A Terrible Kindness(21)
William looks down at his plate, impales a chip with all four tines of his fork, ploughs it through the puddle of egg yolk and taps the end in the ketchup. It’s a cold but flavoursome mouthful that he takes his time to chew. He looks up at Evelyn. She winks, her left cheek bulging with food. Happiness always takes the edge off her table manners. Her unkindness towards Robert always takes the edge off William’s happiness.
In the two years since his dad died, Uncle Robert has been a flesh and blood link to his father. Memories of him are no longer as sharp and reliable as William would like. He remembers being thrown into the air by him and sitting on his lap, burying his face in a brown wool jumper and breathing in the rich, twiggy smell of pipe smoke. He remembers standing next to him at the newsagent’s on a Sunday morning, waiting for their quarter-pound of chocolate caramels to be poured into the bag from the wide metal scoop of the scales. He remembers him chasing Evelyn around the kitchen in a rubber gorilla mask, arms stretched out to reach her, making loud monkey noises, her screaming and laughing and surprising William at how fast she could move while making all that noise.
When he worries about forgetting, Uncle Robert’s very existence is a comfort. Because not only were Robert and his father brothers and best friends, they were also identical twins. William can understand how it’s hard for his mother to be reminded so much of his father, but it troubles him that sometimes she doesn’t even seem to like Robert. Or Howard.
After lunch, they walk left along Trumpington Street and look at the lions guarding the Fitzwilliam Museum. William notices Fitzbillies on the other side of the road as they make their way back towards the school.
‘Martin always goes there with his parents for a Chelsea bun. He says they’re world famous.’
‘I’ve got biscuits for us today,’ Evelyn says, taking his hand, ‘but next time we can do it. Oh!’ She stumbles into the open gutter, landing with one knee in the water. Her face twists in pain, and William is not fooled by the sudden smile and laugh as she gets up. She’s hurt but doesn’t want him to worry.
Back on King’s Parade, they watch a copper beech leaf scooped upright by the wind and pushed along as if it’s running. Once it falls from the kerb into the gutter, Evelyn sits on the low wall and pats the spot to her left. William sits as she reaches into her bag and pulls out a Tupperware box. She holds it up, a playful look in her eye. Through the plastic, he recognises his favourites: butter biscuits. Unexpectedly, his eyes prickle.
She plonks the box on William’s lap. Saliva makes his mouth tingle. He wants to pull the lid off, but waits. Evelyn leans down and pulls two napkins from her bag, the brown linen ones that live in the drawer next to the sink. He sniffs the one she hands him and thinks of the wooden spoons and rotary whisk they sit alongside. She nods for him to open the box and the sugar coating glitters on the top biscuit.
Eating them alongside her as they always did at home, the taste floods him with homesickness. He eats one after the other, until his lips and fingers are slick. By the time they get to the school, his new independence has melted away and all he wants is to go back to Sutton Coldfield with his mum. He wraps his arms round her, his cheek against her scarlet dress, and decides he won’t let go. Her perfume and the aftertaste of butter in his mouth make him slightly nauseous.
‘Come on, Master Lavery, you’ve got solos to sing.’ His mother is pushing him away from her. ‘Can’t do that hanging on to me, can you?’
He can’t speak, but manages a smile. She pats his back, energetic, cheerful, and nudges him towards the gates. He realises there’s nothing for it but to walk away. He’s through the door and has decided not to turn back when he hears her voice, high-pitched and urgent. He turns. She’s leaning in towards him even though she’s so far away. He notices a smudge of blood on her knee.
‘William! Do you want me to write a letter about that cold water?’
He waves, shaking his head, and goes inside.
18
‘It’s always worse – after the first exeat.’
William thought he was managing to cry silently. Martin is lying on his side in the next bed, his head propped up in his plate-like hand.
The memory of his mother calling after him, asking if she should write to Mr Atkinson about the dips, with her hurt knee, squeezes his heart so tightly his breathing comes in soft grunts; the urgency of her voice, the folds of her face concentrated so keenly on him.
‘Don’t worry, you’re like me,’ whispers Martin, who, for such a raucous person, has the quietest voice when he wants to. ‘Once you’re back in the chapel you’ll feel better.’
Martin’s right. In the chapel, it’s easy for William to forget his mother. And sooner than he could have hoped, Porter’s voice starts to squeak and wobble him out of usefulness, so by the end of October, William is fast-tracked from probationer status. A heavy black cloak to walk to chapel in, a mortarboard with a silky tassel swinging at the edge of his vision, and a purple robe transform him into what he was always meant to be. A chorister.
Daily routines are rigid. Lessons and prep are slow and dull compared to his time in the chapel, but they have to be done, and by the time they are done, minutes and hours have passed and it’s time to sing again. Even the rehearsal room, which on William’s first day was such a disappointment, pleases him now. Small and plain, it seems the perfect place for introductions between choristers and music. Later, just before evensong, they’re ready to present themselves to the mysterious chapel and let it work its acoustic magic on what they’ve practised.