The book is heavy and the pages are thick. William puts it flat on his desk. He reads the letter, printed in a font that looks like handwriting, and then rereads the bit that made the back of his shoulders tingle: But the manner of performance contributes more to its effect than the composition itself. He picks up his pencil and quickly starts to copy the slanted script into his rough book, with the feeling of urgency that overcomes him sometimes. He doesn’t have long here. Choristers leave at fourteen, to make way for the purer, younger voices. Not having arrived until he was ten, William worries he won’t be able to cram all he wants into this short time. The ‘Miserere’ is what he wants most.

He jumps as Martin’s hand slaps down on his page.

‘How did you do that?’ The murmurs of the other boys grow louder as they relax into Mr Hawthorn’s absence.

‘What?’ says William.

‘The handwriting!’

‘What about it?’

‘It’s identical! How did you do it?’

‘I copied it.’ He continues to write as he speaks. ‘Mum taught me to write before I went to school, so I wrote like her. Then my teacher told me I had to write like him, so I did. It’s easy.’

‘Do mine.’ Martin puts his own rough book over William’s.

William copies out the last line of Martin’s writing. Martin’s smile is infectious. They grin at each other.

‘You haven’t a clue, have you?’ Martin rests his hand on William’s shoulder.

‘What?’

‘How useful this is.’ He reaches across to William’s rough book and turns to a clean page. ‘Can you do your mum’s without having anything to copy?’

‘Of course.’

Martin puts one hand on the top of his head in excitement. ‘Write this,’ he whispers. ‘Dear Mr Atkinson, please excuse William from all homework this term. He is worn out and on the verge of collapse. Yours sincerely, Mrs Lavery.’

William laughs.

‘Or …’ Martin looks up to the corner of the ceiling, his broad teeth resting on his lower lip. ‘Dear Mr Atkinson, William was sick over Christmas. The doctor thinks he is allergic to fish, and says that he mustn’t eat kippers.’

William briefly imagines the relief of not having to swallow the soft bones every Friday, before shaking his head. ‘Imagine the trouble if I was found out.’

‘You could do one from my parents.’ Another wave of inspiration washes over Martin’s face. ‘Or anyone’s!’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘You’d charge. Tuck rations.’ He sits up straighter and twists to face William. ‘We could be a team! I find the customers, you write the letters.’ His eyes dart round the room. ‘You’d have to do them before the Christmas holiday, then they can take them home and post them from there, so they’d have the right postmarks!’