I turn back to Dr Freeman and Stuart, who are talking about a national classical composition prize for under-twelves. Joseph, Nathan and Sebby have wandered off to the far end of the buffet table where the cakes are. I wait for a gap in the conversation and say, ‘I’ve been thinking about the boarding thing.’
Stuart widens his eyes at me: a clear ‘Stop’ signal.
‘The boarding requirement. For choristers,’ I clarify.
‘Yes.’ Dr Freeman looks solemn. ‘I know you had your reservations when we spoke in the summer –’
‘Only that it’s taken to such an extreme. I don’t mind the idea of boarding per se, but I was wondering – would it be possible to consider a minor modification to the system, to reflect more of a balance?’ I smile brightly. Stuart will tell me later that I wasted my breath and made a fool of myself; I ought to know that no aspect of the Saviour College choirboy routine has changed since the early 1700s. I should infer from this, as everyone else seems to, that it never will.
‘Balance?’ says Dr Freeman. The expression on his face – one of genuine open-minded enquiry – is flawless. From years of practice, no doubt. I can’t believe I’m the first mother to suggest change, or complain.
‘Yes, between the school’s need to have the boys on site as much as possible and the need for them to have a proper home life,’ I say. ‘I mean, what if during term time they boarded for four nights a week and lived at home for three, for example? They could still have choir practice four out of seven mornings before school – mightn’t that be enough?’
‘Ah. Oh, dear.’ Dr Freeman smiles sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry if you’re finding it hard to adjust to Joseph not being at home. It really will get easier, you know.’
‘Yes, but one way to make it easier would be to change the rules, wouldn’t it?’ I say. ‘Just because something’s always been done one way—’
‘We believe it’s for a sound reason, Mrs Beeston. The choirboys have so much on their plates – so much more than our non-chorister pupils, probably double the workload. It just wouldn’t be feasible for them to be ferried back and forth from home to school every day, I’m afraid –’
‘I didn’t say every day –’
‘It would be so disruptive.’
‘What about five, two then? Five nights at school, two at home.’
‘They need the boys living at school during term time, Lou,’ Stuart intervenes. ‘Otherwise they wouldn’t make it a requirement.’
‘I accept that you and Dr Freeman think that, darling, and that you might be right and I might be wrong,’ I say in a Sunday-best voice that I’ve never used before. Nor have I ever called Stuart ‘darling’, nor sided against him with people who are trying to steal his child for no good reason. ‘What I’m asking is – is it possible to get this on to some kind of … school agenda, so that it can be debated by everyone with a stake, including the parents and the boys? If I’m outvoted, I’ll concede defeat, but I think it’s something that ought to be reviewed.’
‘Mrs Beeston, I really wouldn’t want to raise your hopes –’
‘You haven’t. And I’m sure you won’t.’
‘Give it a few more weeks. I’d be very surprised if you didn’t feel happier by then.’
‘You’re misunderstanding me. You don’t need to worry about my emotional state – that’s my responsibility, not yours.’
‘Lou, for God’s sake. I’m sorry, Dr Freeman.’
‘For what?’ I ask. ‘Taking the Lord’s name in vain, or me asking a reasonable question?’
‘It’s quite all right, Mr Beeston. No need to apologise.’
‘It’s a simple procedural question, Dr Freeman. How would I go about raising this as a topic for discussion, so that opinions can be solicited from all the appropriate parties?’
‘There’s always Jesus College,’ Alexis suggests from behind me. ‘The Jesus choristers all live at home.’
I didn’t realise she was listening.
Everyone is listening.
‘It’s not the same,’ says a mother whose name I don’t know. She sounds nervous. ‘They don’t get the same fully rounded experience. Nipping to choir a few times a week’s not the same.’
Dr Freeman says, ‘Jesus has an excellent choir. Of course, I think ours is far superior, but then I’m biased.’ He chuckles. ‘Now, parents, do come and help yourselves to more food before your sons eat it all.’
Please, sir, can we have some more? As Oliver Twist might have said. He was a boarder.
