Once through the lofty iron gates of the college, their feet scrunch-scrunch-scrunch over the rusty gravel. William spots the chapel spire. Compared to these thick stone walls, he and all the boys are so very small and fragile, even Martin. But walking step by step closer to the chapel, a fluttering starts in his chest. They may be small, but they are special. His lungs feel sprung and strong. He imagines that the chapel can hear their footsteps and their chatter and is excited for the singing to start. But at the last minute, the procession bends away from the chapel entrance, off to the left.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Song room,’ says Martin.

‘Not the chapel?’

‘Choristers go there for evening practice and then evensong, but it’s here in the morning.’ It’s a small, very ordinary room, with cream walls and rows of benches. ‘Probationers sit over there.’ Martin points to the far corner and gently presses his back.

Even though William knows he’ll eventually become a chorister, a pebble of disappointment plummets the length of him. He sits with Charles on his left and wishes yet again he hadn’t bothered to try and cheer him up yesterday. Because now, you’d think he’d tried to hold all of their hands, or even kiss them on the lips, the way they shuffle away, and whisper and laugh without him. It’s all right for them, he thinks, they’ve got seven years here. As a ten-year-old latecomer, his time is much shorter.

It is a relief when Phillip Lewis, the choirmaster, walks into the room at last. William no longer has to pretend to be interested in the organ scholar sitting at the piano arranging his music. He chooses to ignore the unfriendly boys for the next hour; he will think only about this man who told his mother he has a special gift. He will listen to what he has to say about the music and how he should sing, and he will do as well as he possibly can.

‘Welcome back, everyone. And welcome to our new boys.’ Riffling through his papers, Phillip Lewis nods in the probationers’ direction but doesn’t meet anyone’s eye. William recognises the gentle, lilting Welsh accent from summer holidays in Port Madoc. Tall, stick-thin and quietly spoken, the choirmaster has a bald head with a remaining band of wispy grey hair that almost reaches his collar. ‘Let’s wander through a few arpeggios, shall we?’