‘I have done. Until you came and spoilt it.’
He had never contemplated a world in which there wasn’t a presence larger than his own; larger than everything he could see around him. At one time it had been the benevolent spirit which came at Christmas; from that had grown an awareness that nothing was what it seemed – fields led on to other fields, roads to other roads, towns to other towns, countries to other countries, but, finally, the world led on to heaven.
‘Is anything the matter?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘Why are you shaking?’
‘I’m not,’ he said.
‘I’ll put some wood on the fire.’
She got down from the chair; the wood crackled as the flames took hold.
‘It doesn’t give much heat, but it looks as though it should.’
‘Why do you cut out all these pictures if they don’t mean anything?’ he asked.
‘I like them.’
She tapped her hands on the table.
‘Are you two ready?’ came a voice from the kitchen.
The table, when they went through, had been laid with cups and saucers.
‘How’s he been with the scissors?’ Mr Spencer stood with his back to the fire.
‘He cuts off all the edges,’ Margaret said. ‘In addition to which, he shakes all over.’
‘Is anything the matter, Bryan?’ Mrs Spencer said.
‘No,’ he said.
He had, for no reason he could think of, begun to cry.
‘He’s frightened,’ Margaret said. ‘He’s frightened of Daddy.’
‘He’s frightened of no such thing.’ Mrs Spencer placed her arm across his shoulder.
‘Then he must be a cry-baby,’ Margaret said.
‘Are you feeling unwell?’ Mrs Spencer asked him.
‘No,’ Bryan said.
‘Just look at his hands.’
His jaw, too, had begun to vibrate; he clutched his sides and tried to concentrate on the dogs by the fire, on the figure of Mr Spencer standing amongst them, on the flickering shadows, on the gleam of the firelight on the pots and pans.
‘You’d better lie down,’ Mrs Spencer said. She felt his brow. ‘Let’s put him in the front room,’ she added. ‘We’ll lie you down for one or two minutes.’
They crossed the hall; a door, facing the room in which, earlier, he’d been with Margaret, was standing open: a couch was set before a fire.
He was covered by a rug.
A rose-patterned wallpaper covered the walls.
‘Did you feel anything coming on as you cycled over?’ Mrs Spencer asked.
‘No,’ he said.
‘Has Margaret been saying something to upset you?’
‘No.’
From the kitchen came the sound of Margaret’s voice.
‘Perhaps it was the rushing over.’
‘Yes.’
Her hand stretched out to his brow.
‘I’ll get you a powder.’
He gazed, in the afternoon light, at an ochreish-looking print which was suspended on the wall before him: figures ran to and fro across a hill.
He looked to the fire which was shielded by a metal grill; he looked at the ceiling: around a central lampshade ran a plaster-of-Paris relief shaped in flowers. Roses, with cabbage-like petals, formed themselves, on the wallpaper, into vertical lines; soon he was deciphering the crevice of an eye, a brow, the curve of a cheek, a grimacing mouth.
He looked back to the fire.
Mrs Spencer came in.
She gave him a glass of liquid.
‘Lie back and rest,’ she said. ‘It’ll take effect in a minute.’
She resettled his head; apart from his mother he had never been touched by a woman before: he was aware of the pressure of her arm as she supported his back, and the strange delicacy of her fingers.
‘Would you like me to sit by you, Bryan?’
‘I’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘I’ll get up in a minute.’
He felt the pressure on the couch released.
The door closed.
The faces on the wall were spinning round.
He got up from the couch.
He fumbled with the door and went out to the hall; he crossed to the kitchen and, as the door opened, he said, ‘I’m going to be sick.’
All he could think of was the farmer and his daughter sitting there, and, his eyes narrowed, he turned to the hall. His feet caught against the stairs, then, at the top, he was directed along a landing: a door was opened; he stooped above a sink.
Finally, when he raised his head, the dizziness had gone.
He washed his face.
A towel was presented.
‘That feet better?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘You’ve not been tasting Margaret’s paste while you’ve been glueing down those pictures?’ Mrs Spencer laid her arm around his waist.
‘No,’ he said.
Behind him, on the landing, he could hear Mr Spencer say, ‘Perhaps it’s the yard. A few whiffs of that can send you rattling. We’re used to it, tha knows. He isn’t.’
They returned downstairs.
‘No doubt he’ll feel like summat to eat,’ the farmer added, surveying the table.
‘I’d better get back,’ Bryan said.
‘We’ll ask Mr Spencer to run you, there’s no hurry. You sit down,’ Mrs Spencer said. ‘Perhaps you’d like some tea now you’ve fetched things up.’
A cup was placed on the table before him.
‘I’ll be able to go on my bike,’ he said.
‘Oh, we couldn’t let you, love,’ Mrs Spencer said. ‘It’ll only take Mr Spencer ten or twelve minutes.’
It was dark by the time they left; Mr Spencer lifted his bike into the back of the car and Bryan sat in front.
Margaret, after an argument inside the house, squeezed in beside him.
‘It won’t stop you coming again?’ Mrs Spencer said, leaning in the window.
‘No,’ he said.
‘The next time should be better. It won’t be a repeat of the first.’
