William doesn’t move. The creak of Martin’s footsteps on the floorboards stops after only a few minutes. He wants Gloria, pictures her waiting for him in bed, her cotton nightie soft and pretty against her skin, brushed auburn hair dark on the white pillow. He closes his eyes. What would peace even feel like? he wonders. Can he remember ever feeling it?

Yes. And there he is, back in his mother’s kitchen after a nap, watching her take biscuits out of the oven.

▪ ▪ ▪

‘Good evening, gentlemen.’ Martin’s eyes dart from one man to another; comfortable, authoritative. One copy of the lyrics that William had copied for him yesterday sits neatly on his broad lap. ‘I hope the week has been kind to you.’ The chairs are in a circle. He and Martin set out fifteen; four are empty. The men smile or nod; one waves a raggedy arm. ‘This is William, an old friend from my chorister days. He’s going to help us for a few weeks.’

William nods with a quick smile, looking at no one in particular. He’s very uncomfortable, in part because of the company, but also because he’s worked so hard during his adolescent and adult life to ignore the past he shares with Martin. To be so casually introduced in this way seems somehow brazen, like a violation.

‘So.’ Martin lays the music under his chair. ‘Let’s warm up with some laa-ing, shall we?’ He checks the square clock on the wall. ‘Jenny should be here any minute, but we can manage this bit without her. Everyone up.’ Martin stands and there’s a rumble and shriek of chair legs.

The narrow windows that run around the top of the church hall are slightly ajar, but still, the smell of the men is bitter and musty. William decides not to try and identify the individual odours. They all seem to be wearing coats, though some of their clothes are so tattered and layered, it’s hard to identify what the items originally were. Martin, as usual, is in baggy cords and an open-necked shirt.

‘Remember, breathe from here,’ Martin says, his paw of a hand over his stomach. Some men adjust their posture, some don’t. He sings them their note, bottom D.

This is the first time William has heard Martin’s adult singing voice. They all knew, as choristers, that however exquisite their voices, there was no guarantee they’d be anything special later on, but Phillip always said their discipline and training would stand them in good stead to make the best of what they were landed with. William’s not at all surprised, though, that Martin is a lush, resonant bass.