Broken Voices (A Novella)

Broken Voices (A Novella) Andrew Taylor From the No.1 bestselling author of The American Boy and The Ashes of London comes a gothic novella – perfect for fans of The Loney by Andrew Michael Hurley.It’s Christmas before the Great War and two lonely schoolboys have been forced into companionship. Left in the care of an elderly teacher, there is little to do but listen to his eerie tales about the nearby Cathedral. The boys concoct a plan to discover if the stories are true. But the Cathedral is filled with hidden dangers, and curiosity can prove fatal. ANDREW TAYLOR Broken Voices Copyright (#u1b38f70b-34be-55ce-94ea-96415355c2fc) Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016 Copyright © Andrew Taylor 2016 Cover design by Dominic Forbes © HarperColl?insPublishers Ltd 2016 Andrew Taylor asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it, while at times based on historical fact, are the work of the author’s imagination. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books Source ISBN: 9780008171230 Ebook Edition © JULY 2017 ISBN: 9780008179755 Version: 2017-06-19 Table of Contents Cover (#u5a2eb0d3-66c3-5447-962a-674d2de24b54) Title Page (#u447a3856-7dea-5ac7-bc7f-e108b892dcbe) Copyright (#ubff46e80-0e1e-54ff-b674-6f770ffba145) Broken Voices (#u400ec6a5-8122-5853-a092-6f80454df6e4) Chapter 1 (#uf8b147b8-3e6a-5d75-9b5a-5fba2e8b6847) Chapter 2 (#u14e482bc-3436-5f81-9cc7-74a5a2efc3f7) Chapter 3 (#u7e2808ae-3ce9-5d21-8c04-a8e5b1225f28) Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo) Keep reading … (#litres_trial_promo) About the author (#litres_trial_promo) By the same author (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) BROKEN VOICES (#u1b38f70b-34be-55ce-94ea-96415355c2fc) 1 (#u1b38f70b-34be-55ce-94ea-96415355c2fc) Was there a ghost? Was there, in a manner of speaking, a murder? Ask me these questions and I cannot answer a simple yes or no. I did not know at the time and now, more than forty years later, I am even less able to answer them. Perhaps an easier question is this: what exactly do I remember about Faraday and me in the few days we were together? Those years before the war seem so remote now. The First World War, that is, the one that was meant to end them all. He and I didn’t know each other long, not properly – four or five days, perhaps. And nights, of course. I suppose there must be records – a report in the local newspaper, surely, and a police file. Perhaps letters from Faraday’s guardian. There must also have been correspondence between the school and my parents, but I found no trace of it after my mother died. We never spoke of it when she was alive, not directly, and my father wasn’t able to speak about anything after they brought him back from France in 1915. So – all I can really rely on is my memory. But memory may, paradoxically, make matters worse. It is not a passive record of what happens, though it may misleadingly give that impression. It plays an active role too, selecting and shaping the past. Memory speculates about itself; it ruminates and dreams, edits and deletes: over time, the fruits of these processes become the memories themselves and the entire process begins again. So what does that make Faraday’s fugitive notes? Or the man I saw in the arcade? Or even Mordred? To take a minor example. I must have seen the view from the train as we went back to school over and over again. But in memory it is always winter, though I must often have seen it at other times of the year. All the different journeys have elided into one which, strictly speaking, never really happened at all. The train comes north across the Fens. It’s afternoon but the light is already fading rapidly from the endless bowl of the sky. The land is nearly as featureless – a plain of black mud stretching as far as the eyes can see. I stare out of the window, trying to find something to look at – a windmill, a hedge, a tree, a farm. Sometimes there is even a Fenlander. We used to call them Boggos. I do not want to be on this train. Nor do I want to arrive at school. But there is no help in it: that’s what I remember most of all, that the desolation outside the window mirrored the desolation within me. That was nonsense, of course. They call it the Pathetic Fallacy, the belief that one can attach human emotions and thoughts to inanimate objects, even landscapes. I know that because Mr Ratcliffe explained it to Faraday and me. It may be a fallacy but sometimes fallacies have their own sort of truth. When I look out of the window into the darkening world, I am looking for the two towers and dreading to find them. The sight of them means that the journey is coming to its end. One tower is taller than the other, and they are joined by the long, high-backed ridge of the nave. The Fens diminish everything – people, buildings, trees. Everything except the Cathedral, which deals with the Fens on its own terms. Most old English