A Prodigal Child

by Storey, David;

  ‘How about a ship?’

  From the row of massive figures he gazed to the blank sheets of the sketch-book; its price having been calculated before he’d gone to fetch it, he felt reluctant to use it at all. For one thing, it contained twenty-four sheets of paper which, by simple calculation, meant that every picture he did, unless he painted on both sides, cost almost a penny.

  ‘I’ll finish this,’ he said.

  The colour flowed from the tip of the brush; occasionally it flowed into the one next to it: one smudged figure led on to the next.

  Soon the sheet was a mass of indecipherable shapes and blotches; he looked from the neat rows of colours to the patches of separate colour mixed in the lid, and from the separate patches to the intermingled patches that now obscured the figures altogether.

  ‘You’re making a mess.’

  His brother leaned across his shoulder.

  ‘It’s with everybody watching me,’ he said.

  ‘Nay, I’m not watching.’ His brother, moments before, had come in from the field, reddened and panting, and now, still panting, stooped over the paper, his features swelling, his black finger poised over the sheet. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Soldiers.’

  ‘Looks like a lot of blots to me. Doesn’t it look like a lot of blots?’ he added to his mother.

  ‘It’s only his first try,’ she said, yet nevertheless gazing at the sheet with much the same expression.

  ‘He’s not roaring about it, is he?’

  Bryan had turned away, flung down his brush and, lurching across the room, buried his face in a chair.

  He heard his brother laugh.

  ‘Leave him,’ his mother said, and added, ‘Perhaps it would be better, Bryan, if you did it upstairs.’

  His arms ached; his hand ached: the restraint imposed upon him in holding the brush had constrained not only the movements of his arm but his feelings.

  ‘I can’t do it. I’ve tried,’ he said.

  ‘You can try again,’ his mother said.

  ‘It’s all wasted.’

  ‘It’s not a waste.’

  ‘It’s all wasted if I can’t use it.’ He raised his head; through a blur of tears he saw the paintbox on the table and, worst of all, saw that his brother had picked up the brush and, mixing a colour in the lid, was preparing to paint. ‘Leave it.’

  He sprang across, missed the brush as his brother, laughing, snatched it away, and called, ‘Leave it,’ grabbing first at his brother’s arm, then at his wrist.

  ‘Let him have it, Alan,’ his mother said, and added, as the jar of water spilled, ‘Look at the mess you’ve made.’

  ‘Look at the mess he’s painted.’ His brother laughed again.

  Bryan snatched up the paper; he screwed it up.

  ‘Do you know how much that paper cost?’

  ‘I want the brush!’

  ‘Give him the brush,’ his mother said.

  ‘Nay, he can have it,’ his brother said.

  The sound of a smack followed the movement of his brother’s arm.

  His mother, red-faced, stood over him.

  ‘Go pick it up,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll not pick it up.’

  ‘Go get it.’

  His brother went to the corner of the room, stooped, straightened and, from where he was standing, tossed the paintbrush back to the table.

  ‘Leave his things alone.’

  ‘I’m not touching them,’ his brother said. ‘He can make as many messes as he likes for me.’

  Bryan closed the lid; he carried the box upstairs: from below came the sound of his brother’s voice.

  He closed the bathroom door and stood by the basin, one hand on the cistern.

  He examined his face in the mirror; the dark eyes gazed out, caverned, his cheeks drawn in.

  ‘He’s alus crying. And he’s alus getting presents. He alus gets the best of everything.’

  Why, if things were always going his way, did he feel at a disadvantage? Why, despite all his efforts, had the picture come to nothing? The frustration that he felt he saw in the mirror merely as a tautening of the skin around his eyes, a grimacing of the lips, and saw how several streaks of paint were smeared across each cheek.

  He opened the box, washed out the lid, filled one of the declivities with water and, opening the bathroom door, crossed to the bedroom.

  He laid the paintbox on the cupboard top, closed the door, and tore a page from the front of the book.

  Moistening the brush, he began again.

  A lake gave way to a mountain; trees were reflected in the water.

  In the foreground, a hump-backed bridge crossed over a stream.

  He tore out another page; across the top he painted a hat, light blue, with a sweeping brim, across which dangled the end of a ribbon.

  Beneath the brim he set a face, pink, gleaming, the eyes pale-blue, the teeth white, showing in a smile.

  The reddened lips he painted when the teeth were dry.

  Beneath the face he painted a neck, broadening into the collar of a light-blue dress.

  Behind the figure he painted a car, a wheel lying on the floor before it; beyond the car he painted a man, tall, grey-suited and, beyond the man, a hedge and a tree. A bird flew overhead and, by the woman’s feet, he painted a flower.

  His name, prefixed by the word ‘Master’, was written on the envelope with the familiar scrawled writing underneath.

  He smelled the paper.

  A tang of perfume was mixed with the smell of ink.

  Inside, the blue-coloured paper was folded twice.

  ‘Dear Bryan,’ he read. ‘I’m sorry we haven’t replied earlier to let you know how much we liked your picture. I wonder if you would like to come to tea? Saturday would be a good day for me. Perhaps you would like to come at four o’clock and I can show you where we have hung your portrait. Yours sincerely, Mrs H. Corrigan.’

