‘She’s a terrible flirt.’
‘Is she?’
‘She can’t help flirting with anyone.’
‘I thought she was pretty.’
‘With all that make-up?’
‘Isn’t she like a film star?’ Bryan said.
‘She is not!’ She laughed. ‘I think she’s ugly.’
‘Why?’
‘Her nose is too long.’
‘I never noticed.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ she said, pausing, ‘you liked her figure.’
‘It was her eyes I noticed,’ Bryan said.
‘All that mascara.’
A man was walking out of the wood. He was tall and slim, and wore a grey suit; his hair, which was short and almost white, curled down in a fringe: from the top pocket of his jacket he took a handkerchief with which, as he approached them, he wiped his brow. His eyes were dark, his cheeks sallow, his nose long and sharply pointed, his mouth thin-lipped. ‘Is that for me?’ He gazed at the jugs.
‘It’s for the men, Uncle,’ Margaret said.
‘Aren’t I one of them?’
‘Have you been stooking?’
‘I’ve been watching them.’ He mopped his brow, wiped his hands on the handkerchief, and returned it to his pocket. ‘Which is just as hot.’
‘There’s some for you at the house.’ She added, ‘This is Bryan.’
‘Hello, Bryan.’ The man glanced down. ‘You’re loaded.’
‘Sandwiches and tea mugs,’ Margaret said.
‘I suppose I’d better get back.’ The man stooped to look inside the carrier bag. ‘Once your aunt gets started there’s no catching up again.’
Margaret glanced at Bryan and nodded her head.
The man smiled; he glanced off along the track.
‘What birds are those?’
A flock of black-and-white birds, with short, squared-off wings, started from the grass.
‘Peewits,’ Margaret said.
‘Peewits.’
‘Or plovers.’
‘Are they the same?’
‘Or lapwings.’
‘This girl knows everything,’ the tall man said. ‘In addition to which, she’s been to every film that’s ever been made, as well as knowing all the actors.’
‘Do you like Aunt Fay’s dress?’ Margaret said.
‘I do.’ The man nodded; he closed his eyes and nodded again.
‘I think a warmer colour suits her,’ Margaret said.
‘I prefer the blue.’ The man glanced down at Bryan.
‘Nor do I like its pattern,’ Margaret said. She turned to Bryan, and added, ‘Spots.’
‘Dots.’
‘Spots.’
‘I shall tell her,’ the tall man said, ‘and see what she says.’
‘Don’t say I told you.’
‘I shan’t.’
The man turned, his dark shoes covered in dust, and continued along the track; when, a short while later, they reached the wood, Bryan glanced back to see him approach the gate to the yard: he paused, gazing off to the flock of birds which, no sooner settled, rose up again.
‘I much prefer him to her,’ Margaret said.
‘I like them both,’ Bryan said.
‘You like everyone.’
‘I don’t think so.’
At the opposite end of the wood a patch of sunlight shone on the field where the men were working. The clatter of the tractor echoed beneath the trees and the smell of its fumes mingled with the more persistent smell of straw from the binder.
The air in the shadow of the trees was cool; pigeons fluttered in the branches: a dull echo came from the shuffling of his and Margaret’s feet.
‘You realize her figure is reinforced?’
‘What by?’
‘All that bosom. Even mother doesn’t like her using make-up.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s a barbarous habit.’
‘Is it?’
‘Why do you never answer a question except by asking another?’
The metal mugs jangled in the bag.
‘I liked her make-up.’
‘You’ve no taste. Even Daddy thinks she’s vulgar, and he’s her brother. Fancy her taking mother off to buy those clothes when she knows she’s needed at home at present.’
Mr Spencer could be seen descending from the tractor as they came out from the trees; he walked round to the binder and the tapping of a spanner came a moment later as Bryan’s father got down from the high seat and, stooping beside Mr Spencer, reached into the machine beneath the canvas screen.
