Unseen Things Above (37 page)

Well, well, well. I do believe that I just spotted the great Mr Dorian himself gliding in and insinuating himself into one of the best reserved seats in the house, front row, nave, next to the Lord Lieutenant. He has come to hear his mentee sing that solo Freddie should, by rights, have performed on the Christmas CD. ‘What wondrous love is this, O my soul?' After all, he wrote it for Freddie. With hindsight,
not
clever to phrase it like that just now, though: ‘I wrote it for you.' Rather than: ‘I had your voice and its unusual timbre in mind when I arranged this piece.' Hmm. He rather feared the subsequent clarification was lost on his smitten mentee.

The lights dim. The dean mounts the pulpit steps and makes her announcements.

Still, not a problem. Mr May would grow out of it soon enough. That said, it would be idle to pretend that a smile could not light up a lost lake in the soul. Where a thousand lilies had just unfurled without permission. Ah, well.

Silence. Darkness. In a moment a lone voice, like one crying in the wilderness, will sing. But for now, we wait.

Outside on the Close the wind
shh-shhhes
in the empty lime trees. A robin flutters up to the old-fashioned lamp post. Perhaps it is the same bird who built its nest behind the high altar? In the silence he starts to sing. Perhaps, poor thing, he is deluded, and mistakes the lamplight for the dawn?

Perhaps. But he will still be awake, singing – whether at midnight, or at cock crowing, or when day breaks.