FIVE
‘How can he get to every house?’ Bryan asked.
His brother lay back in bed, his dark head circled by the sheet and blankets; in the faint light that penetrated the green-coloured curtains Bryan could see the darkness around his brother’s eyes and the strange, bulbous protrusion of his nose. A frost had formed on the inside of the window: his father’s coat had been laid on Alan’s bed, and his mother’s had been laid across his own.
‘There isn’t time.’
His brother’s mouth was hidden and Bryan could only tell that Alan’s eyes were open when, intermittently, they glistened within the shadow of the cowl comprised of the sheet and the blankets.
‘He travels faster than light.’
Bryan glanced at the window; earlier, getting into bed, he had gazed up through the fern-like pattern of the frost at the expanse of sky above the town. It was lit by stars and crossed here and there by moonlit clouds: up there, when he was asleep, the figure would be passing, its task to visit every home on Stainforth in which a child was living. Not only did this figure ride a sledge drawn by reindeer but, in its bright-red costume, tinged with white, it was capable of descending the narrow chimney and emerging in the fireplace without getting its costume dirty, or its beard, or the white bobble on its hat, and carrying at the same time a bag full of the toys it intended leaving not only at their house but at the Fosters’, the O’Donalds’, the Shawcrofts’ and the Barracloughs’. In the fireplace, by the ashy grate, still glowing when he came to bed, his mother had set a plate containing a portion of Christmas cake and a piece of cheese and, beside it, his father had set a glass of milk. ‘If that hasn’t gone by the morning,’ he’d said, ‘I shouldn’t be surprised. He’ll be feeling hungry by the time he gets to us.’
Several weeks before, supervised by his mother, he had written a letter and, like the plate of cake and the glass of milk, left it in the hearth to be collected: that, presumably, had now been read, his record checked and, somewhere up there, this benevolent spirit, this power which defied the forces of gravitation, would be travelling towards him, conscious of his name, of his address and even, specifically, of what he wanted: a train, a book and, if there was space to carry it, a tool set.
He listened to the house; his parents had gone to bed and the ashes had been raked so as not to impede their visitor’s progress. He listened for the tinkle of the plate. Up there, this bountiful presence, who was conscious of who he was and of how well, throughout the year, he had behaved, was journeying towards him.
It was the scale of its task that most impressed him: beyond Spinney Moor Road lay Spinney Moor Avenue and beyond that lay an infinite number of roads; and beyond those were the houses of the town and, beyond the town, the houses of England.
From beyond the window came the sound of singing.
‘O come, let us adore Him,
O come, let us adore Him,
Chri-ist the Lord.’
‘What is it?’
‘The church choir.’
The murmur, solemn, preceded by a pause, came from Alan’s bed.
A moment later, sure enough, he could here the rat-tat as the collectors moved along the road.
His parents’ bed creaked; his father got up and went down to the hall: he must have put on a coat and waited for, when the knocker rapped, his father opened the door and called, ‘A Happy Christmas.’ He heard the chink of money.
‘Do you think he’s come?’
Not yet.’
‘When will he?’
‘Go to sleep. He won’t come until you do.’
He heard his father return to bed, the murmur of his voice.
His eyes closed.
‘O come, let us adore Him,
O come, let us adore Him,
O come, let us adore Him,
Chri-ist the Lord.’
Lulled by the singing, he fell asleep.
In the corner of the room, on a plant-stand, stood the tiny Christmas tree with its silver-coloured bird and the stout, red-coated figure, white-lined, with its bobble-cap. The room was warm; from the oven came the smell of the chicken as it began to roast.
Bryan had watched the bird being plucked when his father first brought it home from Spencer’s: some of the feathers still lay about the garden and others had blown over into Foster’s, into Patterson’s, and into the field. His preoccupation with the bird had distracted him from his more immediate preoccupation with his presents; he had gazed at its head and its lifeless eye and had thought that the bird were still alive. He had watched the exposure of its flesh with a feeling of horror, and had gazed at Alan, as he took over from his father, with a feeling of revulsion: that his brother could compound the suffering to which his father appeared to be aloof raised the speculation that his brother took a delight in causing pain.
He had wanted nothing to do with the bird: the disarray of its feathers, their blowing about the yard, the indignity of the creature’s pimpled flesh, its helpless head with its tiny eye and its opened beak, appalled him more than ever.
As he played with his metal train by the fire, wound and rewound it, and set it going on its metal rails, and felt Alan’s displeasure that he hadn’t got anything as extravagant himself, his anguish at the bird subsided beneath the excitement and then the anti-climax of having a present. Even now, behind his back, and even as the thought arose, his mother opened the oven door and spooned fat across the bird. That morning he had examined the empty plate and the empty glass, and had even gazed at the crumbs on the plate and thought, ‘Those crumbs have been touched by his hand. And those are the remains of the milk that he drank,’ and having opened his pillow-case and examined his presents, he had looked from them to the plate, from the plate to the glass, and back to the presents, at the hole in the fireplace, now lit by flames, through which this figure had passed, at the room itself which this figure, however briefly, had occupied, and thought, ‘I must be good, otherwise he wouldn’t have come,’ and yet, with the chicken in the oven, he thought, ‘Does he know about the bird?’
