The Community Choir

Andres had lived in South London for four years, and in that time he had spoken to his neighbors exactly twice. He was an accountant from Quito, good with numbers and terrible with people. In the evenings he usually stayed at home, watched documentaries and avoided anything that involved strangers. His sister, who called him every Sunday, kept telling him to go out more. "Try something new," she said. "You used to love singing."

It was true. As a boy, he had sung in his school choir and enjoyed every minute of it. So when he saw a poster at the library that said "Community choir: everyone welcome, no experience needed," he decided to give it a try. He almost turned around three times on the way there. When he finally opened the door of the church hall, forty people of all ages were drinking tea and laughing. Nobody seemed to notice him, which was a relief.

The conductor was a small, energetic woman called Bev who had taught music for thirty years. She made everyone stand in a circle and sing their names. Andres felt his face go hot, but he managed to do it. Then Bev explained the plan for the spring concert. "This year," she announced, "I'm going to let everyone sing a short solo. Everyone. No exceptions." Andres wanted to disappear.

For the next six weeks, he couldn't stop worrying about it. He considered leaving the choir. He thought about pretending to be sick on the day of the concert. He practiced in the shower every morning until his neighbor knocked on the wall. But he kept going to rehearsals, partly because he had started to look forward to them. He liked the other tenors, especially Winston, a retired bus driver from Jamaica who made him laugh during the breaks.

One evening, Winston noticed how nervous he was. "You know what I do?" he said. "I imagine I'm singing to one person. Just one. My granddaughter, usually. It makes me forget everybody else." Andres thought about it. Then he asked Bev if he could sing his solo in Spanish, a short verse from a song his mother used to sing in the kitchen. Bev didn't hesitate. "Of course," she said. "I'd love you to."

On the night of the concert, the hall was full. When it was his turn, Andres stepped forward with his hands shaking. At the back of the room, a friend was holding up a laptop, and on the screen was his sister, who was watching from Quito. He decided to sing to her, only to her. His voice trembled on the first line, but by the second it was strong and clear.

When he finished, there was a short silence and then loud applause. Winston patted him on the back, and Bev winked at him. After the concert, three neighbors he had never spoken to came over to tell him how much they had enjoyed it. Andres still prefers numbers to crowds. But on Wednesday evenings you will find him in the church hall, and he has already offered to sing another solo at Christmas.