ‘Let’s wander through a few arpeggios, shall we?’
‘Right.’ Phillip rummages through the music once the warm-ups are done, snatching one piece out. ‘Let’s take a look at the “Te Deum”. Remember’ – his eyes flit from one boy to another – ‘listen. I want to hear one sound, one voice, not fifteen.’ His body looks relaxed, his face isn’t pent up with excitement like William’s choirmaster at home, and yet he is absolutely in control. ‘So, we’ll look at the Tallis, five-parter.’ His head is down and his large bony hands rest at last with the sought-after pages spread out before him. ‘Mussey? You take the first.’
As the singing starts, William challenges himself to distinguish the individual voices from the blend. He watches the back of Martin’s big ginger head, dipping and swaying to the music with a freedom no one else is showing, but because William can’t see his mouth, he can’t make out his particular voice until the solo.
When it happens, William smiles. He can almost feel his own skull vibrate as Martin’s voice goes its own way. He’s careful to hold his own in check, but he knows it could cut through the others like a knife through warm butter. Like Martin’s. Perhaps better. He’s pleased though to find his friend is so good, and when at the end of the piece Martin’s head twists round to catch William’s eye, they grin briefly at each other and William feels known.
15
‘What’s the matter, Lavery?’ Charles is smiling, and William knows straight away that they’ve done something with his pyjamas. He has looked under his pillow, under the blankets and under his bed. The silence bristles with pent-up laughter. He is exhausted. The choristers are having their post-evensong supper, so William’s on his own with the probationers.