She waved.
The faint tremor of the car as the engine started ran through his legs; a gate was framed in the glare from the lamps. The car turned: the hump-backed bridge appeared.
Beyond, as the car increased its speed, lay the darkening fields; they passed other vehicles on the road: he glimpsed a wall, a bridge and, finally, the lighted front of the Spinney Moor Hotel.
They turned up the road; by the time he had pointed out the house Mr Spencer had driven past: he reversed the car and lifted out the bike.
A curtain moved.
His father appeared.
‘One wounded soldier,’ Mr Spencer called out.
‘He’s not had an accident?’ His father came down to the gate.
‘He’s fetched up his dinner. He’s given us a fine half hour,’ the farmer added.
Margaret, her hands clenched, gazed up at the house; his mother had appeared and called, ‘Is anything the matter?’
‘A funny tummy,’ the farmer said. ‘He’s better now. All right now?’ he added to Bryan.
Their figures were lit up by the lights from the car. Margaret, her hands still clasped, had climbed inside.
‘I’m sorry it’s turned out like this,’ his father said.
‘No bother, Arthur.’ The farmer closed the door. ‘See you tomorrow.’
‘Are you all right?’ his father asked as the red lights dipped down at the end of the road.
‘I could have cycled back,’ he said.
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘They said they’d bring me.’
‘You could see he wasn’t pleased.’ He turned to the bike. ‘Is anything up with that?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘Do you still feel sick?’ his mother said as they went inside. She added, ‘He must have something. He’s lines like charcoal under his eyes.’
He was put to bed.
He lay
there several days.
On the Monday his father brought some eggs. On the Tuesday he brought a cake. On the Wednesday he brought a rabbit, skinned it, cleaned it, and made a soup.
‘I’ve never seen so many inquiries,’ he said to his mother.
The doctor came, suggested flu, changed his mind, and put it down to something Bryan had eaten.
At the weekend Margaret came.
She brought a parcel from her mother.
Sitting in the living-room, her hands on her knees, she gazed at Bryan with her eyes expanded, her brow flushed, her lips compressed. His mother, having introduced her, retreated to the scullery: Alan was out, his father still at work.
‘What do you think made you poorly?’ she said. ‘You don’t look better now,’ she added. ‘Do you think it’s your constitution?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘Perhaps you’re too nervous.’
She clasped her hands, looking at the range, at the walls, at the window. ‘You have to accept things as they are. It doesn’t have to add up to anything, does it?’
Bryan was only aware of the freshness of her figure, of the white socks turned down above the black-strap shoes, of the blue dress uniform of her school, of the brightness of her cheeks and eyes.
‘I wondered if you’d like to go to the pictures.’
‘When?’ he said.
‘Next Wednesday.’
‘Which one?’ he said.
‘The Regal.’
‘All right,’ he said.
‘I’ll pay for the ticket.’
‘It’ll be all right,’ he said.
‘My mother said I had to.’
‘I’ll pay for it,’ he said.
His mother came in and laid a cake on the table.
‘Here you are,’ she said. ‘We can’t let you go without having some tea.’
She brought in three cups; finally, when the table was set, they drew up the chairs.
The cake was cut.
‘I’ve invited Bryan to the cinema,’ Margaret said as she watched his mother pour out the tea.
‘That’ll be a treat.’ She glanced at Bryan.
‘On Wednesday. After school. Will he be able to get up to town by five o’clock?’
‘Oh, he’ll get there, I’m sure,’ his mother said. ‘What time does it finish?’
‘Seven-fifteen.’
‘He should be back before eight. His bedtime is half-past seven.’
‘As early as that?’ Margaret glanced at Bryan then back at his mother.
‘What time do you go to bed?’ his mother asked.
‘As late as ten.’
‘Ten.’ His mother rearranged her plate. ‘Why, we’re in bed ourselves before then,’ she added.
‘Oh, I suppose it’s different with us, Mrs Morley,’ Margaret said.
‘What film is it?’ his mother asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Margaret said. ‘I always go on Wednesdays.’
‘Well,’ his mother said. ‘That is a treat.’
‘I suppose,’ Margaret said when the cake was eaten, ‘I ought to be getting back. Thank you for the tea.’
‘Thank your mother for the cake,’ his mother said.
‘Good-bye,’ the girl said as she mounted her bike.
‘She’s a strange girl,’ his mother said as they watched her cycle off. At the dip in the road she turned and, seeing them still waiting, waved.
On the Wednesday he found her waiting on the marble-coloured steps outside the foyer. She wore a long, dark-blue coat and a beret to which an oval, light-blue badge was attached. Over her shoulder she carried a satchel.
‘I’ve bought the tickets,’ she said. ‘I thought, if you were late, it would save us time.’
The money was hot in his hand and as he held it out she added, ‘Don’t be absurd. You can’t afford to come to a cinema in town. I wouldn’t have invited you if I knew you’d have to pay. I’m not stupid.’
Looping her satchel over her other shoulder she disappeared into the darkness beyond the swing doors.
Bryan followed; he made out the shape of her back silhouetted against the beam of a torch: he slid into a seat.
