A Terrible Kindness(18)
Think of the blanket as a big hug from your dear dad (and me) whenever you need it.
Your loving Uncle Robert
PS Howard says hello in his best Donald Duck voice.
PPS Nice touch to put your tuck rations under Charles’s pillow for the last two weeks, though I’m not sure he deserves it and I think you should enjoy them yourself from now on.
On the Monday morning of William’s fourth week, he is walking through the playing fields which are shiny and soggy from a night’s clattering rain. Apart from singing, this walk with Martin is William’s favourite thing. He still can’t quite believe how large and soft and friendly Martin is, and when they’re walking along side by side, it seems there is nothing to worry about. It astonishes him that Charles doesn’t seem to bear Martin any grudge, and, as predicted, he and the other probationers leave him alone.
His father’s grey and green blanket, with its fiery red stitching and inky camphor smell, has been a comfort over the last three weeks. The routine is starting to feel, not quite familiar, but not quite so foreign either. Up at six. Dips. Instrument practice (piano for him, clarinet for Martin). Breakfast: egg and tomatoes on Monday, porridge on Tuesday, egg and beans on Wednesday, tomatoes on toast on Thursday, kippers on Friday, variable at weekends. Choir practice. Lessons. Lunch. Lessons. Early tea to keep the choristers going until after evensong. Prep. Supper.
Lessons are hard. The other boys seem to have a bottomless pit of knowledge, general and specific, that he simply doesn’t. But he knows that a chorister is expected to excel at everything, so he always tries.
During choir practice, William is alert and alive. The younger probationers yawn, lean heavily on their elbows, sometimes struggle to know what page they’re on, come in a little early or late, or fail to listen and don’t blend their voices as Phillip asks. He wishes he didn’t have to stand with them, but as soon as the piano plays, and Phillip’s graceful hand invites him to sing, everything but his breath, his voice and the music, is forgotten.
‘Blimey, I don’t feel so good,’ Martin says now, as a thrush flies low across their path. He skims his plump belly with both hands but still manages a smile as he looks at William.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Just don’t feel right.’
Abruptly, Martin pitches forward and is sick on the path. The boys behind make sounds of disgust and skitter away from the steaming puddle, pinching their noses. Martin is bent over, hands on his knees, breathing hard.
‘Are you all right?’ William says.
‘Not finished!’ he garbles, and belches up more onto the grass.
The rest of the boys, to William’s dismay, have all walked on, and it is only then that he realises his hand is softly patting Martin’s back.
‘Is that it, do you think?’ William puts his hand into his pocket.
Martin straightens and takes a deep breath before puffing out loudly. ‘Think so.’ He strides off. ‘Come on, we’ll be late.’
‘Shouldn’t you go back?’ William runs to catch up, feeling a bit sick himself now and relieved at the cool breeze.
‘I’m fine. Better out than in!’ Martin says, cheerful again and on his way.
As usual, William sits alongside Charles, Edward and Anthony. Occasionally there is a waft of sick, and he suspects it’s his shoes.
‘Right, boys,’ the choirmaster says, ‘we’re starting with the Stanford in G from the top. Mussey, you’ll be taking the solo.’
There’s a sudden movement on the front row and Martin runs with his hand over his mouth out of the song room. They all stand listening to the deep heave and the slap of liquid on the flagstones.
‘Oh dear!’ Phillip says quietly, looking over his glasses at the empty doorway. He turns to Ian Mills, number two chorister.
‘Take him back to the house, Mills, but go via the Porters’ Lodge, tell them there’s some clearing up to do, would you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ says Mills, running light-footed out of the door.
‘Right,’ says Phillip, glancing up from his papers, ‘we need a soloist.’
He looks straight at William and it feels as if somewhere deep inside has been pierced by a needle. Their choirmaster will often look over their heads as he talks to them, but William discovers that when he does choose to meet your gaze, it is very direct. He wills himself not to look away.
‘Right then, Lavery.’ He says it so casually and softly, William wonders if it was his name he heard after all. ‘Let’s hear what you’ve got, shall we?’
Charles, to his right, lets out a little gasp and spins round to look at the others. William suspects this won’t help with his popularity, but when he is beckoned to the front row, and he goes to stand with the choristers, all he feels is a rock-steady readiness.
Simon Porter, head chorister, points at the music to show him where he should be, but William knows, and anyway, it’s a piece his mother has been playing to him his whole life. There is a tricky bit, but its shape and pattern are set deep in his bones. It’s what he sang for his sight test at his voice trial and he suspects Phillip remembers this.
‘Ready, Lavery?’ He glances at William. ‘From bar fourteen, everyone.’
Porter points again to the music and William smiles at him briefly. The piano starts. His cheeks burn and buzz. Six bars to go. The swell of the boys’ voices lifts and lightens him; it is as if their sound glides between the soles of his shoes and the flagstones, raising him an inch from the ground.