A Terrible Kindness(72)

William sees the twinkle in Martin’s eyes, getting the measure of her, warming to her humour. Martin turns from Gloria and puts his head on one side to look at William.

‘But you’re not in a choir?’

William shakes his head. ‘My performing days are over. Unless, as Gloria says, the audience is dead.’

‘So you joined the family business after all?’

William nods.

‘Don’t go all modest, William,’ says Gloria.

He grimaces.

Gloria looks vexed, turning to Martin. ‘He’s the best embalmer in the country.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ William nudges her.

‘With Uncle Robert?’ Martin smiles.

‘Yep.’

‘How is he?’

‘Good, thanks. Gets tired, but no real health problems.’

‘And Howard?’

‘Yep, still going strong.’

‘We live with them.’ Gloria leans under the table and, after a brief rummage in her bag, brings out the Fitzbillies box. ‘Fancy one of these?’

‘If you weren’t married, I’d propose immediately.’ Martin reaches into the box and bites off half a bun in one easy movement. ‘So, William,’ he says with sugars-peckled lips, ‘how’s the lovely Evelyn?’

Gloria looks at William, but he can tell she’s not going to speak for him.

‘Fine. As far as I know. We don’t speak. She lives in Swansea.’

Martin leans back suddenly, ‘But you were so close!’

‘You know what happened.’ William feels a stir of irritation. ‘You were there.’

‘But families do that; have dramas, hurt each other, fall out, make up.’ Martin looks perplexed. ‘It never occurred to me you wouldn’t have sorted it out. You adored each other.’

‘You could tell that, could you?’ Gloria asks, intensely focused all of a sudden. ‘Just from seeing them together?’

‘I’d say. I was jealous as anything! I’m one of five and I could tell, seeing them walking along King’s Parade, or coming out of the Copper Kettle, they loved being together.’

‘Well, not any more.’ William has to close this down.

‘Apologies for venturing into difficult territory.’ Martin turns his palms outwards briefly, and there’s a moment’s silence. ‘Is that why you didn’t go to evensong today?’

William nods. They all look at the table for a moment, then Martin sits upright. ‘Oh!’ he says, with renewed verve. ‘I thought of you last term. We sang “Myfanwy”. They loved it. Remember that? We sang it to my family?’

‘Of course.’ William continues to stare at the dark whorls on the oak table.

‘The thing about that song’ – this time Gloria does rescue him – ‘it’s got difficult memories for William.’ A large group have left the bar, and suddenly it’s a lot emptier and quieter. ‘Do you remember that disaster six years ago? In Aberfan, when all those children got killed by the collapsed coal tip?’

‘Course I do,’ Martin replies, ‘buried alive by the National Coal Board. I’ll never forget it.’

‘Well’ – Gloria clears her throat – ‘he went, as a volunteer, right after he qualified, and he sang “Myfanwy” to some of the little kiddies, when he was, you know, looking after them. And now it does funny things to him.’

William makes himself look at his old friend. ‘I’m a head case. Lots of things do funny things to me, including choral music and in particular, you won’t be surprised to hear, the “Miserere”. I’m estranged from my mother, I haven’t spoken to you, my best friend, since I left here, and I won’t have children. Some days I’m fine, others not. I get palpitations, tunnel vision and flashbacks; awake or asleep, they get me any which way.’

Martin is still, hands in his lap. William feels a palpable sense of calm coming from him and remembers it was always like this; energy and mischief, but always this calm, intense listening.

‘Well, bless your gentle soul,’ Martin murmurs, as the door opens and a loud crowd of male students amble in. They sit in silence for a moment.

‘What about you, Martin?’ Gloria says. ‘Have you got someone special? It can’t be easy working with those blokes.’

‘Not at the moment,’ he says with a gentle smile.

‘Well, that’s a crying shame’ – Gloria stands suddenly – ‘cos I think you’re lovely!’ She looks around. ‘Where’s the loo?’ Martin points behind her. ‘I’ll get another round on my way back. Same again?’ They both nod and watch her walk away.

‘How are your brothers?’ William asks. ‘And the twins?’

‘Yep, all good.’ Martin finishes his beer. ‘Richard’s a banker in Kemsing, Edward’s a headmaster at a boarding school near Brighton, and the twins live in Worthing. All married with sprogs. Seven nieces, three nephews.’

William stares at his glass, then looks up. ‘Martin, I’m sorry I didn’t reply to your letters.’

Martin shrugs. ‘Forget it. I’m sure I waffled on terribly.’

‘I didn’t even read them.’ He holds Martin’s eye. ‘Couldn’t bear to.’