Mr Spencer looked up; he waved his arm. ‘Shove it under the hedge,’ he shouted.
The men who were stooking threw down their sheaves; the sandwiches were unwrapped, the tea poured out.
‘How are you faring, Bryan?’ his father said as he came across. He was followed by Mr Spencer. ‘Not taking too much out of you?’ he added. The farmer lay back in the shadow of the hedge, the men sprawled out around him.
His father was invariably shy whenever he encountered Bryan with any of the Spencers; even after making the inquiry he glanced at the farmer before sitting down, taking his mug of tea from Margaret.
‘Made these, have you?’ he asked, taking a sandwich from one of the towels.
‘With Mrs Spencer.’
‘And Aunt Fay,’ Margaret said, speaking to her father.
‘We’ve had your Uncle Harold out here,’ the farmer said. ‘Ask Arthur. He gave us two minutes and ran away.’
His father laughed; the other men laughed as well.
‘I said: “Come to give us a hand, Harold?” at which he shifted faster than a rabbit.’ He indicated two dead rabbits lying by the hedge. ‘I suppose he wa’ still running when he reached the house.’
The field stretched out to an adjoining field and, beyond that, the slope ran down to the river.
A distant perspective of the town stood out across the valley, the intervening area of fields and copses giving way to an assemblage of roofs out of which, sharply focused in the light, rose the central hill with its silhouetted domes and steeple.
Bryan lay back; uncomfortable in his father’s presence, largely because of his father’s own embarrassment, he abstracted himself from the figures around him and gazed over to the town and, adjacent to the town, and directly across the valley, to the cluster of roofs which, together with the block-like structure of the church, the school and, beyond it, the hospital, marked the summit of Spinney Top. The whole area was laid out in a sun-lit vista, the haze of the afternoon only evident in the valley bottom where the river glowed between its shallow banks.
The voices droned on, dominated by that of Mr Spencer: ‘It’ll see us through till supper will this. She can make a sandwich when she wants to,’ and, moments later, ‘She’s back from town with your auntie, is she? I hope we’re not skint, or there’ll be nought to pay these lads out here.’ He spoke with a sandwich in his mouth and, after chewing it, swallowed it down with tea.
The curious thing was, despite their roles of employer and employee, Mr Spencer and his father were closer in spirit than Bryan himself was either to his father or to his mother: he half-imagined, as he listened to their voices, that if he had had a choice, he might have chosen Margaret’s aunt to be his mother, or someone like her, someone whose distinction matched his own.
The smell of her perfume was still on his clothes and absently he raised the sleeve of his shirt and breathed it in: he lay with the cloth against his nose and reflected on the last moment he had seen her, framed in the kitchen door, waving, the blueness of her dress highlighting the warmth of her features; above all, he had been affected by the movement of her arm, and the swaying of the hand above the wrist, a suppleness that suggested not merely a degree of spontaneity but a vulnerability as well.
‘I’ve never seen a man shift faster, when he was offered a spot of work.’
Mr Spencer belched.
His father laughed.
The farmer
stretched, stood up, and belched again.
‘I reckon thy young ’un better be off.’
‘Aye.’ His father nodded. ‘You’d better be getting back, Bryan. Tell your mother I’ll be late tonight. Not to wait up.’ He glanced about him. ‘It’ll be getting dark in one or two hours. I want you home by then.’
The men returned to the field; the tractor restarted: the clatter of the binder began again, cutting at the swathe of wheat that ran up to the summit of the rise beyond which, uncut, the fields rose higher still to the crest of Feltham Castle.
They picked up the metal mugs and put them in the bag.
‘I think I’ll stay out longer,’ Margaret said. ‘Tell my mother I’ll be back before dark.’
Yet, when he was halfway through the wood, he heard her calling and saw her running after him.
Her face was red, gleaming and, having caught him up, she ran past, slapping his arm, pausing several paces ahead and calling, ‘I’ll go back with you. Do you want a hand?’
