People singing in my face? Not happening.
‘Baaaaaccckkkk ooooofffffff!’ I sang. Helmet closed one eye, backing off slightly.
‘Baaaack oooooff. Like that, hold the nooooote. Oooooff. Release all your emotion into it. Oooooff.’ She sang back every word at me.
‘Oooooff,’ I repeated, mentally adding a word in front of it that I wouldn’t say – or sing – out loud in church.
‘Once moooore – ooooooff. Sing it with meeeeee.’ We sang together, and I allowed into that note about 5 per cent of the frustration, fear and helplessness squatting in my stomach. It seemed to be enough. A tiny crease flickered at the corner of her mouth. I guessed it was a smile. I did not smile back.
‘Alto. You can sit with them while you wait for the minister to arrive. He’ll be here at four.’ She gestured towards the women on the right-hand side. ‘You’ – she pointed at Marilyn – ‘feel free to keep plugging your mouth with those sweets. For now.’
I took a couple of steps towards the alto section, then another one back towards the door. Helmet spoke as she returned to the front. ‘Take a deep breath. Let it out slowly. Notice how light you feel. Has a tiny portion of stress been carried off by that one note? That’s just one. Think about what a bar, a line, a verse, a whole cantata will do. The power of music. One glance at those shoulders tells me you are a woman who needs to regain some personal power. That’s what we’re all about here.’
She was right. I did need to regain some personal power. It had felt good la-ing out some emotion at the strange woman. I wanted to la some more, sing out some of the scrunched-up feelings so they could stretch and spread their wings. Maybe they would even flap out the door and never come back.
Marilyn sat down again, pulled out an emery board, and started filing her nails as she whispered to the girl beside her. To be fair, it was as good a place as any to wait for the minister to arrive. I stole around to the alto seats, where a black woman who looked to be somewhere in her thirties moved along to make room for me. Helmet turned her attention back to Rowan, the skinny girl with hair like a Disney princess, and this time, instead of arguing, Rowan began to sing.
How someone could flip from a coarse, jagged whinge to the voice of an angel, I had no idea. If I could sing like that, I would never speak. The notes were running water, the sun coming out from behind a cloud, an eagle in flight. The words weren’t English – I guessed it was Latin – but oh, I understood every single mesmerising, heart-squeezing, aching syllable. Four lines in, the other members of the group joined her. The water became an ocean, the sun a galaxy. At once beautiful, majestic, powerfuland mysterious. They sang of loneliness and betrayal, utter sorrow and bitter loss, the harmonies blending together as they gradually grew stronger, building to a crescendo of triumph.
Talk about goosebumps. Marilyn had been frozen, nail file in hand, since the second note. I wanted to clap but feared the crudeness of the action shattering the glorious, lingering silence, so heavy I could touch it.
Helmet pursed her lips. ‘Not bad. You’re getting it, soprano twos. Soprano ones – drippy. A cold, wet nose. Alto ones – clompy. A drunk, overweight auntie dancing at a wedding. Alto twos – timorous. A bunch of morose mice. Again.’
They sang again and again, with little rest between Helmet’s metaphors (sloppy rice pudding, faded tea towels, anxious bluebottles). Individuals were asked to repeat phrases, relearn melodies, copy strange mouth positions and breathe in the right places. They broke up into the four different parts for group work and went over everything again.
An hour later, as the choir closed by performing the whole piece one last time, somebody behind me did start clapping. Turning round, I saw a man, leaning on the wall at the back of the hall. He nodded his approval, a thick mop of dark, unruly curls flopping, shadowy jawline definitely more couldn’t-care-less than designer stubble or hipster beard. Dressed in a scruffy jacket, with paint-stained hands and a tool belt strapped to his ripped trousers, I assumed he was the caretaker.
Helmet dismissed the choir, and the group began murmuring as they checked their phones, two of the women opening the serving hatch into a kitchen where refreshments stood waiting.
The man wandered over to where I sat, still slightly spellbound by the music, and nodded hello. ‘Are you going to join?’ He had a faint Yorkshire accent, the solid vowels complementing his capable appearance.
I shook my head. ‘I’m not sure. I sort of ended up here.’
He grinned, white teeth gleaming in his swarthy complexion. ‘I don’t think anyone actually chooses to join the choir. More like the choir chooses you.’
‘I was hoping to speak to the minister.’
‘Oh?’ He raised an eyebrow and started walking over towards the serving hatch. ‘Coffee? It’s filter. Or there’s tea. But the coffee’s better.’
I glanced around the room. With no minister-type person yet appearing, and Marilyn helping herself to a custard cream, I figured I might as well have a drink while we waited. Plus, I was freezing.
‘Tea, please.’
He leaned forwards to speak to the person inside the hatch, and I noticed a streak of cobweb tangled in his curls. I pictured the Ghost Web, and the thought was followed by an inevitable ripple of disappointment.
I hovered for a moment while someone topped up the teapot, waiting for the leaves to brew. The caretaker chatted easily with the rest of the women, flashing that brilliant smile, making a joke about the poor quality of the biscuits. When he turned to hand me my drink, one of them reached up and plucked out the cobweb, shaking her head at him before pretending to put it in her pocket like a souvenir. He ignored her gesture, nodding politely as he moved away.
‘I’m Dylan.’ He handed me my drink.
‘Faith.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Faith. A perfect name for a choirgirl.’ He smiled at me over the top of his mug.
‘Maybe. Shame I haven’t got the perfect voice.’ I looked away, disconcerted by his open gaze. Disconcerted about feeling disconcerted. I had learned the hard way not to let a handsome man’s smile get to me.
‘Oh, Hester’ll find it in there somewhere. She knows what she’s doing.’
‘Hester? Ah, right. The choirmaster. Mistress!’ I pretended to concentrate on drinking my tea.
