A Prodigal Child

by Storey, David;

  ‘No,’ Bryan said.

  ‘The Morleys don’t feel tired,’ the farmer said. ‘Show ’em a spot o’ work and you don’t see it again until it’s finished.’

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea, love?’ Mrs Spencer said. ‘He looks half-frozen,’ she added to his father.

  ‘He won’t say no to food, Mrs Spencer,’ his father said.

  ‘We can shove him i’ Top End,’ the farmer said. ‘We’ve a few turnips up yonder could do wi’ weeding.’

  Bryan followed his father inside the kitchen: two dogs whirled round in front of a fire which occupied the centre of a massive range: its black-leaded ovens and alcoves reached to the ceiling; copper pans and basins hung from hooks and on a side-table stood several pieces of uncooked meat.

  ‘By go, look at these muscles,’ the farmer added, grasping Bryan’s arm. ‘There’s nought much here but skin and gristle.’

  ‘He’s cycled all the way,’ his father said, removing his cap.

  ‘All the way, has he?’

  ‘Every step, Mr Spencer.’

  The farmer’s thick fingers remained on Bryan’s arm.

  ‘The wind must ’a’ shoved him.’

  ‘It’s been against us.’ His father glanced at Mrs Spencer, who had placed a kettle against the fire.

  ‘It must have whistled round him and not noticed he wa’ theer. We could do wi’ one or two like that round here.’

  ‘Sit down, Arthur,’ Mrs Spencer said, indicating a chair at the table. She held one out for Bryan. ‘Don’t be frightened of Mr Spencer,’ she added. ‘If he doesn’t shout, he won’t think you can hear him.’

  ‘If I can’t talk normal in my own house, I don’t know where I can.’ The farmer took a seat at the table himself, sitting sideways to it and, laying one clenched red fist on his knee, gazed at Bryan. ‘What dos’t think to your bike?’ he added.

  ‘I like it,’ Bryan said.

  ‘Do you?’ the farmer said. ‘Nought stronger than that?’

  ‘He cleans it every day,’ his father said.

  ‘Does he? I can let him loose on the tractor. It hasn’t seen a cleaning rag sin’ the day I bought it. Not to mention,’ he added, ‘one or two carts.’

  Mrs Spencer laughed; from a cupboard she took out a teapot and several cups. The dogs, after whirling round by the fire, lay down on a rug before it.

  ‘We’ve had that bike here since Christmas.’ The farmer got up from the table and crossed to the window, glancing out then returning to the table where he sat down once again, the chair creaking, his broad, thickly-muscled arm laid out before him. ‘It wa’ nought but bits and pieces when your faither brought it. I ne’er thought we’d see it together again. He’s gi’en us a surprise, I can tell you that.’

  A dog began barking outside the door.

  ‘As daft as a brush,’ the farmer added. ‘Barks to go out, then barks to come back in again.’

  He got up once more, opened the door and the dog rushed in: it circled the room, examined his father’s boots, glanced at Bryan’s, then crossed to the fire where it lay down with the others.

  The kettle steamed; Mrs Spencer filled the pot.

  ‘Would you like a piece of cake with your tea?’ she asked.

  ‘Like hhis father,’ the farmer said. ‘Ne’er say no to nought.’

  His father laughed; Mrs Spencer crossed to the inner door of the kitchen. A polished wood floor was visible beyond.

  ‘Margaret?’ she called, her head to one side. ‘Would you like some tea? We’re having some.’

  She came back to the cupboard. A cake was produced.

  ‘All home-grown fruit in theer,’ the farmer said, adding to his father as Mrs Spencer poured the tea, ‘Want summat stronger i’ that, then, Arthur?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ his father said.

  ‘Still tee-total.’

  ‘As much as can be.’

  ‘They wa’ telling me at t’Three Bells the takings are down this year.’

  ‘Oh, there’s nought worse than drink,’ his father said, glancing at Mrs Spencer.

  ‘There isn’t,’ Mrs Spencer said. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  The figure of a girl in a light-blue dress appeared in the kitchen door; for a moment she was silhouetted against the light from the room beyond, then she stepped inside, nodding her head at his father.

