She plonks the box on William’s lap. Saliva makes his mouth tingle. He wants to pull the lid off, but waits. Evelyn leans down and pulls two napkins from her bag, the brown linen ones that live in the drawer next to the sink. He sniffs the one she hands him and thinks of the wooden spoons and rotary whisk they sit alongside. She nods for him to open the box and the sugar coating glitters on the top biscuit.

Eating them alongside her as they always did at home, the taste floods him with homesickness. He eats one after the other, until his lips and fingers are slick. By the time they get to the school, his new independence has melted away and all he wants is to go back to Sutton Coldfield with his mum. He wraps his arms round her, his cheek against her scarlet dress, and decides he won’t let go. Her perfume and the aftertaste of butter in his mouth make him slightly nauseous.

‘Come on, Master Lavery, you’ve got solos to sing.’ His mother is pushing him away from her. ‘Can’t do that hanging on to me, can you?’

He can’t speak, but manages a smile. She pats his back, energetic, cheerful, and nudges him towards the gates. He realises there’s nothing for it but to walk away. He’s through the door and has decided not to turn back when he hears her voice, high-pitched and urgent. He turns. She’s leaning in towards him even though she’s so far away. He notices a smudge of blood on her knee.

‘William! Do you want me to write a letter about that cold water?’

He waves, shaking his head, and goes inside.

18

‘It’s always worse – after the first exeat.’

William thought he was managing to cry silently. Martin is lying on his side in the next bed, his head propped up in his plate-like hand.

The memory of his mother calling after him, asking if she should write to Mr Atkinson about the dips, with her hurt knee, squeezes his heart so tightly his breathing comes in soft grunts; the urgency of her voice, the folds of her face concentrated so keenly on him.

‘Don’t worry, you’re like me,’ whispers Martin, who, for such a raucous person, has the quietest voice when he wants to. ‘Once you’re back in the chapel you’ll feel better.’

Martin’s right. In the chapel, it’s easy for William to forget his mother. And sooner than he could have hoped, Porter’s voice starts to squeak and wobble him out of usefulness, so by the end of October, William is fast-tracked from probationer status. A heavy black cloak to walk to chapel in, a mortarboard with a silky tassel swinging at the edge of his vision, and a purple robe transform him into what he was always meant to be. A chorister.