‘No, thanks,’ he said.
‘What an independent person you are,’ she said.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said.
‘You’re always sulking.’
‘I’m not,’ he said, for he had worked beside her all day and, despite their difference in build, had not only stooked more quickly, but had kept up with the men: his hands and his arms were raw and although, as Mrs Spencer had suggested, this was something that was not only inevitable but which had to be accepted, he felt whatever injury he might have incurred, either to his feelings – by seeing his father’s subservience to Mr Spencer, and Mr Spencer’s seeming disregard of it – or to his body, the cuts and scratches were worth it for his having met the one woman who, in appearance as well as manner, summed up all that he felt to be synonymous with his own position: a princess to his prince.
He quickened his step in the hope that, when they reached the house, she would still be there.
‘I can never make out what you’re thinking, Bryan.’
‘I don’t have to be thinking anything,’ he said.
‘Or feeling.’
‘I don’t know what you’re feeling, either.’
‘You’ve a good idea.’
‘I haven’t.’
The metal mugs and the jugs clattered on his arm.
‘You have a purpose in life,’ Margaret said. ‘You won’t tell anyone about it.’
‘I don’t know what it is,’ he said.
‘My mother likes you,’ she said. ‘My father thinks I shouldn’t invite you.’
‘Why?’
‘It raises problems with your father.’ She added, ‘He doesn’t mind you coming to the farm and doing odd jobs, or playing in the barn, but he’s not keen,’ she continued, ‘to have you in the house.’ She paused. ‘My mother doesn’t mind, but then, she doesn’t have to work with the men. After all, my father is your father’s boss and though he doesn’t often show it, they could never be considered equals. You can’t be someone’s superior at work, and then not have that superiority reflected in your private life, however reasonable you’re trying to be.’
‘Perhaps he’d prefer it if I didn’t come,’ he said.
‘Perhaps he would.’
‘Then I shan’t.’
‘That’d be silly.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’ve invited you.’
‘I don’t want to come if I’m not wanted.’
‘You are wanted, but the other thing gets in the way.’
‘She is only saying this,’ he thought, ‘because she is annoyed at my reaction to her aunt.’ Nevertheless, he reflected, she wouldn’t say it unless it were true.
‘I’ll leave these at the door,’ he said, indicating the metal mugs.
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘Your father’s right.’
‘He may be right for him, but he’s not for me and my mother.’
‘It’s his farm.’
‘We live on it,’ she added.
Dust rose from the track and Bryan, having raised his eyes towards the farm, lowered them at the thought that he might not be coming here again.
‘If I have a purpose in life,’ he said, ‘I’d like to be well known.’
‘What for?’
He gazed ahead. ‘For something that no one else could do. Otherwise,’ he added, ‘I don’t think there’s much point in living.’
‘That can’t be true,’ she said. ‘Think of all those people who haven’t a gift.’
‘It’s vanity,’ he said, ‘that keeps them going.’
They reached the gate to the farm. Perhaps his remarks had echoed a not dissimilar sentiment in Margaret herself. Her father was an artisan; his manners were those of an artisan: the only civilizing element in the house came from Margaret herself and from her mother. And now, crowning that civilizing element, was her aunt.
Although Margaret had paused behind him he walked quickly to the door: the dogs which, earlier, had been in the field, had returned to the kitchen and their barking came from the other side.
‘If they’re barking like that,’ he thought, ‘I doubt if she can be there,’ and as he knocked on the door and pushed it open, and the dogs ran out to the yard, he saw that Mrs Spencer was standing at the table, very much as he had left her, glancing up, half-smiling: only her hat had been removed.
‘First back?’ she said.
‘My father thinks I ought to be going,’ he told her.
‘I’m sure he’s right.’
He put the bag by the sink.
Margaret had followed him in the door, leaving it open, and sat at the table, her head in her hand.
‘That’s one it’s tired out, at least,’ she added.
