A Terrible Kindness(26)

William’s hand punches the air. Martin turns to him, surprised.

‘Lavery, want to come up and tell everyone?’

William is on his feet before he’s even finished saying, ‘Yes, sir.’

‘How did you hear the story, Lavery?’

‘My dad. I used to listen to it every day when I was about five.’ He looks at the floor, suddenly a bit embarrassed and a bit wobbly. ‘He found out all about it for me.’

‘Like all good stories,’ Mr Hawthorn says, ‘the truth is contested, and there are different versions. Let’s see which one your father told you.’ William glances at Martin who gives him a smile.

‘In the old days, the “Miserere” was only sung in the Sistine Chapel in Rome. The Pope wouldn’t let it be sung anywhere else. He wouldn’t even let it be written down. So all the fancy bits – the abbellimenti – were passed down from one soloist to another. Anyone who tried to copy it or perform it somewhere else was thrown out of the Catholic Church.’ He glances at Mr Hawthorn, wondering if he’s telling the right version. He nods for William to continue. ‘In those days, people used to travel around Europe for months and months to visit the big cities.’

‘It was called the Grand Tour,’ Mr Hawthorn interjects, ‘very popular in the eighteenth century. That’s actually why we’re talking about this today. Carry on, Lavery.’

‘People would go to Rome in Lent to hear the “Miserere” and Mozart went when he was fourteen. He went back to his hotel room and wrote it all down from memory. But to make sure he’d got it right, he went back again on Good Friday with the rolled-up music stuffed in his hat.

‘Was he caught?’ Martin shouts, forgetting to put his hand up. ‘Was he chucked out?’

William looks again to Mr Hawthorn, in case he wants to deliver the punchline, but he smiles and nods at William.

‘He was caught, but he wasn’t chucked out. The Pope said well done and made him a knight!’

‘Very good, Lavery,’ says Mr Hawthorn, sitting down with a book. ‘Have you seen the translation of the letter Mozart’s father wrote to his wife from Rome?’

‘No, sir.’ William is excited.

‘Sit down, well done. I’ll take it from here.’

Mr Hawthorn rests the book on his lap and reads. ‘“You have often heard of the famous ‘Miserere’ in Rome, which is so greatly prized that the performers are forbidden on pain of excommunication to take away a single part of it, copy it or to give it to anyone. But we have it already. Wolfgang has written it down and we would have sent it to Salzburg in this letter, if it were not necessary for us to be there to perform it. But the manner of performance contributes more to its effect than the composition itself. Moreover, as it is one of the secrets of Rome, we do not wish to let it fall into other hands …”’



William finishes writing his paragraph about the Grand Tours of the eighteenth century. Martin’s large head is resting on his hand. William nudges him with his foot.

‘Wake up, I’m going to ask a question.’

Martin shuffles in his seat and starts to write slowly.

‘Sir, I’ve finished. Can I see the letter?’ William says.

Mr Hawthorn holds up the book for William to take. Then, as if he too had just been woken by William, he suddenly stands up.

‘Six minutes left, gentlemen. I need to get your prep sheets from the office. Work quietly. Stay in your seats.’

The book is heavy and the pages are thick. William puts it flat on his desk. He reads the letter, printed in a font that looks like handwriting, and then rereads the bit that made the back of his shoulders tingle: But the manner of performance contributes more to its effect than the composition itself. He picks up his pencil and quickly starts to copy the slanted script into his rough book, with the feeling of urgency that overcomes him sometimes. He doesn’t have long here. Choristers leave at fourteen, to make way for the purer, younger voices. Not having arrived until he was ten, William worries he won’t be able to cram all he wants into this short time. The ‘Miserere’ is what he wants most.

He jumps as Martin’s hand slaps down on his page.

‘How did you do that?’ The murmurs of the other boys grow louder as they relax into Mr Hawthorn’s absence.

‘What?’ says William.

‘The handwriting!’

‘What about it?’

‘It’s identical! How did you do it?’

‘I copied it.’ He continues to write as he speaks. ‘Mum taught me to write before I went to school, so I wrote like her. Then my teacher told me I had to write like him, so I did. It’s easy.’

‘Do mine.’ Martin puts his own rough book over William’s.

William copies out the last line of Martin’s writing. Martin’s smile is infectious. They grin at each other.

‘You haven’t a clue, have you?’ Martin rests his hand on William’s shoulder.

‘What?’

‘How useful this is.’ He reaches across to William’s rough book and turns to a clean page. ‘Can you do your mum’s without having anything to copy?’

‘Of course.’

Martin puts one hand on the top of his head in excitement. ‘Write this,’ he whispers. ‘Dear Mr Atkinson, please excuse William from all homework this term. He is worn out and on the verge of collapse. Yours sincerely, Mrs Lavery.’