Imperfect Harmony (2 page)

The song began, and the first part split off, then the second, then the third…. By the time all four parts were going, John’s self-consciousness had fallen away and he was lost to the power of the simple song. The singing wasn’t perfect, but it sent a thrill of elation through him. Their voices raised in harmony echoed up into the dusty rafters; John’s heart lifted with them and soared.

When they came back into unison at the end, Rhys brought the volume right down, signalling with a finger to his lips and making the movements of his hands smaller. The choir followed him, and John was dragged with them, lowering his voice to sing the final few words. The hushed pause after they finished made him hold his breath until Rhys broke the silence.

“Well done. That was beautiful.” His smile was wide as he swept his gaze around the circle of people, and something tugged in John’s chest.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Maggie said quietly, nudging John from where she was seated beside him.

The rest of the group were standing, so John looked down to meet her smile. He nodded, exhilarated. “That was amazing.”

Maggie didn’t need to say “I told you so.” The pleased twist of her lips and the little nod she gave him said it all. “He’s a wonderful teacher.” She nodded at Rhys. “And such a lovely boy.”

John felt his cheeks heat as he glanced covertly at Rhys again. Rhys
was
lovely, but John wasn’t going to agree openly with Maggie, instead he protested mildly, “He’s hardly a boy.”

“Well, compared to us, he is.”

“I suppose.”

She had a point. At forty-two, John was one of the younger members of the group. Most of them looked as though they were in their fifties and sixties, and some well beyond that. It was hard to judge Rhys’s age, but John doubted he could be past his mid-twenties at the most. All the more reason why John shouldn’t be admiring him other than for his skill as a choir leader.

Rhys led them in another round before getting them to sit in a circle. At that point they were asked to seat themselves according to which part they wanted to sing.

“We use the traditional soprano, alto, tenor, and bass sections,” Rhys explained for the benefit of the newcomers. “But it’s very flexible, and if you’re not sure which part is best for you, you can always swap if what you’re asked to sing doesn’t suit your voice.” He approached John. “John, are you happy with bass? My other three blokes all sing that part. There’s no reason you couldn’t sing tenor if you wanted, but you’d be the lone male voice with my female tenors.” He gestured to a small group of women who were taking their seats next to the men.

“I’m more of a bass anyway,” John said.

“Great. Okay, guys.” Rhys addressed the other men. “Can you squeeze John in the middle of you lot, so he has someone on either side of him for his first week?”

The other men shuffled over obligingly, and one of them, a tall man with greying hair and glasses, got a chair for John. “Here you go, have a seat.” He offered his hand. “I’m Ken, and this is Michael and Steve.”

John shook hands with them all and took the seat between Ken and Michael. “Thanks,” he said, feeling a little overwhelmed at the attention. How long had it been since he’d voluntarily interacted with anyone other than Maggie or his colleagues? Even as he asked himself the question, he knew the answer. Two years and six days exactly. The curse of David dying on New Year’s Eve meant that John could never forget the date, even if he’d wanted to.

As always the thought of that night triggered a surge of panic. Memories he couldn’t control flooded his brain and made his heart pound and his palms sweat. The imminent threat of a panic attack was diverted by the realisation that Ken was asking him a question.

“Have you sung in a choir before?”

John took a deep breath and focused, forcing the anxiety away, willing his body to settle.

There’s nothing to fight, there’s nothing to run away from. It’s over. You’re safe. Broken, maybe, but not in imminent danger.

“No,” he managed. “Well… not since primary school, and that was a while ago.”

Ken seemed to interpret his anxiety as nerves over singing. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. I was nervous my first week too, but you’ll be surprised how fast you pick things up.”

“Thanks.” John gave Ken a tight smile.

Rhys was speaking now, so they turned to give him their attention.

“We’ll start off with a nice, relatively easy one. It’s a gospel song, based on a line from an old hymn. The harmonies are gorgeous. Let me sing you the tune—which the altos get—so the rest of you know what you’re hanging your harmonies on.”

He launched into a slow, haunting melody with words that made John’s chest ache.