His brother’s head was down: he was playing with a line of soldiers formed up before a wooden fort: the fort was roughly painted and to a nail driven into each of the turrets was attached a paper flag. His brother’s hand was inside the portcullis, pulling up and down a brass-coloured chain.
The room smelled of cooking, and of the metallic, entrancing odour of the clockwork train and its two brown-painted coaches: he had wanted the train, he had wanted the shilling – wrapped up in silver paper – and had wanted the apple, wrapped up in its blue-coloured tissue, and the bag of sweets, two of which he’d already eaten: yet something was missing – it was as his mother opened the oven door and, her eyes narrowed against the heat, spooned on the fat, that he realized that what was missing was the bird.
He glanced at the window: children were playing in the field with a brand new ball; its bright leather shape flew up in the air.
‘Everything all right?’ His father came into the room to set a pan of water against the flames.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘That chicken smells grand.’
His father rubbed his hands; he knelt by the hearth and, when the engine had stopped, wound up the motor and set it on the rails. The carriages rattled round.
On the carpet were the wrappings from the sweets which his brother had eaten, and the silver paper which had wrapped his brother’s shilling. Also there was the pillow-case with its piece of paper on which the one word ‘Alan’ had been written.
‘Have they captured it yet?’ His father lined the soldiers up inside the castle: tiny, square-shaped doors and windows gave access to the hollow box which supported the turrets. A cannon, a gift from an earlier Christmas, had been set at the castle entrance. ‘If you put some soldiers in Bryan’s carriage you can bring reinforcements.’ An ash fell in the fire and his father, leaning over, placed a fresh piece of coal behind the pan. ‘When it boils,’ he added, ‘give a shout.’
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nbsp; He went back to the scullery; they could hear his whistling, then singing, and the soft hiss of the steamer as the pudding cooked.
‘Let’s have a go.’
Alan wound the engine, set it on the rails, and watched the brightly-painted engine run round and round.
‘You want to get some points, then you can have another track.’
His brother’s hands were large and red; in playing with the soldiers he frequently knocked the figures down. His legs were bare, his feet tucked into his slippers, the soles of which had been worn through and the backs of which were flattened; his heels, too, were red, his ankles white, the muscle bulging across his calves, his knees scarred, the legs of his trousers drawn tight across his thighs: he put out his finger: the train, running into it, fell off the track. The metal chimney came off and the clockwork-driven wheels spun round and round.
‘Dad.’
‘Don’t tell him.’
‘Dad.’
‘It was an accident.’
‘Now, what is it?’ came his mother’s voice. She appeared in the door.
‘He’s broken it.’
‘I was getting up,’ Alan said, the engine in his hand.
‘You shouldn’t have touched it,’ his mother said.
‘He let me have a go.’
‘Have you broken it?’
‘The chimney’s come off.’ Two metal flaps, slotted into holes, secured it.
His father appeared: his hands wet, he re-attached the chimney. ‘It’s brand new,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t have touched it. It’s his present. You’ve toys of your own to play with.’
He took the engine into the scullery; his tool-box rattled: a few moments later he came back in.
‘It’s only a twopence-halfpenny thing. Just look how poor they’ve made it.’ Having re-attached the chimney he wound the engine, set it on the rails and let it go.
‘He’s spoilt it.’
‘You shouldn’t have let him have it,’ his father said. ‘How would you like it,’ he added to Alan, ‘if he broke your castle?’
Alan returned to his fort; he knelt across it, standing up the metal figures: his heavy fingers toyed with the drawbridge. ‘He can have it if he wants.’
‘What good will that do?’ his father said.
‘He can have it.’
His brother overturned the fort.
He ran upstairs.
‘You shouldn’t have upset him,’ his mother said.
‘What have I said?’ his father said. ‘He only broke Bryan’s train on purpose.’
‘How do you know he did it on purpose?’
‘Why else would he do it?’
His father returned to the kitchen.
‘Is it broken?’ his mother said.
‘It’ll be all right.’
‘Won’t it clip on tighter?’ The chimney, loose, had rattled off.
‘No,’ he said.
‘You shouldn’t have let him have a go with it. And look at his fort,’ she added.
She picked the soldiers up and attempted to re-erect the turrets, each of which, secured to the base by a wooden peg, had fallen off.
‘I’ll do it,’ Bryan said.
‘I should leave it,’ his mother said and, a few moments later, after she’d returned to the kitchen, she went to the stairs, called, and finally went up.
Bryan could hear his brother crying.
Why, if the engine was a twopenny-ha’penny thing, had he been given it? He watched the engine running round and round, the wheels clicking regularly over the joints in the rails, the speed of the engine declining as the spring wound down.
He glanced at the red-coloured cardboard box from which the engine and the rails had been taken: he retraced the sensation of opening it, and, before that, of seeing the box itself, with the painting of the engine in the centre of the lid, and relived, vividly, to the sounds of his brother’s voice complaining, wailingly, above his head, the moment when he had drawn it from the pillowcase.
