A Terrible Kindness(71)

He shrugs. ‘When I first realised it was him, it was just …’ He pauses. ‘Just joy! But now I can’t stop thinking about what I did to him.’ Tell them, William. Those tear-filled eyes.

‘It didn’t look as if that was his first memory, did it?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘How long did he say he’d be?’

‘He just said he’d meet us here once he’d said goodbye to those men. He can’t have thought he’d be long, or he wouldn’t have asked us to get his drink.’ He takes another gulp of whisky. ‘Did you notice them in the chapel?’

‘I was right in front of them,’ Gloria says, nodding, ‘but I could hear this posh voice talking to them, so I knew they were being looked after. I breathed through my mouth so I couldn’t smell them and it was fine.’

‘They wouldn’t have been allowed in my day,’ says William. ‘Oh! Here he is!’

Martin threads his way through the bodies, navigating the narrow spaces as if he could do it with his eyes closed.

‘William Lavery!’ Martin sits and slaps both hands on the dark table. ‘How absolutely bloody marvellous to see you.’ He turns his beam from William to Gloria. ‘And you too, Mrs Lavery. Absolutely bloody marvellous.’ He gulps the beer, then wipes his mouth on the back of his hand with expansive, exaggerated movements so familiar to William, he feels an ache. ‘What brings you to Cambridge?’

‘Gloria’s always wanted to come and see where I misspent my youth.’

‘And now I get to meet the person he misspent it with!’ Gloria says.

The couple on the next table turn their heads at Martin’s laugh – that laugh! ‘Your beloved,’ Martin says to Gloria, his voice deep and rich, ‘was the finest chorister ever to have graced the college chapel.’

‘Bit of an exaggeration,’ William objects, but feels that warm wash of Martin’s generosity.

‘It’s not, Gloria, ask Phillip Lewis. He’d back me up.’

‘Do you still see him?’ William straightens. ‘Do you live here?’

‘Yes and yes.’ Martin nods, sitting back, his stomach pushing against the checked shirt. ‘After university – I failed, by the way – I went to Ivory Coast with VSO for three years. Every teacher and tutor I ever had told me how selfish and lazy I was, so I decided to prove them wrong. Loved the people, loved the climate, could have stayed there, to be honest, but Mum got ill, and I came back to help look after her for the last six months.’

William tries to imagine robust Mrs Mussey on her deathbed. ‘I’m sorry.’

Martin dips his head. ‘It was three years ago now. Dad shed this mortal coil too, a year later. Wasn’t any point for him without her.’

William is ashamed and sad. In another life, he would have been at their funerals.

‘Anyway,’ Martin continues, his broad face etched with fine lines, freckles still dotting his nose and cheeks, ‘I came into a fair bit of dosh and went slightly berserk in true prodigal fashion. Did too much of everything that wasn’t good for me, not enough of what was. Lived in San Francisco for a while, and London. Then I had a particularly painful break-up, and when I sorted myself out, had a think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.’

‘And you came back here?’ Gloria’s East London accent always turns up a notch when she’s concentrating.

‘Only for a sort of holiday at first, to reconnect with my musical roots. Music was one of the things I’d decided was good for me. On my first night, after a drink here, I was walking back to my bed and breakfast and came across two drunks sitting on the kerb singing. I sat down and joined in.’ William laughs at how easily he can picture this. ‘They were surprisingly good, so I taught them a few harmonies. It was a hoot. Then I taught them “Bird on the Wire”.’

‘What?’ William asks.

‘Leonard Cohen?’

William and Gloria shake their heads.

‘Where have you been?’

‘Sutton Coldfield,’ they say together, making Martin laugh again.

‘You should check him out,’ he continues. ‘The man’s a genius, check that song out. It’s what gave me the idea, and the name.’

‘What idea?’ Gloria asks, like a child on a story mat. ‘What name?’

‘The Midnight Choir. We meet every week in a church hall on Hills Road and once a term I bring them here. I have to tip Phillip off, to have a word with the porter so we don’t get turned away.’

‘That’s fantastic,’ William says. ‘How many of them?’

‘On a good night’ – Martin looks to the ceiling, counting – ‘fifteen.’

‘Is that your job?’ asks Gloria.

‘If only. I work in the Rare Books reading room in St John’s library. Can you believe it? I have to whisper all day. Me!’

‘What do you sing?’ Gloria leans her elbows on the table opposite Martin.

‘Pop songs, golden oldies, and hymns. They love a good hymn.’

‘I’m glad you’re still singing,’ William says.

‘Don’t tell me you’re not?’ Martin frowns from William to Gloria.

There’s a beat of silence. ‘Oh, he sings every day.’ Gloria leans closer towards Martin and whispers, ‘But only to dead people. Similar repertoire to you; pop songs, old people songs – but no hymns.’