A Terrible Kindness(79)
William rushes to catch up and get into time with Martin’s long stride. They continue in silence. After a few moments, he counts four footsteps, inhales.
‘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.’
Martin’s voice slides in instantly, easily, alongside his. Two more students pass on their bikes; they slow down, smiling as they go, one bike lurching towards the other.
‘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”.’
They come to a standstill outside the Methodist church and bellow the last note into the Cambridge sky, arms aloft, hand in hand.
Martin opens the front door to his flat and William follows him in, talking to his back. ‘I can’t make Gloria happy. She deserves to be happy.’
Martin walks up the stairs. ‘OK, William.’ He shakes his head. ‘If that’s what you want to tell yourself.’
And there it is again; the cocktail of fear and anger he felt in the car with Gloria. A bloody hypocrite, she called him. He reaches the top of the stairs, the familiar darkness rising in him, the same overwhelming dread.
‘Tea?’ Martin calls from the kitchen, but William goes straight to his room.
52
The thick, white-tipped buds of the magnolia in the back garden are so hefty they look in need of hinges to open. The shared back garden is scattered with purple crocuses, which already he and Martin have inadvertently trampled on. Some recover and stand themselves up again; some stay prone on the lawn, their squash of purple and yellow insides exposed.
After three weeks, William has a routine. He gets up once Martin’s left for work and sits at the table overlooking Jesus Lane, at cyclists hurtling to nine o’clock lectures, and Midsummer Common filling out for early spring. The first whiff of freshness and soil still takes him back to Gloria dating Ray in London, but there’s something else now too; relief, for the Midnighters. The clocks have gone forward so it’s light when they leave choir. On nights when he has felt the chill in the air as he undresses for bed and goose bumps sweep his bare legs, he thinks of Colin, and David and Andrew. He wonders how cold they are, where they’re sleeping, if they’re hungry. The night air is still cool, but its bite much softer.
Watching life flow past, and with a second cup of coffee, William sometimes calls Uncle Robert. William promised to keep in touch and it’s the least he can do. Howard has found a locum to help two days a week. Gloria went back to Stepney at first and then last week she went on holiday. Where, or who with, he doesn’t ask, but he’s relieved.
Once he’s done errands in town – printing lyrics, sourcing music, liaising with the church to organise a piano tuner – he returns to the flat and pulls out one of Martin’s LPs. Sometimes he simply listens, eyes closed, concentrating, and wonders how he’s survived without this beauty all these years. It amazes him that classical music, so important to him for so long, has never been a part of his marriage. In the evenings, he goes to concerts that Martin can get them into for free.
For the last two weeks at Midnight Choir, he’s worked with the small group of tenors for half an hour, leaving the basses to Martin. Initially, he was so nervous, he didn’t notice much beyond his own shaking hands and bland comments, but last week was different. For twenty minutes they lost themselves to each other, and the sound they made when they came back as a group and sang to the basses was so much better, William could have punched the air.
‘Martin’s a hard act to follow, but you taught us well,’ Colin said, and William felt a rush of pride and gratitude.
‘Thanks, Colin. You’ve got a lovely voice there.’
‘I’ve got a lovely voice?’ Colin laughed softly. ‘You’re our very own Pavarotti.’
William twiddled with the button on his cuff. ‘Do you like opera?’
‘Used to,’ he said. ‘I saw him live once in Covent Garden.’ The remembered pleasure reached his eyes, so that William noticed for the first time what an unusually deep green they were.
This morning, he forces the old sash window down a few inches, and studies the lemon centres of the milky magnolia flowers. Leaving the window open, he gathers up his and Martin’s bowls, rinses them off under the tap, then sits down at the table.
The phone’s shrill ring makes him jump.
‘Cambridge 57912?’
‘William! How are you?’
‘Uncle Robert, hello. I’m OK, what about you?’
‘Missing you. Keeping our heads above water.’
‘How’s the locum?’
William hears his uncle inhale before he speaks. ‘I’ve let him go; he wasn’t much help I’m afraid. Gloria’s father has been coming from London for two days a week, but can’t do it much longer. If it comes to it, we’ll just have to give some business to Bunts.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Robert’s time is usually spent working out how to take business off Bunts, not give it to them. Robert doesn’t respond. ‘I’ll be back soon. How’s Gloria?’