Perfect Tenor

1: Advent Sunday

Pete

The bell ceased its toll as Pete dived through the vestry doors, panting and tearing off his jacket. It was astonishing he could hear the bell at all over the rapid thrum of his heart and his mum’s mantra, more haste, less speed, running on a loop in his ears, not that he’d ever understood what it meant. Nor did he care when the procession had already begun. He’d have to sneak into the gallery after the event and hope no-one—namely, Mr. Lewis the choirmaster, organist and all-round terroriser—noticed.

Pete threw on his alb as he belted up the stairs and cracked open the door, stopping before it hit the hinge-creak point so he could watch and wait for his opportunity. This was why he hated weekends on call. On the one hand, there were few emergencies in local authority recycling; on the other, the absence of such had fooled him into believing it would be pointless warning Mr. Lewis he might not make it to Mass. Still, he had made it, which, by the looks of things, was more than could be said for most of the parish.

Sliding into his spot at the right end of the second row, Pete had a clear view of the rest of the choir and congregation. It was a sorry sight. He’d been coming to church all his life and had joined the choir when he was seven, one of three boys amid a self-replenishing sea of warbling older women who formed the soprano section at Our Lady’s. Now there were no boy sopranos at all, and Pete, these days a tenor, was the sole remaining member of the original trio—the only chorister under the age of forty, in fact, and that was OK. What wasn’t OK was being one of only eight choristers—a bass, two tenors, four altos and a soprano—at this morning’s Mass, and on Advent Sunday too.

Flu, Norman, the other tenor, murmured a bit too close to Pete’s ear for comfort. He was a nice enough fella to sing alongside, but while most of the choir assumed he had chosen the single life, Pete knew different. A couple of years ago, Norman had invited him out for a drink, and Pete had said yes, regretting it before he’d finished his first pint. Aside from choir, they had zero in common, and Norman’s enthusiasm for All Things Philately was about as interesting to Pete as decomposing mulch. When Norman later asked if he’d be his plus-one for a Christmas works do, Pete had gently turned him down, explaining he’d be at his brother’s, waaaay out of town, which was true—and the first Christmas in years he’d been glad of the reason. Next time they saw each other was the first choir practice of the new year, and they’d carried on as usual. Neither had mentioned it since.

At least we’re all right, eh? Norman whispered, tapping his upper arm. Pete nodded, already singing the ‘Kyrie’, which Norman joined on the first ‘Eleison’. They’d bumped into each other at the flu jab clinic—hurray for being asthmatic. Or not. Pete had been a poorly kid, but he hadn’t had an attack since his teens, and that one was his own fault for trying smoking. Still, it got him his annual flu jab, so he wasn’t complaining.

Strange, though, that the flu had knocked out half the congregation when most of them were eligible for the jab on age alone. Not so for Pete’s supervisors, which was why both had called in sick this weekend, and pre-Christmas clear-outs made for busy recycling centres. He’d brought in a couple more staff on overtime, and he had his phone with him. That was the best he could do because he wasn’t missing church for work, not in Advent.

With the ‘Kyrie’ over, the littluns, no more than a half dozen of them, went off to Sunday school, leaving the adults to sniffle their way through uninspiring readings and a sermon that was dreary even by Father Benson’s standards. Pete scanned the congregation, staring at the backs of his parents’ heads, both seeming rapt, but then his dad turned, looked up at the gallery and grinned, as did Pete, at the shared memory of Pete’s first full Mass when he’d asked why the sermon was so boring, to which his dad had said it was the law and also why they kept the church so cold and uncomfortable—so people didn’t nod off before the priest was done.

Tedious as it could be, Pete loved the familiarity and routine of Sunday mornings. At church, he didn’t have to think about what to say or how to behave. Following the order of Mass was something he’d done for so long, it was more natural to him than the ritual of shaving or almost anything else he had to do.

That was also what his schoolfriends had never understood. He didn’t go to church because his parents made him; he went because he wanted to. Even on Christmas Day, when the entire family descended on his brother’s local church, the simple fact of being in God’s house brought him enough peace and comfort to see out the toughest week—Christmas with the family was…a challenge—and he jonesed for it when, for whatever reason, he had to miss a Sunday. Did he believe in God? He wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t deny what he felt when he worshipped with others, as if their communal songs connected them to a higher presence.

That state of elevated spirituality had to be the reason Pete didn’t see their choirmaster advancing on him after Mass, and by the time he did notice, it was too late to flee without it being obvious.

Mr. Davenport! A word if I may.

Pants. Mr. Lewis, I’m sorry about being late. I’m on—

Oh-ho-ho! The man was like a garden rake and in his white robe was more ‘cheap Hallowe’en ghost’ than Santa, but he was positively jovial. I’m sure you have a perfectly valid reason for your atypical tardiness. ’Tis by the by! He waggled his hand in front of Pete’s face. I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Walker. Another tenor to swell our choral throng. Turning, Mr. Lewis hooked one of his spindly arms around the man hovering a couple of feet behind him, whom Pete also hadn’t noticed until the man was propelled into his personal space.

Hello. There was a glimmer of a shy smile and a searching glance half-hidden by the overhead light’s reflection in his glasses. He must have noticed Pete’s gaze shift to his hair—a sun-touched mid-brown—as he scooped back his curtain bangs and attempted that smile again. Pete’s pulse took off.

Hello. Now, for as much as he was both the youngest of seven and the least talkative, he was certain there were more words in the English language than ‘hello’. Apparently, he’d forgotten them all.

I’ll let the two of you become acquainted, Mr. Lewis said. He was gone before Pete registered he’d spoken, and so had the rest of the congregation other than the astoundingly handsome Mr. Walker.

Er, I’m Pete. Years of training thrust his arm forward, offering a handshake on his behalf.

Byron. He bashfully accepted the handshake.

You’re a tenor. Hazel eyes? Or brown? Can’t really tell. Pete sidestepped, shifting the position of the circular blobs of light so he could see past them. Hazel.

I am. How about you?

Me too.

Good, good.

Pete nodded along, resisting the urge to scratch his neck, and it had nothing to do with worrying he was making a bad first impression. Whoever’s alb he was wearing—definitely not his—the collar was rough as sandpaper. So…have you just moved here, or…?

Sort of. I did my teacher training at the uni, so I’ve been here four years already, but this is my first term of teaching.

What d’you teach?

Science.

Which school? Pete wanted to slap himself. He was asking because he was interested in knowing all there was to know about this new