Treble Chance

by Norman Kitching

         “For heaven’s sake, kids, put a bit of life in it. Sing as if you’re enjoying it. Look as if you’re having fun.” 

            We were practising for the Carol Service and Dave, our young choirmaster, was having problems motivating the children.

            “What do I have to do to make you smile?” he went on.  “Tell you a rude joke?”

            Dave and I first met as two unlikely recruits to our local church choir.  A new vicar, Malcolm, had arrived at the church and one of the first things he did was to try and get more people involved in the church.  He decided that the best place to meet the locals was in the pub across the street.

            The night that he met me I was singing loudly and raucously, having drunk several pints of best bitter.  The football team I play for had thrashed our local rivals that afternoon and we were celebrating.  He complimented me on my voice and I made the mistake of admitting that I used to sing in a choir at university.  Before I knew it I’d agreed to organise a children’s choir for the Carol Service at his church.

            Dave was the last child to join my choir.  All of the others were enrolled fairly quickly, thanks to my girlfriend, Sally, who played piano at practices.  She was a teacher at the local school and knew which of the children could sing reasonably.  She approached them, and their parents, and before long we had a decent sized choir.

            But it soon became obvious that we were lacking one important thing – a good, reliable soloist.  The only real candidate was one of the older boys, Patrick.  He had a good voice but he was nearly thirteen.  Nature was bound to take its course any day and I needed something in reserve.

            “My Dave’s got a beautiful voice.”

            I was talking about the problem to Elsie Roberts, the barmaid at the Red Lion, one evening.

            “I’ve heard him singing in the bath.  He sounds ever so good.  It’s the only place he does sing, mind you.”

            “Would he be interested in singing in my choir?”

            Elsie shook her head.

            “I don’t think so, to be honest.  Though if anybody could persuade him, it’s your young lady.  She’s his teacher and he reckons she’s the bee’s knees.”

            I rejoined Sally and repeated the conversation I had just had.  She stared at me in disbelief for several seconds.

            “Dave Roberts?  In the choir?” she said finally.  “You’re joking, aren’t you?  I’ve never heard him sing.”

            “His mum says he can sing quite well,” I protested.

            “She would say that, wouldn’t she?  What she wouldn’t tell you is that he’s scruffy, lazy, untidy and unreliable.  He’d never join the choir.”

            “He would if you asked him.  Elsie reckons he’s got a soft spot for you.”

            I was right.  Dave agreed to join as soon as Sally told him it would be a favour for her.  His mum was right too.  He had an unbelievably pure, clear voice.  Unfortunately, Sally was right as well.  He was everything she said and a bit more.

            In spite of his bad points I found myself beginning to like the lad.  I realised that his negative behaviour was just a cover for his shyness and lack of confidence.  He wasn’t particularly bright and he wasn’t good at sports so he refused to believe that he could be good at anything.  Whenever he was complimented on his singing he would become more disruptive than ever.  So I never dared to suggest that he might sing solo.

            Problems started in the week before the Carol Service with a call from Patrick’s mum.

            “I’m really sorry.  Patrick won’t be able to sing on Sunday.  His voice has gone completely.”

            “Thanks for letting me know,” I sighed.  “It was bound to happen eventually at his age.”

            “Oh, it’s not that.  He’s got a sore throat.  He can’t talk or anything.”

            We had our last choir practice on the Friday night.  Sally and I spent hours deciding how to persuade Dave to sing solo at the Carol Service.  In the end I left it up to Sally.  If Dave wouldn’t do it for her he wouldn’t do for anybody.  Sally had to work really hard and wasn’t making much progress.

            “Listen,” she shouted at him finally.  “You reckon you’re useless at everything.  Well, this is your chance to prove that you’re not, that you can do something.  Make the most of that chance.  You might not get another.”

            Dave was completely taken aback by Sally’s outburst.

            “OK, miss.  I’ll do it.”

            Sally played him his note and Dave began to sing.  We all sat entranced as the marvellous sound filled the room.  Dave soon realised that all eyes were on him and he stopped singing in mid sentence.

            “What are you staring at?” he yelled, as he ran from the room. “I told you I was rubbish, didn’t I?”

            We all sat in stunned silence for a while.

            “Does anybody else fancy singing the solo?” I pleaded.

            One of the older girls, Maria, reluctantly volunteered.  Her voice turned out to be perfectly adequate though compared to Dave’s it was like a creaking door.

            On the day of the service, just after lunch, a few of us met at the church to make final arrangements.  One of the girls brought the last news I wanted to hear.

            “Maria can’t come tonight.  She’s got a tummy bug.”

            “Thanks for that,” I said.  “Any ideas what we do next?”

            “Why don’t you try asking Dave again?” somebody suggested.  “He’s better than any of us.”

            After a short discussion poor old Sally was sent off to try work her charms again.  Half an hour later she was back, looking anxious.

            “Dave’s disappeared.  Mrs. Roberts hasn’t seen him since this morning.”

            My spirits sank.  As far as I was concerned Dave had had a second chance and he’d fluffed it.

            “It’s alright,” one of the boys said.  “He always hides when he’s worried or frightened, but he never goes far.  If we get all the kids together we should soon find him.”

            I began to feel hopeful and excited.

            “Okay!  Let’s do that and all meet back here at four-o-clock.”

            Shortly after four everybody was back in the church with a variety of tales to tell.  It’s amazing what one small boy can reputedly get up to in such a short time.  The most accurate information was that he was in the hands of the police.

            “Don’t worry,” said the lad who dropped this bombshell, “He hasn’t done anything wrong.  He had an accident and hurt his ankle.  The police took him to hospital but it was ages before he would tell them his name.”

            “Thank goodness he’s safe,” I said, trying to sound happy.  “But he won’t feel like singing solo.”

            “He might if we all go to the hospital and if we all ask him.  There’s still time.”

            This suggestion was greeted with approval by everybody, including Sally and they all set off for the hospital.  I was left behind to complete the final arrangements.  Every minute that followed seemed to last an hour.  But in the nick of time, the choir turned up and I gave a signal to Malcolm at the front that all was ready.

            Then I heard a voice behind me.

            “Can I have another chance?  Please?”

            There was Dave, in a wheelchair, with his ankle in plaster.  I could only smile and nod my agreement.  Helped by his mum and a nurse Dave stood up and balanced on his good leg.  The main lights dimmed and the organist played Dave’s note.

            Dave took a deep breath and then his voice rang throughout the building as he sang the first verse of ‘Once in royal David’s city’.  Every note was pure and clear and true.  His face shone with joy and pride.  As the last note echoed away Dave sat down again and his wheelchair was pushed slowly up the aisle.

            Behind him came the rest of the choir, two by two.  They looked a motley crew, still wearing their hats and coats and scarves but they sang the second verse of the carol better than I had ever heard them sing it before.

            Even when all the choir had entered the church the procession still hadn’t finished.  The voices singing the third verse grew stronger and deeper.  Behind the choir walked the landlord of the Red Lion and several of the regulars.  They were followed by a couple of policemen in uniform and then came a group of nurses and hospital porters

            The new vicar stood at the front of the church, watching the procession in amazement.  He had wanted more local people to get involved with the church.  That night his wish came true, thanks to a small boy with a broken ankle but a perfect voice.

© 2008 Norman Kitching