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.