‘I’m fine. Better out than in!’ Martin says, cheerful again and on his way.

As usual, William sits alongside Charles, Edward and Anthony. Occasionally there is a waft of sick, and he suspects it’s his shoes.

‘Right, boys,’ the choirmaster says, ‘we’re starting with the Stanford in G from the top. Mussey, you’ll be taking the solo.’

There’s a sudden movement on the front row and Martin runs with his hand over his mouth out of the song room. They all stand listening to the deep heave and the slap of liquid on the flagstones.

‘Oh dear!’ Phillip says quietly, looking over his glasses at the empty doorway. He turns to Ian Mills, number two chorister.

‘Take him back to the house, Mills, but go via the Porters’ Lodge, tell them there’s some clearing up to do, would you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ says Mills, running light-footed out of the door.

‘Right,’ says Phillip, glancing up from his papers, ‘we need a soloist.’

He looks straight at William and it feels as if somewhere deep inside has been pierced by a needle. Their choirmaster will often look over their heads as he talks to them, but William discovers that when he does choose to meet your gaze, it is very direct. He wills himself not to look away.

‘Right then, Lavery.’ He says it so casually and softly, William wonders if it was his name he heard after all. ‘Let’s hear what you’ve got, shall we?’

Charles, to his right, lets out a little gasp and spins round to look at the others. William suspects this won’t help with his popularity, but when he is beckoned to the front row, and he goes to stand with the choristers, all he feels is a rock-steady readiness.

Simon Porter, head chorister, points at the music to show him where he should be, but William knows, and anyway, it’s a piece his mother has been playing to him his whole life. There is a tricky bit, but its shape and pattern are set deep in his bones. It’s what he sang for his sight test at his voice trial and he suspects Phillip remembers this.

‘Ready, Lavery?’ He glances at William. ‘From bar fourteen, everyone.’

Porter points again to the music and William smiles at him briefly. The piano starts. His cheeks burn and buzz. Six bars to go. The swell of the boys’ voices lifts and lightens him; it is as if their sound glides between the soles of his shoes and the flagstones, raising him an inch from the ground.

Three bars. Lungs emptying and filling, eyes fixed on Phillip. One bar. A quick glance at the music then back to his choirmaster, who nods, as William catches the breath he needs.