What he means, William thinks, is that when someone dies at an unripe age, like thirty-two, there isn’t.

‘So’ – Phillip looks round at the boys – ‘we’re going to do something rather special. Professor Hughes was Welsh and loved this piece. It’s been in the Welsh popular culture for many, many years.’ He hands Bishop, the new head chorister, a pile of papers to give out. As William reaches out for his, he sees there’s an English translation too, which is unusual.

This isn’t the first time they’ve sung in Phillip’s native tongue. It’s a funny language and there’s simply no guessing how to pronounce it. Once, Martin asked what the Welsh had against vowels. Phillip, in good humour, said perhaps because the language is so old, vowels hadn’t been invented.

‘Right, have a quick read of the English so you get a feel of it,’ he says now, apparently scanning the words himself. William’s eyes skitter down the Welsh before settling on the translation of the last verse.

Myfanwy, may your life entirely be

Beneath the midday sun’s bright glow,

And may a blushing rose of health

Dance on your cheek a hundred years.

I forget all your words of promise

You made to someone, my pretty girl

So give me your hand, my sweet Myfanwy,

For no more but to say ‘farewell’.

‘As you see, it’s called “Myfanwy”,’ Phillip says, ‘composed by Joseph Parry, first performed around 1875. A sad, noble song. The beloved – Myfanwy – has fallen out of love with the poet, but this is his generous acceptance of the fact, setting her free.’ William sees Charles roll his eyes at his friend, but Martin, next to him, who loves a story, is hooked. ‘He wants above all her happiness and to hold her hand one last time, to say farewell.’ Phillip raises his eyebrows. ‘Bit soppy, you may think, but it’s terribly affecting when performed well. One of those songs whose music perfectly reflects the sentiment behind the words, thus giving birth to those very feelings in the listener.

‘There’s disagreement over the words’ origins, but it was probably written by the poet Hywel ab Einion.’ William loves the effortless switch in Phillip’s voice to Welsh pronunciation. ‘We’ll sing in Welsh. No solos. It’s often sung by male voice choirs, a giant tap of Welsh nostalgia, and that’s not a bad thing for a memorial service, but don’t worry, I’ll take care not to drown you.’ Phillip usually makes jokes with a deadpan delivery and it can take a moment and a look between the boys to confirm they’re meant to smile. ‘We’ll be unaccompanied, so it’s vital we get the pronunciation right. We’ll start with that.’ He waits for them to gather themselves. ‘Let’s just say the words. Ready?’