Page 93 of Is She Really Going Out with Him?
“I will let you know,” I promise him.
“We’re going to interview a few choir members before you start. Si, who should I start with?” Will asks.
Simon suggests the choir director, a woman called Janet;then Carly, a woman in her twenties with Down syndrome who has been with the choir since the beginning; then Todd, who at thirteen is the youngest member. Will tells me Todd has cerebral palsy, that he lives in foster care, and that he has been with the choir longer than he’s been with any one family.
Setting up the camera in a quiet corner of the abbey, Will leads the interviews. Janet tells us that she set up the choir for those with physical and neurological challenges, to help foster a sense of community and raise awareness, but also just to celebrate the power and joy of music. It’s clear she volunteers a huge amount of her time and expertise to the project. Hearing her talk makes me feel bad for spending so much time worrying about myself.
Will is a skilled interviewer. He knows just which questions to ask. When Todd tells us that the choir is his closest family, I feel myself on the verge of tears. Once we’ve interviewed five of the choir members, Will tells me, “We still have twenty minutes before they let the audience in. Is there anything else you think we should get?”
“How about we interview some of the carers, about the impact the choir has had on them,” I suggest. “What about your dad?”
Will pauses; I’m not sure if it’s because he doesn’t want to interview his father or because he hasn’t thought of it, but then he says, “Sure, good idea.”
Rory is happy to oblige, and I mic him up.
“So, as Simon’s dad, tell us what the choir means to you,” Will says.
“It means everything to us. When Simon had his accident, it was tough, on everyone. Once we got over the shock of it, it was Simon’s mental, rather than physical, health I found most challenging to deal with. He couldn’t see much to be positive about. He lashed out at the people who loved him.” He shares a look with Will, and I can only imagine what they’ve experiencedtogether. “But over time he learned to adapt. He got movement back in his arms, which doctors never thought he would. He found things to be positive about, made new friends. This choir was a huge part of that. We plan our week around it. I honestly don’t know what we would do if we lost the rehearsal space.”
Will looks to me, wanting my input.
“Maybe just rephrase that end part into a more concise sound bite? Like ‘It’s played a huge part in my son’s recovery. I honestly don’t know what we would do without it.’ Something like that.” I look to Will, worried I’m overstepping, putting words in his father’s mouth, but he gives a nod of appreciation. “Let’s do one more take.”
As the audience starts to arrive and fill the pews, I move the camera to the back of the abbey and get some wide shots of the choir’s first song, Bill Withers’s “Lean on Me.” The sound is haunting as it fills the enormous space. The choir are all so expressive, I know it would help to get some close-ups, so I take the camera off the tripod and creep to the front with it, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. As I slip back to stand beside Will, I see Loretta a few pews away and we wave to each other.
“Did you get what you need?” Will asks, and I nod. He is swaying to the music, fully engaged with the performance. “I can take the camera if you want to go?”
“I’d like to stay.”
“Don’t feel you have to,” he says, his eyes wide and hopeful.
“Will. I want to stay.”
And then the choir starts to sing “Build Me Up Buttercup” and Will starts quietly singing along. “Now I know why you’re always singing that song,” I whisper.
“I’ve been practicing with Simon over breakfast,” he tells me, and the image of them singing together over their cereal cracks something open inside of me. As we listen to the rest of the concert, Will reaches for my hand and squeezes it. Heart full, Isqueeze back, reluctant to let go. But my pleasure is tempered by an uneasy feeling. Our boundaries are blurring. I had Colleague Will and Archive Will clear in my head as separate entities. But here is Will from the woods. This is the person he is around his family; here in this room is what matters to him.
“How was lunch with your ex?” he says, and I sense he’s trying to sound casual. “It looks like you’re on better terms now.”
“Yes, good,” I tell him. “He’s having another baby.”
Will turns to face me, while the choir belts out “This Is Me.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, trying to read from my expression how I feel about it.
“No, it’s fine,” I say, dropping his hand. “I’m happy for him. It’s made me realize I don’t want that. I don’t want any more children.”
“Really?” he asks, and there’s so much in that “really.” My heart swells with hope, because it makes me think perhaps it’s not just the archive for him either, but it also makes me want to cry because we are on such completely different paths.
“No, that part of my life is done,” I say, then look back toward the singers.
I stay through the encore, but Will doesn’t reach for my hand again. At the end, when Will goes to make an announcement about donations, I slip quietly away.
When I get home, I run straight to the bathroom to do a pregnancy test. I am being paranoid, I know I can’t be pregnant, but my heart pounds in my chest as I wait for the result, and when only one line appears, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
Google searches:
Raise Your Voice, inclusive choir, how to donate
