On the Monday morning of William’s fourth week, he is walking through the playing fields which are shiny and soggy from a night’s clattering rain. Apart from singing, this walk with Martin is William’s favourite thing. He still can’t quite believe how large and soft and friendly Martin is, and when they’re walking along side by side, it seems there is nothing to worry about. It astonishes him that Charles doesn’t seem to bear Martin any grudge, and, as predicted, he and the other probationers leave him alone.

His father’s grey and green blanket, with its fiery red stitching and inky camphor smell, has been a comfort over the last three weeks. The routine is starting to feel, not quite familiar, but not quite so foreign either. Up at six. Dips. Instrument practice (piano for him, clarinet for Martin). Breakfast: egg and tomatoes on Monday, porridge on Tuesday, egg and beans on Wednesday, tomatoes on toast on Thursday, kippers on Friday, variable at weekends. Choir practice. Lessons. Lunch. Lessons. Early tea to keep the choristers going until after evensong. Prep. Supper.

Lessons are hard. The other boys seem to have a bottomless pit of knowledge, general and specific, that he simply doesn’t. But he knows that a chorister is expected to excel at everything, so he always tries.

During choir practice, William is alert and alive. The younger probationers yawn, lean heavily on their elbows, sometimes struggle to know what page they’re on, come in a little early or late, or fail to listen and don’t blend their voices as Phillip asks. He wishes he didn’t have to stand with them, but as soon as the piano plays, and Phillip’s graceful hand invites him to sing, everything but his breath, his voice and the music, is forgotten.

‘Blimey, I don’t feel so good,’ Martin says now, as a thrush flies low across their path. He skims his plump belly with both hands but still manages a smile as he looks at William.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Just don’t feel right.’

Abruptly, Martin pitches forward and is sick on the path. The boys behind make sounds of disgust and skitter away from the steaming puddle, pinching their noses. Martin is bent over, hands on his knees, breathing hard.

‘Are you all right?’ William says.

‘Not finished!’ he garbles, and belches up more onto the grass.

The rest of the boys, to William’s dismay, have all walked on, and it is only then that he realises his hand is softly patting Martin’s back.

‘Is that it, do you think?’ William puts his hand into his pocket.

Martin straightens and takes a deep breath before puffing out loudly. ‘Think so.’ He strides off. ‘Come on, we’ll be late.’

‘Shouldn’t you go back?’ William runs to catch up, feeling a bit sick himself now and relieved at the cool breeze.