He thinks he’s done a good job; buoyed by the lingering sense that he was soaring, not just his voice.

Phillip is looking into the distance, as if William’s voice is visibly hanging there. William doesn’t take his eyes off him.

‘Not bad,’ Phillip says eventually, still considering what he’s just heard. ‘Remember, it’s not reaching the high notes, it’s keeping control of what’s either side.’ Finally, he looks, lightly, briefly at William. ‘You mustn’t swoop up, and then of course,’ he says, as casually as if he’s talking about how to butter a piece of bread, ‘it’s too easy to smudge the quaver ornament on the way down.’ He smiles a little. ‘But we’ll get there. No doubt about that. Right, let’s move on …’

‘It’s like Narnia,’ says Martin, as they approach the frosted copper beech. A wren sits on the grass to the left of the path cocking its head at them as they pass, fearless of the noisy procession of boys.

‘Imagine Matron on a sleigh. Our very own White Witch.’ As usual, it pleases William that Martin’s laugh makes the boys ahead turn round to see what they’re missing.

This is William’s second term of his second year as chorister. He is almost as tall as Martin now, though much slighter. The rolling grind and crunch of the gravel through the soles of his shoes still satisfies him, and the tall plane trees on either side of the path still salute him as they did when he first arrived. If anything, he feels it all the more keenly now, aware that it can’t go on forever. Although he came late as a chorister at ten, it is forgotten now. The younger boys who started last September only know William as a soloist, and best friends with the other main soloist, Martin.

‘Your mum’ll be cock-a-hoop,’ Martin says. The grass looks like starched sea anemones, and the trees are bony and dark against the vivid sky. Small clouds of breath bloom from sixteen mouths.

It’s passed now, but even the most fidgety novice choristers felt it. Sometimes, something happens to this gang of boys, who fart and burp and pick their noses, when they know that what they produce is bigger and better than they are. Afterwards, stepping in puddles, telling jokes, it fades. But they never forget it.

‘You punched that C in the mouth.’ Martin leaps over the silver slash of water on the path.

The robust breeze plays with Martin’s dense hair, buffets William’s face and whips round his ankles. But singing Lent music has put a breath of spring in the air for him.

‘Thanks.’ He grins. ‘I just wish it went on for longer.’

Martin laughs. ‘Than twelve minutes?’

‘Mum says she could have it on all day and then get into bed and fall asleep listening to it.’