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Back A Terrible Kindness
Chapters (77)
  1. Landing Page
  2. A TERRIBLE KINDNESS
  3. Dedication
  4. Contents
  5. ABERFAN
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. CAMBRIDGE CHOIR
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. FAMILY BUSINESS
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. 45
  53. 46
  54. 47
  55. 48
  56. 49
  57. MIDNIGHT CHOIR
  58. 50
  59. 51
  60. 52
  61. 53
  62. 54
  63. 55
  64. 56
  65. 57
  66. 58
  67. ABERFAN
  68. 59
  69. 60
  70. 61
  71. 62
  72. 63
  73. 64
  74. 65
  75. Acknowledgements
  76. About the Author
  77. Copyright

Over dinner, Gloria scolds Ray and tells him he needs to buck his ideas up. Ray says he’s sure that once he gets a job in a good undertakers, he’ll fly. When he says things like that, Mr Finch remains silent, and Mrs Finch says things like, ‘Well, let’s see.’

With four months left at college, William glances at the Room to Let ads held by the criss-cross elastic on the newsagent’s noticeboard. He always thinks he’ll come back and look when he’s not with Ray, but he hasn’t yet.

41

William arrives home in time for Mrs Finch’s Sunday roast and knows immediately that something is wrong. They’re already seated, which is not unusual; William routinely arrives home just in time to slide into his place at the table. Meticulous in helping clear away and wash up, he’s polite and helpful, but gives nothing of himself away. If he’s ever on his own with Mr and Mrs Finch, he relaxes a little, but he’s still on his guard for fear he’ll tell them their daughter deserves better than Ray Price.

At the Tate all morning, William has been looking at the Pointillists. Last week he found if he stood in front of Millais’ Ophelia, half an hour could feel like five minutes. Forgetting everything except the thick gloopy elegance of a Van Gogh, or today, the miraculous precision of a Seurat, gives him respite. Galleries and museums were not part of his early childhood, but the chapel at Cambridge taught him that genuine works of art have the stamina to captivate the same pair of eyes again and again.

Entering the dining room today, the silent animosity feels as solid as the table. None of them looks up. Mrs Finch’s face doesn’t break open with a smile; no, ‘There you are, William.’ She’s piling mashed potato onto her husband’s plate, with a loud clatter of metal spoon on china. Mr Finch’s eyes are on the table-mat in front of him, hands resting either side of it. Most disturbing is Gloria’s left hand, misshapen by the pressure of Ray’s grip.

‘Hello,’ William feels compelled to say.

‘William,’ says Mr Finch, barely moving his face.

‘Hello, William,’ says Gloria quietly.

‘Everything OK?’ he asks, looking briefly at each of them.

‘You’ve caught us at an awkward moment,’ says Mrs Finch.

‘Should I leave?’ he says. ‘I can eat out.’

‘Stay where you are.’ Gloria is stern.

‘Would you just cut the wretched chicken, Reg!’ Mrs Finch snaps.

Mr Finch leans across and starts slicing. William is hungry and, as the white meat tips and falls away from the carcass, he’s tempted to reach out and grab a piece of crispy skin.

Mr Finch glances at William, his upper body juddering with the rapid carving. ‘I’m afraid we’ve just had bad news, William.’