‘I’m not tired,’ Margaret said.
‘You look it, my girl.’ The mother laughed.
‘Has Aunt Fay left?’
‘Just.’
‘Bryan liked her.’
‘I’m glad.’
‘He thought her very pretty.’
‘She is.’
‘And knows it.’
‘That’s impertinent, Margaret,’ Mrs Spencer said, and took the last of the plates to the sink. ‘If there’s one thing Aunt Fay knows about it’s how to dress.’
‘She’s not the only one.’
‘As far as she’s concerned, she is.’
‘And lets everyone know it.’
‘That’s her manner.’
‘And unfortunate,’ Margaret said.
‘You can leave the mugs, Bryan,’ Mrs Spencer said as he stacked them by the sink. She added, ‘Did you bring a coat, or did you come without?’
‘I came without.’
‘Just as well, in that case, you’re going now. It’s chilly, cycling, once the sun goes down.’
She came with him to the door.
‘Are you saying good-bye to Bryan?’ she added to Margaret who was still sitting at the table, her head in her hand.
‘Good-bye,’ she said.
‘Won’t you see him to the gate?’
‘If I have to.’
She got up from the table, sighing.
‘I’m not sure it does Margaret much good having her friends visit her,’ Mrs Spencer said. ‘Or her relatives. She invariably shows them the worst side of her nature.’
‘I’m fed up, that’s all,’ Margaret said.
‘What with?’
‘With him.’ She indicated Bryan.
‘I’m sure no one else could say that, in the light of all the help he’s been,’ Mrs Spencer said, standing in the door.
‘It’s not him,’ Margaret said. ‘It’s Father. He doesn’t like him coming.’
‘He’s never said that.’
‘You can see it, without him having to.’
‘It needn’t affect your friendship,’ Mrs Spencer said.
She stood in the door and Margaret, having come out from the kitchen, stood with her back to the wall, kicking her heel at the step.
‘Th
ere has to be someone in charge,’ Mrs Spencer added.
‘And some with money, and some without.’
‘Oh, we can’t get into those arguments at this hour.’ Mrs Spencer glanced at Bryan. ‘Those are the arguments you should have had with your aunt,’ she added. ‘Rather than about her dress.’
‘Aunt Fay’s no different,’ Margaret said. ‘If anything, she’s worse.’
‘Her opinions are more clearly expressed,’ Mrs Spencer said, still gazing at Bryan. ‘Shall we see you tomorrow?’ she added.
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘You’re welcome. You know that. Don’t let Margaret put you off.’
She turned to the house.
A moment later she reappeared, closing the door behind her. ‘Just for the dogs,’ she added.
‘She wants us to have a private conversation, and make it up,’ Margaret said.
She followed him to the gate.
‘What’s this unusual thing you’re going to do?’ she added.
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘You could marry me and then you could have the farm.’
She flushed.
‘It’s not a material ambition,’ Bryan said.
‘What is it?’
‘A spiritual one.’
‘To be a priest?’
‘That’s no more exceptional than being a farmer.’
‘I see.’
‘It has to be something special.’
She gazed at him intently; the earnest, boy-like look of earlier that afternoon had been replaced by one of indignation.
‘Are you coming tomorrow?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘I’m glad.’
She stood on the gate as he cycled off and he could still see her there, leaning out, as he reached the hump-backed bridge.
Standing on the grass verge at the side of the road was Margaret’s aunt. She had just stepped on to the grass from the road, stepping back again as he approached.
His attention was drawn to her hair, more tawny-coloured than ever in the evening light, falling in a profusion of curls across her brow.
‘Look what we’ve gone and done,’ she said, her heels clicking in the road.
Standing under a tree at the side of the road was a blue-coloured car; it was tilted to one side, supported at the rear on a metal jack. The tall figure of Margaret’s uncle, without his jacket, was stooping to the offside wheel. The boot of the car was open.
A Prodigal Child Page 12