A Terrible Kindness(22)
‘Morning, gentlemen,’ Phillip says this morning, the usual tentative smile lifting his cheeks.
William spots sheets of pristine music on top of Phillip’s folder. Something new. William has noticed new pieces draw something different from Phillip; a lightness, a gentle spirit of adventure. Rehearsing things that have been sung here for two hundred years, William wonders if the chapel ever thinks, Not this one again! And with pieces sung for the first time, he imagines the chapel tasting their sounds, harmonies and rhythms for the first time. But this morning, after spending twenty minutes on Bach’s ‘Herr Gott, nun schleuss den Himmel auf’, and then quarter of an hour on Tallis’s five-part ‘Te Deum’, William wonders whether they’ll make it to the fresh scores. Then Phillip smiles at them.
‘Now, something a little different.’ He lifts the smooth white paper and holds it loosely in his hand, so it flops slowly towards them. ‘You may have heard that Professor Hughes, Regius Professor of History, died last week. Wonderful old soul. There’s a memorial here on Tuesday afternoon.’
‘Excuse me, sir.’ William finds himself with his hand up and speaking before Phillip has even nodded back at him. ‘Is that the same as a funeral?’
Phillip pauses long enough for William to regret calling out, but when he finally answers, his voice is kind.
‘No, Lavery, not quite – there’s no coffin at a memorial because the funeral has already happened. It’s more of an opportunity to remember and give thanks for the person who’s died. More of a celebration, really. Of a life.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ William nods and frowns down at his music.
William was eight when his father died. His mother told him children weren’t allowed at funerals, but a year later, a schoolfriend had the afternoon off school to be at his grandmother’s.
‘Oh, darling,’ his mother said, pulling him into her slim body. He’d come home from school in tears, wanting to know why she’d lied and why he hadn’t been invited to his dad’s funeral. ‘We were so sad and it was so awful, I didn’t want to put you through it.’
‘It shouldn’t be too gloomy,’ Phillip continues now. ‘Professor Hughes was a ripe old age, so there’s a lot to be thankful for.’
What he means, William thinks, is that when someone dies at an unripe age, like thirty-two, there isn’t.
‘So’ – Phillip looks round at the boys – ‘we’re going to do something rather special. Professor Hughes was Welsh and loved this piece. It’s been in the Welsh popular culture for many, many years.’ He hands Bishop, the new head chorister, a pile of papers to give out. As William reaches out for his, he sees there’s an English translation too, which is unusual.
This isn’t the first time they’ve sung in Phillip’s native tongue. It’s a funny language and there’s simply no guessing how to pronounce it. Once, Martin asked what the Welsh had against vowels. Phillip, in good humour, said perhaps because the language is so old, vowels hadn’t been invented.
‘Right, have a quick read of the English so you get a feel of it,’ he says now, apparently scanning the words himself. William’s eyes skitter down the Welsh before settling on the translation of the last verse.
Myfanwy, may your life entirely be
Beneath the midday sun’s bright glow,
And may a blushing rose of health
Dance on your cheek a hundred years.
I forget all your words of promise
You made to someone, my pretty girl
So give me your hand, my sweet Myfanwy,
For no more but to say ‘farewell’.
‘As you see, it’s called “Myfanwy”,’ Phillip says, ‘composed by Joseph Parry, first performed around 1875. A sad, noble song. The beloved – Myfanwy – has fallen out of love with the poet, but this is his generous acceptance of the fact, setting her free.’ William sees Charles roll his eyes at his friend, but Martin, next to him, who loves a story, is hooked. ‘He wants above all her happiness and to hold her hand one last time, to say farewell.’ Phillip raises his eyebrows. ‘Bit soppy, you may think, but it’s terribly affecting when performed well. One of those songs whose music perfectly reflects the sentiment behind the words, thus giving birth to those very feelings in the listener.
‘There’s disagreement over the words’ origins, but it was probably written by the poet Hywel ab Einion.’ William loves the effortless switch in Phillip’s voice to Welsh pronunciation. ‘We’ll sing in Welsh. No solos. It’s often sung by male voice choirs, a giant tap of Welsh nostalgia, and that’s not a bad thing for a memorial service, but don’t worry, I’ll take care not to drown you.’ Phillip usually makes jokes with a deadpan delivery and it can take a moment and a look between the boys to confirm they’re meant to smile. ‘We’ll be unaccompanied, so it’s vital we get the pronunciation right. We’ll start with that.’ He waits for them to gather themselves. ‘Let’s just say the words. Ready?’
Daily, they sing in Latin, or Italian, or German, but with Welsh, the boys feel an added pressure to get it right.
‘Paham mae dicter, O Myfanwy,’ Phillip says with great precision. ‘Everybody?’
They say it back to him.
‘Right,’ Phillip continues, business-like, ‘it’s important to get the poor girl’s name right, don’t you think? It’s Muvanwuay, Got it? Muvanwuay. Everybody say it. Go.’