There’ll be no sorrow there

There’ll be no sorrow there

In heav’n above, where all is love

There’ll be no sorrow there

When he finished there was a collective sigh. “That’s lovely,” one of the women said.

“Isn’t it?” Rhys grinned. “And wait till you hear it with all four parts. It’s glorious. The sort of harmonies you want to roll around and wallow in. Okay, altos, let’s get started.”

John listened as Rhys taught the tune to the altos, getting them to listen and repeat until they were confident and could sing the whole thing through. The tenors were taught their part next, followed by John’s section, the basses, and finally the sopranos learned their harmony. Each time, Rhys got the other parts to sing their part against the tune but wouldn’t bring all four parts together until the very end. Busy memorising his part, John was glad that the need to concentrate had temporarily distracted him from his emotional reaction to Rhys’s solo rendition.

“Right, I think you’ve all got the gist of it,” Rhys said. “Let’s stand up to sing it together. We’ll start with the altos and build it up one part at a time till you’re all in. Then we’ll sing it through a few times on repeat.”

A flurry of chatter died as Rhys raised his hands and scanned around the room to check they were all ready.

The altos began. The simple melody was a little wobbly in places, sung in untrained but enthusiastic voices. When the tenors joined in, John felt a tingle at the lovely sound of their voices in counterpoint to the altos. As Rhys brought the basses in, John was focusing on his part again and not really hearing the whole sound. But when the sopranos finally joined them, Rhys raised his voice over those of the singers and said, “Okay, just keep it going now. It sounds amazing.”

Gradually, as John became more confident in what he was singing, he found he was able to listen to and appreciate the sound of all four parts. For the second time that night, he found the hairs on the back of his neck tingling with a rush of pure emotion—joy at the beauty of the sound mingled with a sense of loss so strong that his chest ached.

His throat tightened as hot tears pricked his eyelids. He swallowed hard, unable to sing past the lump in his throat. He felt his face flush, mortified at his loss of control in such a public setting.

Just then, Rhys looked directly at him and his face softened. The empathy in his eyes only made John feel worse. He jerked his gaze away to stare at a knot on the wooden floorboards and forced himself to start singing again. He was a little hoarse at first, but soon the notes came again as he got a grip on himself.

By the time Rhys called “Last time through,” the wave of unwelcome emotion had passed. As the last notes died away into silence, John was able to relax and smile with the rest of the group as chatter broke out around him.

CHAPTER TWO

Rhys kept a close eye on the new bloke, John, for the rest of the evening. It wasn’t unusual for people to be moved to tears by music—such was the power of harmony singing. John had looked utterly bleak during the gospel song they’d sung. Choked by emotion, pain had been etched into his features, raw and open. The sight of it had resonated with Rhys, triggering an echo of his own familiar grief.

When John saw Rhys looking, the shutters had come down, but Rhys couldn’t help wondering what had provoked such a strong reaction.

They worked on a couple of other songs after the gospel one—an arrangement of a modern pop song and then a South African freedom song. Rhys saw John get more relaxed as the session went on. He didn’t seem to be having much trouble picking up the tunes, although he struggled to memorise the words in the freedom song, but everyone had found those tricky.

As Rhys taught the bass part, he could hear John’s voice among the rest, strong with a lovely deep resonance, and perfectly in tune. Although he’d seemed nervous about being there at first, he was a confident singer. He’d be an asset to the bass section if he stayed.

They finished the session with another gospel song, an easy-to-pick-up version of a classic that most of the choir already knew. Rhys gave each part a quick run-through on their own for the new people, and then got them all on their feet to sing it together. The energy in the room went right up, and they finished their rehearsal on a high note, literally as well as metaphorically.

As usual, most of the choir lingered to chat for a while. Close friendships formed within the group, and several of them regularly went to the pub for a drink after practice.

Maggie was surrounded by people asking how she was after her surgery, and Rhys noticed John standing to one side, looking a little awkward.

Rhys approached him. “How did you get on? You seem to be picking things up okay.”