  She had pale-blue eyes, like Mr Spencer, and the same light-coloured hair, her features, however, heavier than Mrs Spencer’s, the cheeks broad, the mouth full-lipped, the jaw sharply projecting. Her hair, drawn back, was fastened in plaits, each secured at the end by a blue-checked ribbon.

  ‘See here, Margaret,’ the farmer said. ‘We’ve a visitor fro’ Stainforth. The owner of that blue bike we’ve heard so much about.’

  The girl sat down at the table; she occupied the chair adjacent to Mr Spencer, who leaned across and laid his arm along the back of it.

  ‘Hello, Mr Morley,’ she said.

  ‘Hello, Margaret,’ his father said, half getting up from his chair. ‘This is Bryan.’ To Bryan he added, ‘She watched me make your bike.’

  The girl glanced across. ‘You’ve cycled here, have you?’ She reached for a piece of cake.

  ‘Serve it to Mr Morley first,’ the mother said.

  The girl held out the plate; his father took a slice. She held it out to Bryan. He took one also.

  ‘Not fancy a sandwich?’ the farmer asked Bryan.

  ‘Nay, he’ll be having his tea when we get back home,’ his father said.

  ‘Take a bit of ham back with you.’ The farmer got up from the table. ‘I’ll cut you off a slice.’

  Mr Spencer returned to the table, handing several pieces of ham to his father wrapped in a greaseproof paper.

  ‘Ought else we’ve got while they’re here?’ he added to his wife.

  ‘He can take a few eggs.’

  ‘Oh, this’ll be champion,’ his father said, nevertheless receiving a paper bag containing several eggs a moment later.

  ‘Margaret’s been cutting out,’ Mr Spencer said when they were, once more, seated at the table.

  ‘Cutting out what?’ his father asked.

  ‘Horses and film stars,’ the farmer said. ‘Though I can’t tell one from the other, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘She’s interested in film stars, is she?’ His father, until now, had sat formally at the table, his cap before him, his clenched hand resting on the table top. Now he leaned back, opening his jacket, for the room, with the heat from the fire, was hot. He glanced at the girl.

  ‘Them and ’osses,’ the farmer said. ‘The front of one looks like the back of the other, and I won’t say which road round,’ he added.

  The girl’s eyes flashed towards his father who, laughing, leant back, his chair creaking. He had already begun to eat his piece of cake and the crumbs flew out from his mouth.

  The farmer banged the table, laughing, and the cups and saucers rattled.

  ‘You’ve got no romance, that’s your trouble,’ Mrs Spencer said.

  ‘I’ve no time for romance,’ the farmer said. ‘Nor has Arthur.’

  ‘You had when you were young, no doubt,’ Mrs Spencer said, glancing at her daughter.

  ‘I’m damned if I had time for ought but seeding and planting and mowing and hoeing and ploughing and reaping, and milking and kicking, maybe, one or two backsides.’ The farmer glanced at Bryan and winked. ‘You don’t cut ought out, then, do you?’

  ‘No,’ Bryan said.

  ‘Got more common sense.’

  ‘Aye, he’s a bike cleaner, at present,’ his father said.

  ‘Gave her one or two ideas when she saw your father putting your bike together,’ the farmer said to Bryan. ‘Got her own out and painted it and made it a damn sight worse than it wa’re already.’

  ‘Take no notice. He’s always exaggerating,’ Mrs Spencer said. ‘Do you want another piece of cake?’ she added to Bryan.

  ‘Wrap it up,’ the farmer said. ‘He’ll need that
when he gets back home. Four miles on that bike is like ten on any other.’

  A piece of cake was wrapped up and placed in a paper bag.

  ‘Ought else have we got?’ the farmer asked.

  ‘He can take a bird.’

  ‘Oh, this’ll be ample,’ his father said, getting up from his chair. ‘We ought to be going,’ he added.

  ‘She cuts them out,’ the farmer said, ‘and sticks them in a book. She’ll show you one if you ask her,’ he added to Bryan. ‘Do you want to show him one?’ he asked the girl.

  ‘No, thank you,’ she said.

  ‘If she offers you a smile,’ the farmer said, ‘I mu’n drop down deard.’

  ‘She’s not as bad as that,’ Mrs Spencer said.

  ‘She’s a grand girl,’ his father said.

  ‘Should see her with her dander up,’ the farmer added.