cathedrals have a school attached to them, often a King’s School set up by Henry VIII at the Reformation. Ours was of no great size – perhaps a hundred pupils, some dayboys and some boarders, aged between nine and nineteen. Within the school was another school – technically, I believe a separate foundation: this was the Choir School, whose purpose was to educate the boys who sang in the Cathedral choir. The Choir School was very small – twelve or fifteen boys. It was ruled by the Master of Music, Dr Atkinson, who was also the Cathedral organist. For much of the time, the Choir School boys mingled with the rest of us – they attended the same lessons and played the same games. But they were a race apart, nonetheless. They were liable to vanish unexpectedly to attend practice or perform their duties at one service or another. Their choir duties took precedence over everything else, even examinations. They had privileges and responsibilities that set them apart. They rarely talked of these except among themselves, and then in terms that were largely incomprehensible to outsiders, which added to the air of mystery that attached to them. Faraday was a choirboy. He was thirteen years old. Before all this happened, I knew very little more about him, though we had attended the same school for years. I knew that he was supposed to be good at rugger. I knew he was the head of the Choir School, which meant that at services he wore a medallion engraved with the Cathedral’s badge over his surplice, hanging from a ribbon around his neck. But I was more than a year older. He was in the form below mine and he lived in a different house. Our lives did not overlap. The other thing that everyone knew about Faraday was that he had an exceptionally beautiful voice. Ours was the sort of school where you had to be good at sport, or work or music if you were to have a tolerable life. Faraday was good at everything, but especially good at singing. I suppose I should also mention that I did not much like Faraday. My parents were in India. They went there the week before my seventh birthday, leaving me in England. The climate was healthier for children, they said, and besides the schools were so much better. It was what many parents did in their situation: it was considered quite normal and in the best interests of the child. Perhaps it was. But I wished they had taken me with them. I still wish it. During school holidays, I stayed with my aunt, the widowed sister of my father. My aunt was a kind woman. But she didn’t know what to do with me and I didn’t know what to do with her. She and my parents decided to send me to the King’s School because it was only thirty miles from her house and it had the reputation of being a sound Christian establishment. The school was a spartan place whose routine revolved around the Cathedral, even for those who were not in the choir. There was a good deal of bullying. Education of a sort was hammered into us. I made the best of it. What else was there to do? I received regular letters from Quetta or Srinagar or New Delhi, written in my mother’s careful, upright hand. Every year or so, my parents would come home on leave. I looked forward to these visits with anxiety and delight, as I dare say they did. Seeing my parents was always painful because they were not as they had been, and nor was I: we had become strangers to one another. We tried to make the most of it, but then they would be off again and whatever fragile intimacy we had achieved would trickle away, leaving behind more misleading memories. Still, I longed to see them. Hope always triumphed over experience. The last time they came home, I was twelve. My father tried without success to teach me to fish; he wanted me to share his passion. My mother took me shopping with her and showed me off to her friends, who remained unimpressed. We went up to London for matin?es at the theatre. On one of these outings we had tea at the Charing Cross Hotel. I don’t remember much about it except for one thing my mother said. ‘You used to be such a chatterbox when you were little.’ She smiled at me. ‘Where did all the words go?’ My parents were coming home again. They would be here by mid-December in plenty of time for Christmas. My mother wrote that my father was planning to buy a motor car. If he did, they would drive over at the end of term and collect me. The thought of my parents turning up at school in a motor car added a new element to my anticipation. At that time cars were uncommon, especially in the Fens. I imagined my parents driving up in an enormous, gleaming equipage worthy of Mr Toad in The Wind in the Willows and sweeping me away before the whole school. Like a fool, I boasted to my friends of this triumph to come, which was tempting fate. I did not have long to enjoy it. In my mother’s next letter she wrote that they had been obliged to change their plans. They would not be able to come home this year after all. ‘It’s nothing to worry about, darling,’ she wrote, ‘but I’ve been a little under the weather lately, and the doctor says it would be better to leave it until next year. Daddy and I are so disappointed, though we know you will have a wonderful time at Christmas with Auntie Mary. And next year, we shall try to come home for longer.’ I know the reason now. My mother had just discovered she was pregnant. Of course, neither she nor my father ever talked about it to me, but it was easy enough to work out when my sister was born the following May. Fifteen years is a long gap to leave between children. Perhaps my parents found it hard to conceive another child. Perhaps my sister was an accident. Not that it matters now. But it is strange to think that, if my sister had never existed, none of this would have happened and I would have been quite a different person now. And as for Faraday … ‘Try not to mind too much, darling,’ my mother’s letter ended. ‘With fondest love.’ Nevertheless, I looked forward to Christmas. If nothing else it meant getting away from school and going to a warm house where there were four meals a day and I was never left hungry for long. My aunt knew little about boys but she knew a great deal about creature comforts. The vicar’s son would be home from school, which meant that for at least part of the time I would have someone to go about with. And there would be presents – and perhaps more generous ones this year because my parents would feel I deserved consolation. Two days before the end of term, Mr Treadwell, my housemaster, sent a boy to fetch me. He was a small, harassed man, a bachelor, who didn’t care for boys or anything else except geology, which was his passion. ‘There’s been a difficulty,’ he said, staring at the fire; he never looked at you if he could help it. ‘I’m sorry to say that your aunt is unwell.’ He paused. I did not dare interrupt him with a question. My housemaster believed boys should hold their tongues unless asked to speak. He had a vicious temper, too – we never knew how far he would go when roused. ‘She’s in hospital, in fact. Pneumonia, I’m afraid.’ He was still staring at the fire, but I saw the tip of his tongue emerge, lizard-like, from between his lips. ‘We must remember her in our prayers. Must we not?’ I recognized my cue. ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘We must hope for a full recovery,’ he went on. ‘Not a good time of year to be ill. But still.’ ‘What about Christmas, sir?’ I blurted out. My housemaster turned his head and glared at me. But he must have remembered the circumstances, for when he spoke his voice was almost gentle. ‘You will have to stay at school,’ he said. ‘I have arranged for you to lodge with Mr Ratcliffe. It will be best for all concerned.’ 2 (#u1b38f70b-34be-55ce-94ea-96415355c2fc) Christmas that year fell on a Wednesday. ‘Wednesday’s Child is full of woe,’ shrieked one small boy over and over again as he ran round the playground, until one of the bullies of the Fifth Form pushed him over and made him cry instead. The school broke up two days earlier, on Monday. It was strange to watch the familiar routines unfolding and not be part of them: the station fly taking boys to the railway station by relays; the steady stream of parents, always a matter of enormous sociological interest; the boys queueing to shake hands with Mr Treadwell. At that stage I was not the only one to stay – two other boys at Treadwell’s did not leave with the rest on Monday. For an hour or two, we revelled in undisputed possession of the few amenities the house afforded – the billiards table with torn baize, for example, and the two armchairs that leaked horsehair by the common room fire. There was a sense of holiday so we talked loudly and laughed a great deal to show what fun we were having. On Christmas Eve, however, these boys left as well, collected one by one by their parents. Mr Treadwell’s suitcases stood in the hall. He shook hands with Matron, who was going to her married sister in Huntingdon, and tipped the maids. Finally, only Mr Treadwell and I were left. He looked at his watch. ‘The taxi will be here soon. I’ll take you over to Mr Ratcliffe’s now.’ My trunk, packed and corded, was staying at Treadwell’s with my tuckbox. But I had been given a small suitcase, in which Matron had put those things she thought I would need, and I had a satchel containing a few personal possessions. I followed Treadwell into the College, which was the name given to the Cathedral close. The College was, and for all I know still is, a world apart with its own laws and customs. Every evening at 7 p.m., the great gates were closed, and the place turned in on itself for the night. Its boundaries were those of the mediaeval monastery, as were many of its buildings where the Cathedral dignitaries lived and where the houses and classrooms of the school were. Mr Ratcliffe lived at one end of what had been the Sacrist’s Lodging. He was a bachelor who had taught at the school for many years and who now lived in semi-retirement in a grace-and-favour house granted to him by the Dean and Chapter. He was still active, though he must have been in his early seventies, and regularly attended school functions and sometimes took classes when masters were away or ill. Unlike many of his former colleagues on the staff, he was not a clergyman. ‘It is most kind of Mr Ratcliffe to invite you to stay,’ Mr Treadwell told me on my way over. ‘You must try not to disturb him too much.’ ‘How long will I be there, sir?’ ‘It depends on your aunt’s health. I’ve asked her doctor to write to Mr Ratcliffe and he will pass on the news to you. If she’s well enough, she may want you home after Christmas.’ He must have seen my face for he hurried on, ‘But I advise you not to raise your hopes too high. Pneumonia is a very serious illness. Very serious indeed.’ ‘Will she … will she die?’ ‘God willing, no. But pneumonia can be fatal. You must pray for her.’ The Sacrist’s Lodging had been built against the northern boundary wall of the monastery. Most of the doors and windows faced inwards. If you looked out, you saw the Cathedral blocking out the earth and sky. Mr Ratcliffe answered Mr Treadwell’s knock. He was a tall man, quite bald apart from two tufts of white hair above his ears. He generally wore knickerbockers and a tweed jacket, stiff with age, with leather elbow patches. He was very brisk and businesslike on that first meeting – I felt that my plight deserved a little more sympathy than he gave it. He showed me over the house, with Mr Treadwell hovering behind us and making the occasional clucking sound designed to express approval and gratitude. The tour didn’t take long. Downstairs, at the front, there was a sitting room dominated by a grand piano which occupied almost half the floor space. The air was stuffy with pipe smoke, which filled the air with a fine, blue-grey fog. There were books everywhere. They were shelved in the orthodox manner along the walls. They stood in piles under the piano and on the piano. They lined the mantelpiece and colonized the shadowy corners. A tortoiseshell cat was asleep on one of the chairs. It opened one eye, looked at us, and shut it again. ‘That’s Mordred,’ Mr Ratcliffe said, looking directly at me for the first time. ‘I’d be careful with him, if I were you.’ ‘Mordred?’ Mr Treadwell said. ‘An unusual name for a cat.’ ‘In Le Morte d’Arthur,’ Mr Ratcliffe said, ‘Mordred betrays his uncle the King. Not a nice man. I regret to say that Mordred is not nice either, hence the name.’ ‘In that case, I’m surprised you keep him.’ ‘I’ve had him since he was very young. I must make the best of him now, just as he must make the best of me.’ Apart from the sitting room, the other rooms downstairs were a kitchen and dining room, dark little rooms with small windows, heavily barred, overlooking the bustle of the High Street. ‘One washes here,’ Mr Ratcliffe said, gesturing towards the kitchen sink. ‘I am afraid there’s no bathroom. The lavatory is outside in the yard. If I need a bath, my neighbours kindly let me use theirs. I have had a word with them, and they have no objection to extending their hospitality to you. Of course, I try not to trouble them very often if I can possibly help it.’ ‘Splendid!’ Mr Treadwell said. Upstairs there were only two rooms. The door of the one at the front remained closed – ‘My bedroom,’ Mr Ratcliffe explained, with an odd, apologetic twitch of his face. The one at the back was mine. Like the kitchen and dining room below, it overlooked the High Street. It was low-ceilinged with two beds and a quantity of dark furniture designed for less cramped quarters. The window was small and barred, like the ones downstairs. It faced north and let in very little daylight. The air smelled damp. Mr Treadwell poked his head into the gloom. ‘Splendid,’ he said. ‘Splendid.’ He withdrew and clattered downstairs. ‘I – er – I hope you’ll be comfortable.’ Mr Ratcliffe glanced round the room. ‘Mrs Thing made up the bed on the left. She must have thought you would be more comfortable there.’ ‘Who’s Mrs Thing, sir?’ I asked, and my voice emerged as a loud croak. ‘The woman who does – she comes in three times a week to clean. And so on.’ He frowned, as if trying to recall what she did do. ‘I stay out of her way myself.’ ‘Is she really called Mrs Thing?’ Mr Ratcliffe appeared to give the matter serious consideration. ‘Well, no. Or not that I know of. But I can never remember her name. Indeed, I cannot be sure that I ever knew it. So I call her Mrs Thing instead.’ We went back downstairs. Mr Treadwell was waiting in the hall and frowning at his watch. ‘I haven’t mentioned your meals,’ he said. ‘Mr Ratcliffe makes his own arrangements. But you will find bread and milk in the kitchen, I understand.’ ‘And tea,’ Mr Ratcliffe put in. ‘And butter and jam. Help yourself.’ ‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Ratcliffe.’ Treadwell turned back to me. ‘You will take your lunch and tea at Mr Veal’s house. You know where that is? Beside the Porta.’ ‘Yes, sir.’ The Porta was the great gateway at the far end of the College. Mr Veal was the head verger of the Cathedral, a tyrant who waged an endless war against the boys of the King’s School. ‘I am sure Mrs Veal will look after you.’ Mr Treadwell retreated towards the door. ‘It only remains for me to wish you both a very happy Christmas. Goodbye – I must rush.’ With that, Mr Treadwell was gone. The door slammed behind him. I never saw him again, as it happens, a circumstance I do not regret. Not in itself. Mr Ratcliffe led the way into the sitting room, saying over his shoulder, ‘A train, no doubt. They wait for no man, do they?’ I followed him into the room and stared about me. I dare say I looked a little forlorn. ‘You could read a book, I suppose,’ he suggested. ‘That’s what I generally do. Or perhaps you would like to unpack. You mustn’t mind me – just as you please.’ I was standing near the chair on which Mordred lay. The first I knew of this was when I felt an acute pain in the back of my left hand. I cried out. When I looked down, the cat had folded its forelegs and was staring up at me with amber eyes, flecked with green. There were two spots of blood on my hand. I sucked them away. ‘Mordred!’ Mr Ratcliffe said. ‘I do apologize.’ Freedom is an unsatisfactory thing. I had longed for the end of term, to the end of the chafing restrictions of school. But when I had freedom, I did not know what to do with it. Mr Ratcliffe set no boundaries whatsoever on my conduct. In this he was perhaps wiser than I realized at the time. But he made it clear – wordlessly, and with the utmost courtesy – that he and Mordred had their own lives, their own routines, and that he did not wish me to disturb them if at all possible. On that first day, I went into the town during the afternoon. During term time, we boys were not allowed to leave a College except when specifically authorized – to walk to the playing field, for example, or to visit the home of a dayboy, or to go to one of the few shops that the school authorities had licensed us to patronize. We were allowed to go shopping only on Saturday afternoons, and only in pairs. So – to ramble the streets at will on Christmas Eve, to go into shops on a whim: it should have been glorious. Instead it was cold and boring. The hurrying people making last-minute purchases emphasized my own isolation. Everywhere I looked there were signs of excitement, of anticipation, of secular pleasures to come. I had a strong suspicion that Mr Ratcliffe would not celebrate Christmas at all, except perhaps by going to church more often than usual. I tried to buy a packet of cigarettes in a tobacconist’s, but the man knew I was at the King’s School by my cap and refused to serve me. I had a cup of tea and an iced bun in a caf?, where mothers and daughters stared at me with, I thought, both curiosity and pity. In the end, there was nothing for it but to go back to the College, to Mr Ratcliffe’s. At the Sacrist’s Lodging, his door was unlocked. I hung up my coat and cap and went into the sitting room. Mr Ratcliffe wasn’t there. But a boy was sitting in Mordred’s chair, with Mordred on his lap. He had a long thin head, and his ears stood out from his skull. His front teeth were prominent and slightly crooked. The cat was purring. They both looked at me. ‘Hello,’ said the boy. ‘I’m Faraday.’ 3 (#u1b38f70b-34be-55ce-94ea-96415355c2fc) That was the start of my acquaintance with Faraday. It’s strange that such a brief relationship should have had such a profound effect on both of us. He was very thin – all skin and bone – but there was nothing remarkable in that. The school food was appalling and few of us grew fat on it. Some people called him ‘Rabbit’ because of his teeth. The front door opened. Mr Ratcliffe came into the house. ‘Ah – there you are. I see you’ve met Faraday. But perhaps you two are already friends?’ I shook my head. Faraday continued stroking the cat. ‘As you see, he has already established a friendship with Mordred. How long it will last is another matter.’ Mr Ratcliffe sat down and began to ream his pipe. ‘Mrs Thing is making up the other bed.’ ‘He’s staying here?’ I said. ‘But—’ ‘I’m not in the choir any more,’ Faraday interrupted. ‘That’s why I’m here.’ I noticed two things: that Faraday’s face had gone very red, and that his voice started on a high pitch but descended rapidly into a croak. ‘Yes,’ Mr Ratcliffe said, tapping his pipe on the hearth to remove the last of the dottle. ‘Poor chap. Faraday’s voice has broken. Pity it should happen just before Christmas, but there it is. Dr Atkinson decided it would be better not to take a chance: so here he is.’ Even then I knew there must be more to it than this. The brisk jollity of Mr Ratcliffe’s voice told me that, and so did Faraday’s face. Even if Faraday’s voice had reached the point where it could not be trusted, they could have let him stay with them, let him walk with the choir on Christmas morning with his badge of honour around his neck. Faraday looked up. ‘They chucked me out,’ he said. ‘It’s not fair.’ At the time I pitied only myself. Now I realize that all of us in that house deserved pity for one reason or another. Faraday’s voice had betrayed him. His greatest ally had become the traitor within. He had lost not just his place in the choir but also his sense of who he was. Mr Ratcliffe must have loathed the necessity to share his house with two boys, disturbing his quiet routines and upsetting his cat. It didn’t occur to me until much later that he was probably very poor. He must have received some money from the school for housing us. Perhaps he had felt in no position to refuse. After all, he was old and alone; he lived a grace-and-favour life in a grace-and-favour house. Faraday and I went to the verger’s house at six in the evening, where Mrs Veal gave us Welsh rarebit, blancmange and a glass of milk. We ate in the Veals’ parlour, a stiff little room smelling of polish and soot. On the mantelpiece was a mynah bird, stuffed and attached to a twig, encased in a glass dome. On that occasion we saw only Mrs Veal, apart from near the end of the meal when Mr Veal came in from the Cathedral, still in his verger’s cassock; he wished us good evening in a gruff voice and opened the door of a wall cupboard. I glimpsed two rows of hooks within, holding keys of various sizes. ‘Enjoy your supper,’ he told us, and went into the kitchen, where we heard him talking to his wife. Faraday rose from his chair, crossed the room to the cupboard and opened the door. ‘Dozens of keys,’ he whispered. ‘And all with labels. It’s the keys for everywhere.’ I pretended not to be interested. ‘Sit down,’ I said. ‘Or he’ll catch you.’ That night I heard Faraday crying. I remember in my first term at school I would lie in bed, listening for other boys crying and stuffing my handkerchief in my own mouth in an attempt to muffle my tears. There were about twenty of us huddled under thin blankets in a high-ceilinged dormitory, the windows wide open winter or summer. Sometimes one of the older boys would round on one of the weeping children. ‘Bloody blubber,’ he would whisper, and the rest of us would repeat the words over and over again, like an incantation, lest we be accused of blubbing as well. Little savages. But that had been years ago. I wasn’t a kid any more and nor was Faraday. ‘Faraday?’ I murmured. There was instant silence. ‘Are you crying?’ ‘I’ve got a cold.’ It was the usual excuse, transparently false. ‘What is it?’ I said. And waited. ‘Everything. Bloody everything.’ We lay there without speaking. The room was not quite dark – the curtains were thin and the light from a High Street lamp leaked into the room. ‘But it’s my bloody voice really,’ he went on. ‘Everything would have been all right if it hadn’t been for that.’ ‘That’s rot,’ I said, with the loftiness of fourteen to thirteen. ‘Everyone’s voice has to break sometime, unless you’re a girl. You don’t want to be a girl, do you?’ This was an attempt at comfort but it seemed only to make Faraday start crying again. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘You can’t just blub.’ ‘You don’t understand. I was going to sing the Christmas anthem. There’s a solo, you see, and it’s usually the head chorister that does it, and the Bishop gives him a special present afterwards. Some money.’ ‘How much?’ I said. ‘Five pounds.’ I whistled. ‘For a bit of singing? That’s stupid.’ ‘No, it’s not.’ Faraday’s voice rose in volume and, suddenly, in pitch. ‘It’s a tradition. They’ve been doing it for hundreds of years. Some old bishop left money in his will for it. And now Hampson will do it instead.’ ‘Don’t talk so loud. The Rat will hear you.’ ‘It’s lovely, too,’ Faraday whispered. Lovely was not a word we used much. ‘What is?’ ‘The anthem. It’s for Christmas Day. It’s called “Jubilate Deo”, and we only sing it on Christmas morning.’ Rejoice to God. Both of us had enough Latin to translate that. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘It’s beastly to lose five quid. But is it that bad? I mean, it was never yours in the first place.’ Faraday started crying again. I was spending Christmas with a cry-baby. I curled myself into a ball to conserve heat and thought how perfectly miserable everything was. Or rather, how perfectly miserable I was. Boys are selfish little brutes. While I was wallowing in self-pity, however, my curiosity was still stirring. ‘Look here,’ I said, ‘I can see it’s a shame your voice is broken and all that. But why are you like this about it? And why are you here?’ Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/andrew-taylor/broken-voices-a-novella/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.