The five or six faces that looked anxious a few seconds ago have reverted to bland, smiling normality; Dr Freeman made a couple of light-hearted remarks and now all is right in the world of the choir mothers once again.
They would all vote against me. Even Donna, probably. Because of history, because of tradition. If one day Dr Freeman announced that, thanks to advances in science, it was now possible to dig up the original sixteen Saviour choirboys from 1712, the first intake, and re-power their voices using fragments of DNA found in their burial soil, the choir mothers would probably all vote in favour of that too, even if it meant their sons would have to be sacked as choristers. ‘I do love the sense of history you get here,’ they would warble from their cold pews in chapel as the sound of the Magnificat rose from sixteen piles of grey bone dust.
When Dr Freeman next looks in my direction, I take the uneaten vol-au-vent off my plate and put it down on the buffet table beside a large bowl of fruit salad.
Stuart turns the car in to Weldon Road, then pulls in by the kerb several hundred metres from our house. We have driven this far in complete silence.
‘Why are we stopping here? I thought we were going home. Home’s up there.’ I point.
‘Do you want to tell me what the hell you thought you were playing at?’ he asks.
‘I want to go home. This isn’t some kind of Mafia-style hit you and Dr Freeman have arranged, is it?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Sorry. I didn’t realise jokes were forbidden.’
‘Did I say that?’ he snaps.
I decide to put it to the test. ‘Everyone knows what happens to women who say too much to the wrong people. They’re driven to unexpected destinations by men who won’t look them in the eye, and then shot.’
It has started to rain again. It is also sunny, in a cold, bright, white way: jagged shiny patches all over the sky. If Joseph were here, I would tell him to look for a rainbow.
‘I asked you a serious question,’ says my serious husband.
‘If you mean what I said to Dr Freeman, I wasn’t playing at anything. I dared to suggest that something might change, that’s all. For the better.’
‘I don’t want to get a reputation as a troublemaker, Lou.’
I laugh. ‘I don’t think there’s much danger of that. I’m sure you’re already well established in Dr Freeman’s mind as the pushover of his dreams.’
‘You were only asking, I suppose. Dr Freeman surely can’t hold that against us, can he? At least you were straightforward.’
This must have been going on all the way home, inside his head: his argument with himself about how culpable I am. I should keep out of the discussion, since I’m hardly impartial.
I can’t.
‘He has our son, Stuart. He has him right now. We don’t, and won’t until the fourteenth of December at four o’clock. I think that gives me the right to ask a few questions, don’t you?’
‘Probably,’ Stuart says grudgingly, as if he wishes it weren’t the case. ‘I’d hate to think he’d … I don’t know, take against you and take it out on Joseph in some way.’
‘If you think that’s a possibility, you should have insisted on bringing Joseph home with us after lunch.’
‘Based on what? Some groundless fear?’
Based on the principle that you remove your son from the control of a man you don’t trust.
‘Look, fair enough – you wanted to ask your question and you asked it –
’
‘And was ignored.’
‘No, you got your answer – nothing’s going to change. And, frankly, I think you either accept that, or—’
‘Did you write anything in the prayer book, about Mr Fahrenheit?’ I ask.
Stuart frowns at the interruption. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘You said you would.’
‘Well … I will at some point, yes. Frankly, I couldn’t give a toss about Fahrenheit at the moment. I’m talking about our son’s education, our family – that’s more important. Lou, if we want to get on with our life in any kind of sane and functional way, your attitude to Saviour’s going to have to—’
‘Change,’ I cut him short. ‘I agree. I think there’s a way I might be able to feel okay about things.’
‘Really?’
It’s time for my pitch, the one I’ve been preparing all the way home. I didn’t expect to have to present it so soon; at the same time, I can see the advantage of putting it to Stuart here in the car rather than inside the house. It feels more appropriate somehow.
‘You and Dr Freeman are right. Joseph’s thriving. Happy. He seems to have settled in very quickly.’ It pains me to admit this. ‘And … Saviour’s demonstrably one of the best schools in the country, and he’s got a free place there. It would be wrong to pull him out just because I hate him not living at home. Selfish.’
