‘Mm,’ William replies. He unzips his pencil case and starts to sharpen a lead so blunt it’s almost flush with the wood, but he is too brisk and the new point snaps off, wedging itself between the blades of the sharpener. In the many hours they have spent together, William has told Martin all sorts of things. Martin is an exceptional listener, mainly, William realises, because he loves a story. So less than a term in, Martin knows William feels time spent with his uncle keeps his father from disappearing. He’s seen his photo of Howard, bookended with the identical brothers. He knows that Evelyn is pained rather than comforted by Robert and Howard’s presence and is determined that her son won’t go into the family business, but use his gift and do something musical. He knows William feels as if he’s flying when he sings, and that a place at the front of his skull buzzes when he hits the high notes. It feels as if he’s told Martin most things, except, to his surprise, this; singing the solo for Allegri’s ‘Miserere’ is what he’s here for.

‘You all know this piece of music, of course,’ Mr Hawthorn says once it’s over, walking back and forth before the blackboard, throwing and catching a small piece of chalk, ‘but does anyone know the background to it?’

William’s hand punches the air. Martin turns to him, surprised.

‘Lavery, want to come up and tell everyone?’

William is on his feet before he’s even finished saying, ‘Yes, sir.’

‘How did you hear the story, Lavery?’

‘My dad. I used to listen to it every day when I was about five.’ He looks at the floor, suddenly a bit embarrassed and a bit wobbly. ‘He found out all about it for me.’

‘Like all good stories,’ Mr Hawthorn says, ‘the truth is contested, and there are different versions. Let’s see which one your father told you.’ William glances at Martin who gives him a smile.

‘In the old days, the “Miserere” was only sung in the Sistine Chapel in Rome. The Pope wouldn’t let it be sung anywhere else. He wouldn’t even let it be written down. So all the fancy bits – the abbellimenti – were passed down from one soloist to another. Anyone who tried to copy it or perform it somewhere else was thrown out of the Catholic Church.’ He glances at Mr Hawthorn, wondering if he’s telling the right version. He nods for William to continue. ‘In those days, people used to travel around Europe for months and months to visit the big cities.’

‘It was called the Grand Tour,’ Mr Hawthorn interjects, ‘very popular in the eighteenth century. That’s actually why we’re talking about this today. Carry on, Lavery.’