  ‘Can I go now, Mother?’ Margaret asked.

  ‘Show Bryan round the fields. He hasn’t been here before,’ the farmer said.

  ‘No, thank you,’ she said.

  ‘Won’t you show us some of these ’osses you’ve been cutting out?’

  ‘No, I shan’t.’

  ‘I shan’t ask to see the film stars,’ the farmer went on. ‘I reckon Major looks a damn sight better. At least his hair’s in better condition, and his teeth, too, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Good-bye, Mr Morley.’ The girl put out her hand.

  ‘Good-bye, Margaret,’ his father said and shook it.

  ‘’Osses and film stars,’ the farmer said. ‘Gi’e me half an hour wi’ each i’ Top End and you’ll not see either again for dust.’

  ‘Have you said good-bye to Bryan?’ Mrs Spencer asked.

  ‘Good-bye,’ the girl said.

  ‘Good-bye,’ Bryan said, getting up from the table.

  The girl disappeared beyond the kitchen door; the sound of her feet came a moment later from a landing overhead.

  ‘You shouldn’t provoke her,’ Mrs Spencer said to her husband.

  ‘That’s not provocation,’ the farmer said. ‘That’s a statement of fact.’ He handed the bag of eggs to Bryan. ‘Carry these without breaking, can you?’

  ‘I’d better take these,’ his father said and took the bag himself. ‘He can carry the meat,’ he added, ‘if he likes. And his bit of cake.’

  ‘Say nought to nobody,’ the farmer said, breathing into Bryan’s face and pressing the cake inside his jacket. ‘We don’t want a queue out yonder.’

  ‘Where’s your other son, Arthur?’ Mrs Spencer said as they went to the door.

  ‘He wasn’t up to coming,’ his father said. ‘His bike’s brok’, I think,’ he added.

  He stepped out to the yard, placing the eggs in the pannier behind his saddle.

  ‘Come again, Bryan,’ Mrs Spencer said, ‘whenever you like,’ stepping out to the yard and, as Bryan mounted his bike, running her hand across his hair. ‘There aren’t many children round here. There’s hardly anyone for Margaret to play with.’

  ‘Nay, Margaret’s enough wi’ her film stars and ’osses,’ the farmer said, glancing up at a window where, as Bryan looked up, a curtain fluttered.

  He cycled with difficulty across the yard. ‘Mind he doesn’t drown,’ the farmer shouted as his father pushed his bike between the puddles, laughing and, as he reached the gate which Bryan had already opened, calling, ‘I’ll keep an eye on him, don’t worry,’ adding to Bryan, ‘He doesn’t mean half of what he says,’ nevertheless waving his arm and calling, ‘Thanks again,’ as he closed the gate.

  They cycled off in single file. Stooped, Bryan pedalled behind his father. ‘Put a spurt on, if you like,’ he called, waving him in front, so that Bryan was some distance ahead by the time they reached the house.

  ‘Like a duck to water,’ his father said when, after taking off his boots, he followed him inside. ‘Once he gets up speed I never see him,’ setting the eggs on the table, beside the meat and the bag containing the cake which were already there. ‘They took to Bryan. I don’t think they wanted him to leave. Asked Margaret to show him round.’

  ‘Did she?’ his mother said.

  ‘Nay,’ his father said. ‘She wa’ far too shy.’

  ‘Of you?’

  ‘Not me,’ his father said, and laughed. ‘Of Bryan.’

  SEVEN

  ‘Is that boy stopping you from working, Maureen?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Featherstone,’ Maureen said.

  She was sitting in the desk beside him: she was short and stocky with coal-black eyes and coal-black hair – the hair cut symmetrically, like the crown of a flat-peaked cap; her cheeks and her lips were cherry red and her teeth were large and white.

  ‘Come out here.’

  Bryan got up.

  ‘I would have thought,’ Miss Featherstone said as he reached her desk and the two children standing there stepped quickly aside, ‘you would have learned your lesson already.’

  ‘I wasn’t doing anything,’ he said.

  She glanced at Maureen. ‘Was he stopping you from working?’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’

  ‘I have warned you before, and I shall not warn you again.’ She raised her desk lid and brought out a wooden ruler. ‘Hold out your hand.’

  He held out his hand.

  ‘Clench it.’