John stroked his beard nervously. He met Rhys’s eyes and his face softened; lines appeared around his eyes as he smiled. “Yeah. It wasn’t too hard once I got into it. I enjoyed it.”

“Will you come back next Wednesday?” Rhys tried not to sound too desperate, but he really hoped the answer would be yes.

John hesitated. “I suppose… maybe for as long as Maggie needs a lift, at least.”

Rhys grinned. “That’s great. We’ll be glad to have you.”

“Well….” John shuffled his feet and looked at his watch. “I guess I’d better get Maggie home.”

Everyone else had left by then apart from one other woman, who had passed Maggie her crutches and was helping her out of her seat.

“Thanks, Sandra,” Maggie said. “Are you ready to go, John?”

“Yes.” John went to Maggie’s side.

“Do you need a hand getting out to the car?” Rhys offered.

“No, thank you. I’ve already got one knight in shining armour.” Maggie smiled at John. “I’d feel greedy with two.”

Maggie looked tiny next to John. He was a solid, bear-like man. Not hugely tall—a few inches taller than Rhys, so probably around six foot—but he was broad. Standing protectively next to Maggie, he had a comforting look about him, yet there was an air of sadness too.

Rhys wondered whether he was only imagining it because of what he’d seen earlier, but something about the lines on John’s face and the shadows under his eyes spoke of loss. Rhys knew what it felt like to grieve, and his heart hurt for John. “Okay. Goodbye, then. See you next week.”

“Bye, love,” Maggie replied.

John gave a shy smile. “Bye, and thanks.”

Once the hall was empty, Rhys locked up and set off on the ten-minute walk home. Rhys’s thoughts kept returning to John. The moment when he’d caught John with tears in his eyes haunted Rhys. John wasn’t the first to be moved by a song in one of Rhys’s choir sessions, but he’d never seen anyone look so grief-stricken. Maybe he was recently bereaved?

When Rhys let himself into his flat, he found a note from his mum.

I cooked lasagne tonight, and there’s leftovers. Come over if you want some.

Rhys smiled. That was one of the perks of living where he did. His flat in the converted garage was self-contained—originally converted for his gran—and separate from the main house. Rhys could come and go as he pleased and have his privacy, but with his family next door, he never had to worry about going hungry. His mum was always going on at him for not looking after himself properly. He did eat enough; he was just naturally skinny. She worried about him, though, and Rhys had learned to appreciate that in the last couple of years rather than seeing it as an annoyance. Better to have an overprotective mother than one who didn’t give a shit, like Lyle’s.

At the thought of Lyle, familiar ache echoed in Rhys’s chest, a shadow of a pain that had once been all-consuming. Rhys picked up his keys again and went straight back out, craving the company and reassurance of his family. He let himself into the main house through the side door, with the key his mum insisted he keep.

Starry, their Border collie, barked at the sound of the door being unlocked and then greeted Rhys with a nose in the crotch and the usual excited tail-wagging. He stooped to pet her, stroking her silky ears and laughing at her goofy delight. “Hey, girl. It’s good to see you too.” Then he called out loudly. “Hi, it’s only me.”

“Hello, darling.” His mum’s voice came from the living room where Rhys could also hear the sound of the television. He went in to greet her properly with a brief hug and a kiss on the cheek. There was no sign of his teenage brother, Max. He was probably holed up in his room shooting zombies or texting his girlfriend.

“How was choir?” his mum asked.

“Good thanks. I had a few new people tonight.”

“That’s good. New Year’s resolutions, maybe?”

“Probably. I hope they stay.”

“Are you hungry?”

Rhys realised he was starving. He’d worked at an after-school club till six, and he’d only had a quick sandwich before heading out for choir. “Yeah, I am.”

“The lasagne’s in the fridge. Help yourself.”

“Thanks, Mum. You’re a star.”

Rhys heated himself up a portion in the microwave, then joined his mum in front of the television. He knew she appreciated his company as much as he appreciated hers. She was lonely since she’d split up with his dad a few years before. Rhys had tried to encourage her to date, but she refused, telling him she wasn’t interested. Rhys could hardly blame her when he lived like a monk himself.