‘Yesss,’ Stuart hisses with relief. How lonely it must have been for him, waiting for me to be reasonable. As lonely as it was for me. If he had made any concession to my feelings, even the tiniest, I would never have attained this level of rationality.
I would never have reached the point of coldly evaluating my bargaining power.
‘So Joseph can stay – at the school and in the choir. Which will make you and Dr Freeman happy, right?’
‘It should make you happy too,’ says Stuart.
‘It possibly should, but it doesn’t,’ I tell him briskly. ‘But let’s not give up too easily. Maybe something else could make me happy, or at least happier. I need something, Stuart. However wonderful an opportunity Saviour is for Joseph, I feel as if I’ve suffered a devastating loss.’
‘Loss?’ If he could trap the word in a net and haul it away, he would. ‘Isn’t that a bit strong? Joseph’s only down the road, not on another continent. We see him three times a week –’
‘I know the situation.’ I raise my voice to block out his words. ‘If I can’t have my way, at least allow me to have my feelings.’
‘I’m trying to make you feel better!’
It depresses me to think that this might be true. Is my husband really so ineffectual? I’d prefer to think of him as skilfully selfish. ‘It’s different for you,’ I say. ‘You’ve got what you want – Joseph at Saviour, the sandblasting of the house –’
Stuart laughs. ‘What do you mean, I’ve “got” the sandblasting of the house? That’s a means to an end that benefits us both. It’s your house too.’
‘I’ve given way on two things that really matter to me – my seven-year-old son effectively leaving home, and the revamp of the outside of the house, which I would very much like to cancel, except you won’t let me. So … you’ve won. Twice.’
‘That’s absurd. It’s not a competition, for goodness’ sake!’
I can’t decide if he’s being modest or unappreciative.
‘You won,’ I repeat. ‘I’d rather Joseph lived at home and joined Jesus College choir instead. I’d rather have sooty brickwork like everyone else on the street, and not have to live without natural light for months, in a dust-trap. Also – and I know this isn’t an instance of you winning in quite the same way but it still counts – you’re not disturbed by Mr Fahrenheit’s noise when it happens. I am.’
‘I’m not sure what you’re saying, Lou.’
That’s because I haven’t said it yet.
‘Or why you’re being so … weird and cold. Are you angry with me?’
‘I want us to buy a second home,’ I say.
Rain comes at us on a slant, propelled by a strong breeze. It hits with a loud splatter, like dozens of transparent fingertips tapping on the windscreen.
‘Don’t be daft,’ Stuart says.
‘Why’s it daft?’
‘Where do you want me to start? We can’t afford it …’
‘Yes, we can. Instead of using your gran’s money to pay off half our mortgage …’
‘Lou, this is crazy! Of course we’re going to pay down the mortgage, soon as the fixed term ends – why wouldn’t we? We’re deeper in debt than bloody … Greece! Manageable in the short term, but we’ve got to get on top of it.’
‘I’ve seen an advert for a gated second-home community in the Culver Valley.’ I don’t want to tell Stuart its name, not yet. In my head, Swallowfield is already a magic word. ‘It’s in today’s Times. I noticed it when we were talking to Imran. Two words jumped out at me – “peaceful” and “retreat”.’
‘A gated community? Have you gone mad?’
‘You have an objection to gates?’ I ask. Counsel for the prosecution. ‘You’ve got a front door on your house, haven’t you? One you lock?’
‘That’s different.’
‘Yes, it is,’ I agree. ‘Just not in a way that matters.’
‘Lou.’ Stuart exhales endlessly. ‘You don’t want another house. This is nothing more than a reaction to what happened last night with Fahrenheit –’
‘It doesn’t need to be more. When I want food, it’s a reaction to hunger. Doesn’t mean I don’t really need or want the food. I’m asking you to let me have something I want, Stuart. Whether I’m right to want it or not.’