He lifted the lid.
The pan behind him began to boil.
He called to his father, who, a few moments later, came in and, cutting up peeled potatoes, dropped them into the water.
‘You shouldn’t have let him touch it.’
‘He asked to.’
‘He has all his presents and it’s worse than a day when he hasn’t any.’
He placed a lid on the pan and set it against the flames.
He opened the oven door, closed it, and went back to the scullery.
A moment later he reappeared with a pan full of sprouts; he lifted the pan of potatoes from the fire, poured water on top of the sprouts, then set both pans against the fire.
‘If you see them boiling give a shout.’
Bryan examined the declivities inside the cardboard box.
The children in the field had gone; he gazed across the bare earth of the garden at the railings and, beyond the railings, at the lank grass of the field and the windows of the houses opposite.
He got up from beside the railway and ate another sweet.
‘He doesn’t have to come down the chimney because Dad brings it,’ Alan said, his head framed by the familiar cowl.
‘Where from?’
‘He makes them. Like the fort. He made that at work.’
‘What about the soldiers?’
‘He buys them. Like your train set.’
‘What about the cake?’
‘He eats it.’
Bryan lay back against his pillow, the blanket pulled tight beneath his chin.
‘What about the letter?’
‘They tear it up.’
As his brother spoke his breath rose in a cloud from the darkness of the cowl, his bulbous nose visible beneath the edge of the blanket.
‘Isn’t there somebody who comes?’ Bryan said.
‘How can there be?’
‘Why not?’
‘Do you think he lives in Greenland?’
‘You wrote a letter as well,’ he said.
‘They asked me to.’
‘Why?’
‘So’s not to spoil it.’
He could see where his brother’s hands were fisted beneath the blanket, drawing it up beneath his chin.
‘It doesn’t make any difference,’ Alan added.
‘Why not?’
‘You still got what you asked for.’
‘I still believe in it,’ Bryan said.
His brother laughed; a fresh cloud of vapour sprang from the cowl.
‘They wouldn’t go to all that trouble if there wasn’t something.’
‘Why not?’
‘There must be something.’
His brother laughed.
‘You ask them.’
‘They’ll say you told me.’
‘Tell them somebody told you at school.’
‘I still believe in it.’
‘You would.’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’ Bryan said. ‘They wouldn’t go to all that trouble if there wasn’t something.’
His brother’s eyes had closed; only the bulbous nose remained on guard.
Bryan gazed at the curtains.
‘Yes, I believe in you,’ he said aloud.
SIX
They pedalled past the Spinney Moor Hotel, turned off the Town Road, passed under the railway bridge, and out across the canal and over the river. The fields were bare, the sky dark: Bryan pedalled in his father’s wake, watching the tails of his father’s coat as they flew backwards beside his wheel, and the bowed momentum of his father’s back.
‘Not tired?’ His father, freewheeling, had turned his head.
‘No,’ he shouted back.
‘We’ll go see Spencer. We’ll give him a surprise. He’ll think his cows have died if he sees me knocking.’
The road rose over a hump-backed bridge; his father paused at a gate, flanked by a stone-built barn and a brick-built shed.
Releasing the catch on the gate, he opened it, waiting for Bryan to
pedal inside.
‘Better push it,’ he said. ‘Too muddy to ride.’
Barns and sheds and a house enclosed a rutted yard: directly opposite was a gate, closed, leading to a pasture. To Bryan’s right the yard ran back to a low stone wall and beyond the wall, to a green-painted door flanked by square-paned windows.
Against the low stone wall his father propped his bike; Bryan laid his own beside it.
A paved yard fronted the door of the house, his father stepping across it and knocking and rousing, as a consequence, the barking of dogs inside.
A curtain moved in one of the windows; a latch was lifted and the door drawn back.
A tall, red-cheeked man gazed out; on his feet were a pair of slippers. His sleeves were rolled, his forearms thickly muscled. He glanced at Bryan. ‘’Ow go, Arthur?’ The man scratched his fair hair and added, ‘Anything up?’
‘We thought we’d ride over, Mr Spencer,’ his father said. He nodded back at Bryan, and then at the bicycles, visible over the top of the low stone wall.
The farmer shouted to the dogs behind. One animal rushed out, ran round Bryan’s legs, then dashed off, barking, across the yard. The sound of hens squawking came from a barn. ‘Look at this, Mary,’ the farmer called. In the room behind, the light from the open door and the windows revealed a stone-paved floor in the centre of which stood a thick-legged table upon which at the moment stood several pots and pans.
A smell of baking came out to the yard.
A slender, thin-featured woman appeared in the kitchen door: her eyes were grey and her hair swept back: its fairness glittered in the light from a fire.
‘If you don’t hurry, love, he’ll go away,’ the farmer added, turning, as he heard her foot on the kitchen floor and calling, ‘It’s Arthur’s young ’un. Though there’s no more than threepenn’orth of him here at present.’
The woman smiled.
‘This is Bryan, Mrs Spencer,’ his father said.
‘Are you feeling tired?’ she asked him.
A Prodigal Child Page 7