  He closed his eyes; he simulated an expression of pain in the hope it might dissuade Miss Featherstone from carrying out her threat: it had never worked in the past and it didn’t work now. He heard her grunt as, having stood up, she brought the ruler down.

  The sharp edge rapped across his knuckles.

  He winced. His fingers convulsed.

  The pain, more sharply, ran into his wrist.

  ‘Your other hand.’

  He held up his other fist.

  ‘Tighter.’

  He heard the silence in the room behind and felt the rap across his knuckles.

  ‘If I have occasion to call you out again I shall report you directly to Mr Swan.’

  His hands beneath his armpits, he returned to his desk.

  He glanced at Maureen then, bowed, drew his arms against his chest.

  ‘I told you you should have looked,’ Maureen said. She ducked her head, and added, ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘Is Bryan talking to you again?’ Miss Featherstone said.

  ‘No, Miss Featherstone,’ Maureen said.

  Feet shuffled; a desk lid banged.

  ‘Do you want to have a look?’

  He shook his head.

  Miss Featherstone’s voice droned on; sensations other than pain returned to his hands.

  Maureen had bowed her head to her desk; her tongue protruded between her teeth.

  Bryan rubbed his hands: a broad weal ran across his knuckles. The circulation returned to his fingers and he picked up his pen.

  ‘Look!’ Maureen said.

  Two short-fingered hands with their square-ended nails were holding aside the edge of her knickers.

  ‘Are you interfering with Maureen, Bryan?’

  Miss Featherstone stood up.

  The blood pounded in his ears.

  ‘Come out here.’

  He got up from the desk.

  ‘Would you mind telling me what you are doing?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me.’ She glanced across the desks. ‘Was he talking to you, Maureen?’

  ‘No, Miss,’ Maureen said.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’

  ‘He wasn’t speaking?’

  ‘No, Miss.’

  Maureen’s red-cheeked face with its coal-black eyes was poised between the heads of the children in front.

  ‘If I thought you were I would have taken you down the corridor in an instant.’ Miss Featherstone raised her arm.

  Her eyes followed him to the desk and remained fixed on him when, without looking up, he returned to his work.

  ‘Let me look at yours.’

  ‘No.’

&
nbsp; ‘I let you look at mine.’

  His head remained bowed, the point of the pen, soaked in ink, pinioned on the page before him.

  ‘You looked at mine.’

  ‘I didn’t ask you.’

  He heard a ruler slammed down on the teacher’s desk.

  ‘Is that boy talking?’

  ‘No, Miss.’ Maureen stood up.

  Silence descended on the room again.

  ‘You may sit down, Maureen.’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’

  Maureen sat down.

  Bryan moved to the end of the bench.

  A fist, clenched tightly, struck his wrist.

  ‘I let you look at mine.’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Do you want to look at it again?’

  He gazed at his nib; he examined the blackness of the ink at the end.

  ‘Bryan.’

  The name, sharply delivered, distracted him.

  He turned to see an empurpled mass exposed between the ends of Maureen’s square-nailed fingers.

  ‘Show me yours.’

  A movement at the teacher’s desk and in an instant Maureen’s hands were on the desk: a pen was placed in her mouth.

  Miss Featherstone had left her desk and was walking down the aisle.

  She glanced over at the desks on either side then, opposite Bryan, she grasped his ear, twisted it, and said, ‘Stand up.’

  He let the pen fall.

  ‘Has he got something under that desk?’

  Maureen’s black-capped head disappeared; a moment later it re-emerged.

  ‘There’s nothing there, Miss Featherstone,’ she said.

  ‘I shall have you stand at the front, young man.’

  He was led from the desk to the corner of the room.

  ‘Stand up.’

  He stood with his back to the class, his ear stinging, gazing at the composition of the wall before him.

  He heard Miss Featherstone return to her desk, the banging of Maureen’s lid as she indicated her approval of Miss Featherstone’s action, then the teacher’s voice recommenced as two more children were summoned to have their work examined.

  ‘Stand straighter. Hands behind your back. I don’t want you leaning forward.’

  He straightened his back; from the corner of his eye he could see the edge of the blackboard and, from the other corner, the glass pane in the upper half of the door which, partly obscured by paper, gave access to the corridor.