‘Near enough?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Do you want a sweet?’
He felt a bag pushed by his arm: the paper rustled; he extracted a toffee.
‘This is the end of the film,’ she added. ‘If you don’t want to see what happens don’t look.’
All day he had thought of his ride to the town, of the walk down Southgate from the Bull Ring, of the cinema entrance, of what he should do if she wasn’t there – he’d been told to come home – of what he would see once he was inside the building, a vast, glass-fronted edifice, only recently constructed, and had wondered all day, too, sitting at his desk, if he would be in time and, finally, what the subject of the film might be.
‘Don’t look.’
He glanced beside him to see the eerily illuminated face shielded by a hand: beneath the hand he could see the masticating lips and, below the arm to which the hand was attached, he could see the knees of the light-coloured dress turned sideways in the seat and drawn towards him.
‘You’ll spoil it.’ She covered her eyes again.
A woman screamed.
Bryan gazed about him in the darkness; accustomed to the light from the screen he identified several pallid faces.
The lights came up.
The curtains on the screen were drawn together.
The few figures in the rows about them, banging back the seats, got up.
An usherette moved down the aisle: a spotlight illuminated a tray about her shoulders.
‘Do you want an ice-cream?’
‘No.’ He felt for the money in his pocket and wondered even now how he might, before he left, be able to give it to her.
‘I think I’ll get one,’ she said. ‘Are you sure?’
‘No, thanks.’
He watched her walk off between the seats; she had left her satchel beside him and now she walked with her arms outstretched, half-running down the slope of the aisle, her feet thudding on the carpet: plaits protruded from beneath her beret, a blue-checked ribbon glowing against the darkness of the coat.
Then, coming back, she peeled off the top of the carton, the wooden spoon she’d been given already in her mouth.
Everything about her actions reminded him that all this, for her, was a regular routine: she came back along the row without raising her head, collapsing with a sigh, thudding back the seat, drawing her legs beneath her.
‘Did you see the end?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘It spoils it, knowing she’ll be saved.’
‘Who?’
‘The woman.’
She licked the ice-cream from the wooden spoon. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a taste?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘Do you want another sweet? You can keep the bag.’
She handed him the sweets; every few moments a changing display of lights passed to and fro across the curtains.
‘Adverts,’ Margaret said, finally, as the lights went down, and added, ‘Can I have another toffee?’
The street was in darkness when they emerged; a queue was standing at the door, curving off into an alleyway at the side of the building.
Margaret, having slung her satchel across one shoulder, and having arranged her beret to her satisfaction, gazed up and down the road.
A horn sounded as a car drew up against the kerb; the face of Mr Spencer stooped to the window.
‘Jump in,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you home.’
‘It’s all right,’ Bryan said. ‘I’ll go on the bus.’
‘Did you have a good time?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘We saw the end first,’ Margaret said, and opened the door.
‘That’s a waste of money,’ the farmer said, and added, ‘Sure about the lift?’ He glanced across at Bryan.
‘I know
where the stop is.’
‘Cheerio, then,’ the farmer called.
Margaret nodded through the window.
‘Good-bye,’ she said as the car drew off.
Bryan walked up the road past the lighted shop windows; it was the first time he’d been in the town on his own.
Figures passed him on the pavement and, glancing back at the cinema, he saw the queue filing in.
When the bus came he sat at the front; above him loomed the driver, his face lit up by the glow from the dashboard.
Along the Town Road he saw the cluster of lights across the valley: a pale moon lit up a canopy of cloud.
The bus stopped, the engine rattled, the windows shook, then, once more, it moved into the darkness; people chatted in the seats behind: he gazed in at the house windows on either side, then into the blankness of the distant trees, and, finally, he got up and waited for the bus to stop.
The last people had gone into the Empire cinema at the bottom of Spinney Moor Avenue and the shutters were being placed on the sweet shop at the side: in the foyer the doorman in his long brown coat with gold epaulettes was walking up and down, clapping his white-gloved hands together.
Bryan ran up the avenue and, assuming it was too late to use the back door, knocked on the front.
The key turned; his mother looked out.
‘Had a good time?’
‘I didn’t have to pay,’ he said, smelling the food which had been cooked for his father’s supper.
‘Oh, you shouldn’t have let her pay,’ his mother said, coming into the living-room behind.
His brother was sitting by the fire.
‘She wouldn’t take it.’
‘You should have forced her.’
‘Aye, you should have paid,’ his father said, sitting at the table and gazing at the money as Bryan laid it out. ‘What have you spent?’
‘Bus fare.’
‘Didn’t you buy her any sweets?’
‘She already had some.’
‘If he hasn’t spent it, does that mean I can’t go?’ his brother said. He had already negotiated his own visit at the end of the week.
‘You’ll have to get somebody to invite you,’ his father said. ‘We can’t afford these jaunts into town.’ He laid his hand over the money and drew it to him.
‘That’s mine,’ his mother said, grasping his arm. She took the money and, having counted it, put it in her purse and placed the purse in the sideboard drawer.
‘Did Spencer pick Margaret up?’ his father asked.
A Prodigal Child Page 10