A Terrible Kindness(44)
‘I don’t care. I just want them to hear me sing. Whatever happens after can take care of itself. Anyway, it’ll be rammed. They might not even see each other until it’s over.’
‘But don’t they live in the same street? Your plan only works if they don’t see each other between now and next Wednesday.’
‘They won’t! Mum’s going to Swansea for two weeks – I think we’re moving there in the summer, by the way – she’s coming straight from there.’
Martin studies William’s face. ‘What about the postmark?’
The solution comes easily: ‘I’ll send a postcard from here – I’ve got one in my locker – I’ll say she’s just said goodbye to me on our last exeat and knows I would want them both there, so she wrote the card while she was still in Cambridge.’
‘It’s risky.’
‘Since when have you not liked risky?’
Martin smiles a little, shrugs his shoulders. ‘Fair comment.’
Over supper, Martin eats his way through the steak and kidney pie, evidently with nothing more to say. William knows that Evelyn would be furious to see Howard in the chapel with Robert, and they would be mortified to be there against her wishes. The letter, when he sends it, will be a ticking time bomb. But he knows something else too, and it feels bigger and stronger than all the other things; the ‘Miserere’ is not just any piece of music. And if his mother, his uncle and Howard are there to hear it, to hear him sing it, somehow, eventually, it will be all right. Plus, it’s such a relief to be speaking to Martin again, it coalesces in William’s heart as the right thing to do, the answer to everything.
Quiet and pensive over supper, Martin becomes riotous once the bedtime routine begins. William wonders if it’s out of relief, that they are maybe inching back to their old way of being.
Eleven boys, including William, are in bed, while Martin stands on his, surveying the room. He claps his hands, looks at the wall clock.
‘Four minutes. Someone? Anyone?’
Martin throws off his pyjamas, wobbling a little on the mattress as he balances on one leg, then the other. Excitement jitters from bed to bed. Martin beats his chest, his gaze sweeping the room for a taker. When William first saw Martin do this, more than three years ago, his body was hairless. Now there is a soft red cloud around his swinging penis and under his arms.
‘Come on! Someone!’
More than once, Martin has leapt from bed to bed on his own, unable to draw anyone else in, but sometimes, like tonight, he won’t stop until someone joins him. Most have accepted the challenge, but not William, unable to imagine being bold and reckless without any pants on. And there is always the real possibility of being caught. The last time, Martin was given five whacks, and since it was by no means the first time, an appointment with the school psychiatrist.
‘OK,’ says William, climbing out of bed, discarding his pyjamas and jumping up alongside Martin. And he thinks no matter how embarrassing this is going to be, it will have been worth it for the smile on Martin’s face right now.
‘Get a move on!’ someone says. ‘Only three minutes left!’
‘You go clockwise, I’ll go anti,’ says Martin, gesticulating the directions, turning William round, their bare rumps nudging against each other.
William feels the scrutiny of the dorm, but the rush of adrenaline is an unexpected surprise. He’s ready for this. Martin lifts a three-fingered hand. ‘Three.’ He flips one finger down. ‘Two.’ Then another: ‘One!’
At first William’s alarmed by the skid of the bed he lands on – his hands wheel and he thinks he’s going to fall backwards, but he recovers and propels himself from one bed to the next, light and fast. He hears the scrape and slide of each bed as Martin thumps down on them. His willy waving above the laughing faces, William is high on the thrill of thrilling others.
They slam into each other and fall onto Martin’s bed, chests pumping with laughter. Martin’s breath pours into William’s ears. The softness of Martin’s thigh presses into his. William is not aroused, but not repelled either. He’s got his friend back.
When silence fills the room like a thunder clap, William turns his head, although there’s no need to, because he already knows Matron is standing in the doorway.
30
William stands before the desk, breathing the thick scent of dust and polish, not knowing what to do with his hands.
‘It pains me to see you here under these circumstances, Lavery.’ The daffodils glow on the window ledge behind Mr Atkinson’s head, also burnished by the sun’s glare.
‘You’re a fine chorister. Mr Lewis says perhaps the best he’s ever had. But we cannot allow a boy who misbehaves in such a way the honour of the most prestigious of solos. You understand that, don’t you?’
‘No!’ His face burns as he steps closer to the desk. ‘I’ll do anything, sir.’ His voice sounds ridiculous, high-pitched. ‘Please, sir!’
‘You should have thought about the consequences before you joined in with Mussey’s perverted pranks.’
William’s head buzzes. He’ll be gone in June, and for the rest of his life, all he’ll remember is that he never got to sing the ‘Miserere’. Flu first time, and now Martin, with his stupid games. A wall of tears is building behind his eyes, and he wonders, what if he gave in to them? What if, for the first time in four years, he let his body have its say? What if he dropped to the threadbare rug, sobbing at Mr Atkinson’s feet?