Old Dai Jones was surely turning in his grave as we traipsed up the previously forbidden track, decorated now with fairy lights and pink bunting. Women in the Nightingale Singers? “Over my dead body,” Dai had famously said.
I couldn’t even sing. Like most others, I came out of curiosity. That, and because Carol had espoused the healing benefits of group singing. I’d try anything that might help my arthritis, and it couldn’t be any worse than that yoga lark.
The room was adorned with the same frills that covered the walkway outside, yet somehow it didn’t disguise the dank. Years of men’s breath, sweat and entitlement were baked into the very foundations. The criss-cross windowpanes were as welcoming as folded arms, and the trees blocked out the light.
A hush fell as Dai’s daughter, Felicity, began to speak.
“Welcome, everyone! My dear father moved to rural Sussex from the Welsh valleys back in 1971, and established a male-voice choir named after the melodic birds that nest in these woods. It’s a little-known fact that only the male nightingale sings. But I want to extend the joy of singing to all. To form a choir for a new generation, one where everyone has a voice. Did you know that a group of nightingales is called a Watch? I hereby name our new, all-inclusive choir ‘The Watch.’ Shout-out to Dad’s original choir members, Derek, Pete, Roy and Micky, who have always been the heart of the bass section.”
We turned to applaud the knot of grey-haired men in the corner. They glared without a twitch of a smile.
By the time we were halfway through our first song – a modern number, of course – I already felt at one with my fellow sopranos. We sprinkled our oohs and aahhs over the chorus, breathing in tandem, our hearts drumming in time with the basses’ steady beat. And in that moment, two magical things happened. The near constant ache that had hounded my hips and back for years, evaporated. And in the window appeared a single nightingale, watching with intense eyes. Margaret Bell swore it was singing directly at her.
“They’re such shy birds. This is unheard of!”
I skipped up the path the next week, eager to reconnect.
But the sombre chill hit me as soon as I walked in. People spoke in hushed voices, heads bowed. Eventually someone whispered that poor Margaret Bell had died.
“For Margaret,” said Felicity, and we picked up where we’d left off, our collective sadness pouring into the song. The sound held us together like a hug, and again I felt the pain of my arthritis recede.
Until I saw it. The nightingale. Watching and chirruping from the same spot as last week. Except this time there was another bird perched quietly beside it. And this time it locked eyes with me.
The healing power of music, the solidarity of song – it’s real. But now, from my mute perch outside, all I can do is watch.
