He had an artistry.
At school, his interests were clearly defined between the things he loved and the things he couldn’t abide. He adored art and drawing, anything creative, English composition, and stories. He detested science, physical education, and all sports. That went without saying. Sport was for the smellies.
His father was a keen rugby and football fan. He tried in vain to fire an interest in his young son in sport, as he rolled and kicked a wide selection of balls toward him in the back garden. Armitage would cry and run away. He wanted Mrs Greenaway; he wanted Porridge; he wanted the flowers, and his painting books, and most of all he wanted his mother.
Right there, in that garden, he didn’t want his father at all.
After two years of trying, his father gave up. He even reconsidered the idea of changing the name of the business to Shelbourne and Son, so disappointed was he in his only offspring.
The following year Army discovered another interest. Classical music and singing. Mrs Greenaway would often have the radio on in the shop, always tuned to the station that only broadcast classical music. It was never on loud, though sometimes if a piece that Army knew came on, or when the shop was quiet, Army would ask for the volume to be increased, ‘Louder Mrs Greeny,’ he would shout, ‘Louder!’
She would glance at his little face and couldn’t refuse.
At school too he was introduced to classical music, when the children would be encouraged to dance.
‘Dance to the music, children, dance!’ the elderly lady would trill, often to The Dance of The Sugar Plum Fairy.
Many of the girls held dreams of becoming ballerinas and would dance like courting swans. They were old hands at seven. They knew the ropes, and how to impress. Armitage had never heard of ballet, and had no idea what the girls were doing, but that didn’t stop him. He threw himself into it, holding the centre of the floor, dancing moves that bemused everyone. They seemed to seep out of his soul. The girls were fascinated and flocked to him, all desperate to dance with the crazy boy with the imagination of a rattlesnake.
The boys thought him a Nancy and shunned him still further. The girls weren’t sure, but they were curious. He was different.
The biggest love of his life was singing.
He had a voice that could induce tingles to the spine, though no one outside of school knew that, until one day in the flower shop, a piece of music came on the radio they had been learning.
The shop was busy; it was coming up Saint Valentine’s, and there was standing room only between the remaining blooms. Without a thought, Armitage burst into song. He was working in one corner, facing away from the others, building a bouquet of fragrant lilies. In the next second the shop was filled with his treble voice, pure as crystal snow.
Mrs Greenaway imagined the angelic voice was coming through her tinny speaker, but no, it was Armitage. The seven or eight customers present fell silent and stared. Mrs Greenaway’s mouth fell open. There wasn’t a sound in the shop but for the radio, and Armitage’s soaring voice, as the old single-decker bus came rumbling up the high street.
At the end of the song, the adults burst into applause. Army was aghast, caught out, as if he had been doing something naughty. He turned and smiled at them, flushed beetroot red, felt even more uncomfortable, and ran outside and skipped back to the garage.
The following week Mrs Greenaway said, ‘You’re a wonderful singer, Army.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Greenaway.’
‘Where did you learn to sing like that?’
‘At school.’
‘Would you like to sing in a choir?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Would you like me to take you to the choir?’
‘Dad wouldn’t like it.’
‘Would you come if I asked your dad?’
Army nodded and thought nothing more of it.
That night after Army had gone to bed, Mrs Greenaway called at the Shelbourne’s mock Tudor detached house. She wasn’t initially welcomed because Don and Donna had been canoodling on the settee. Donna was still adjusting her dress when Don brought Mrs G into the sitting room.
‘What can I do for you, Mrs G? What has my son been up to now?’
‘Your son is a very well-mannered boy.’
‘If you say so.’
Mrs G explained she was in the choir at Saint Andrew’s church, and that Armitage was a fabulous singer. She wanted him to go to the church for a trial to join the choir, and Army had expressed a wish to be given the opportunity.
‘Has he now?’ said Donald, a little miffed that this woman knew more about his son’s interests than he did.
Donna said, ‘Are you sure you’re not mixing him up with someone else?’
Mrs G gave her a look that said everything.
‘Let me sleep on it,’ said Donald, and he did, and give him his due, the next day he popped into the florists and told Mrs G that Army could take the trial, if he wanted to.
Mrs G said, ‘You won’t regret it,’ and rang the choirmaster and fixed an audition.
The choirmaster’s name was Mr Davis, and he had a spiky reputation for strict discipline. If the boys couldn’t turn up on time and behave themselves, they needn’t bother coming. If the boys couldn’t attend every single practice session, they needn’t bother coming either. Most of the boys were keen enough, because they would receive a small payment when they attended special services like weddings and christenings, while the lead singer would receive a handsome bonus. The competition to be top dog was hot.
The vicar was there that evening too, pottering about, mulling in his mind the coming Sunday’s sermon. Mr Davis was well used to pushy parents who believed their little Johnny was something special, if not the best thing since Aled Jones, better even. He would not suffer fools and regularly dismissed triallists by asking one of the better singers to sing after they had finished, thus showing how
