‘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.’

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?’