‘Lou, with the best will in the world, this is a want that would cost hundreds of thousands of pounds!’
‘An investment,’ I say, standing firm. ‘You lose nothing. Long term, you stand to gain. But to be honest, I don’t really care what’s in it for you.’
‘That much is apparent,’ Stuart mutters.
‘I want this. Even just thinking about it this morning has really … lifted my heart.’ In case that sounds like an empty cliché, I add, ‘At a time when it badly needed lifting and nothing else was even coming close.’
Silence.
I can’t bear to look at Stuart; if I saw anything but understanding I might have to pack a suitcase and leave him tonight. ‘I think I deserve to be compensated for losing every other battle and conceding defeat with good grace,’ I say. ‘For noisy, broken nights, for my missing child –’
‘Joseph’s not missing! We know exactly where he is.’
‘… for the threat of taped-over windows and darkness that’s going to last for months. Do we?’ I turn on Stuart, twisting round in my seat. ‘Do we know exactly where Joseph is at this moment? Where is he? Tell me. I’d like to know. Is he in the boarding house common room? Playing football? Lying on his bed? Where is he?’
Stuart puts his hands on the steering wheel. Grips hard. The windows are starting to mist up. Soon we won’t be able to see our escape route: we might be trapped in this car and this argument for ever. If only we’d driven all the way home while we could, and gone inside.
‘This is some kind of weird displacement,’ Stuart says.
‘It’s an investment opportunity. At least come with me and have a look before you rule anything out.’ Who sounds hysterical now? And who sounds measured and mature? ‘This place is a residential nature reserve. Five hundred acres of stunning natural beauty – lakes, woods, fields. All kinds of rare species of birds, animals, plants.’ I stop short of saying ‘a fully immersive experience of nature’, though I liked the sound of it when Bethan from Swallowfield’s sales office said it to me on the phone. It made me realise how devoid of nature my life has been: forty-one years of living only in cities.
‘There’s an outdoor heated pool and a spa,’ I tell Stuart. ‘Twenty-four-hour security, totally safe for kids to wander about freely. No cars are allowed beyond the car park at th
e entrance. They have little golf-buggy-type contraptions to—’
‘How do you know so much about it from glancing at an ad in the Sunday Times?’ Stuart asks.
‘I rang them.’
‘When?’
‘After Dr Freeman ignored my questions. Joseph was busy with his new mates. I went outside and rang the number I’d memorised from the paper.’
‘Lou, this is …’ Stuart breaks off, shakes his head. ‘It’s just some mad fantasy you’ve latched on to. It’s absolutely crazy. We’ve never talked about buying a second home, never even thought about it.’
‘Both those statements are false, as of today,’ I point out. ‘There was a picture of one of the houses in the ad – the Glass House. It was made almost entirely of glass. No shortage of natural light there.’
‘Is that what this is about? The sandblasting? That won’t last for ever, you know.’
‘It’ll last until December the fourteenth and it’ll last all through Joseph’s Christmas holidays,’ I remind him. ‘Imran said it would. I’ll have three weeks with my son before school snatches him away again. I don’t want to spend those three weeks in the dark recesses of a dusty house that doesn’t feel like home, that I might be selling soon. And the noise – Imran’s guys during the day, Mr Fahrenheit all through the night. It’s … not a prospect I find bearable, I’m afraid.’
Stuart says nothing. He is trying to think of the definitive argument that will stop me wanting what I want. I wait for him to say that 14 December is too soon, that we’d never be in by then even if he were to agree in principle. Which he doesn’t.
Not true. Bethan from Swallowfield said we could be in by mid-November, early December if we were keen.
‘Can we at least go and look?’ I ask. ‘We could go now – we’d be there by three if we set off now. The sales office is open till five.’
‘Now? No. Definitely not.’
‘Why? Shouldn’t we make the most of being a spontaneous child-free couple? You haven’t got any plans for the rest of the day, have you?’
‘I’ve got work to do, Lou – lots of it.’
The Orphan Choir Page 8