  ‘Alan ought to go with you,’ his father said, having delayed his departure while Bryan read the letter. ‘You’ve not been up to Chevet,’ he added, reading the address at the top of the sheet. ‘I don’t think Mrs Corrigan has taken into consideration how young you are.’

  ‘I don’t want to go,’ his brother said, having just come down. He rubbed his tousled head and yawned.

  ‘Neither your mother nor me can take him,’ his father said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It wouldn’t look right.’

  ‘I don’t mind him coming, if he wants to,’ Bryan said.

  ‘Tell them he can’t come,’ his brother said.

  ‘How can I tell them he can’t come?’ his father asked.

  ‘You can ring them up.’

  ‘You’ll take him. It’s only on the bus,’ He turned from Alan as his brother, yawning, went back upstairs. ‘What sort of clothes will you wear?’ he added.

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ Bryan said.

  ‘I don’t know what your mother’s going to think.’

  ‘She won’t mind me going,’ Bryan said.

  ‘Nay, she’ll be very pleased,’ his father said, taking the letter from Bryan and reading it again. ‘It’s just the expense that’s all,’ he added. When he left for work, finally, he called from the porch, ‘We’ll think of summat. Don’t worry. We shan’t miss out on a chance like this.’

  TEN

  Alan jangled the coins in his pocket: he glanced up Spinney Moor Avenue, he glanced at the arcade of shops, at the Empire Cinema, the foyer of which was lit for the children’s matinée, at the Spinney Moor Hotel, in front of which several cars were parked. ‘What’s that you’ve got?’

  ‘Pictures.’

  A roll of paintings, covered by a sheet of newspaper, he carried in his hand.

  ‘They want some more, then, do they?’

  ‘I’ve done them some.’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘He’s very tall.’

  When, fi
nally, a bus came into sight, his brother didn’t move; it was Bryan who put out his hand and only when the bus slowed did Alan glance up in recognition.

  They sat downstairs; his brother handed over the money for the tickets then gazed out at the houses and gardens before the larger buildings of the town began. Finally, as the bus reached the summit of the central hill, he got up and stood at the door, ready to jump off before it halted.

  They walked through the narrow streets, crowded with afternoon shoppers, to a stop immediately below the gate of All Saints Church. The clock chimed out a quarter to four and, never having paused by the church, Bryan gazed up at its tall, dog-toothed spire, crowned, against the cloud, with a gold-coloured cockerel, and at the massive white, black-segmented, black-handed face of the clock itself.

  ‘It’ll take longer than fifteen minutes. Thy’ll never make it.’ His brother had never been out to Chevet himself and had asked someone in the queue if they were waiting at the proper stop. When the bus drew up it was already crowded.

  They stood downstairs, hemmed in by shoppers.

  ‘Can you tell us where to get off for Carlton Drive?’ Alan asked the conductor who, taking the fares, answered over his shoulder.

  ‘That’s Corrigan’s,’ his brother added, indicating a façade of shops outside but, through the intervening heads and shoulders, Bryan merely caught a glimpse of a blur of faces.

  The bus rattled on; they crossed the river, and started up the valley side: beyond the nearest roofs lay a stretch of woodland.

  The bus emptied; soon, but for one other passenger, they were the only ones downstairs.

  The conductor sat across the aisle, counting the money from his bag and checking his tickets.

  ‘Is this Chevet?’ his brother asked as the first of several houses came into sight.

  ‘Chevet it is.’

  ‘Where’s Carlton Drive?’

  ‘You the ones for Carlton Drive?’ He reached up for the bell as the other passengers got up. ‘Two stops on.’

  The houses, each enclosed by trees, stood back from a central green.

  The bus passed on, turned into a narrow lane, and descended the slope the other side.

  ‘Here’s Carlton Drive.’ The conductor rang the bell.

  ‘Is there a stop for coming back?’ his brother said.

  ‘We’ll be coming back,’ the conductor said, ‘in ten or fifteen minutes.’

  A stream passed beneath the parapet of a stone-walled bridge: it flowed through a narrow valley, shrouded with trees. At the side of the stream a road wound up the valley side.

  They passed between a row of wooden bollards: houses looked out across the valley.

  ‘Do you still want to go?’ His brother gazed up at the massive windows. ‘They must be millionaires up here.’

  In one of the drives a car was parked; a man in uniform leaned over the bonnet.

  ‘Which is the Corrigans’?’ he added.

  Bryan consulted the paper in his pocket.

  ‘It’s called “Aloma”.’

  ‘Let’s have a look.’

  His brother had read the address before setting off; now he examined it more intently.

  ‘Don’t they have a number?’

  ‘It doesn’t give one.’

  They passed a house entitled ‘Riviera’, its name embellished in gold lettering on the metal gates: a drive curled off across a terraced lawn: at the front of a large stone façade stood several cars.

  ‘You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.’

  ‘They’re expecting me.’

  ‘Perhaps they thought you wouldn’t come.’ His brother gazed up at a stone mansion, shrouded by trees, the drive to which was approached by a pair of metal gates.

  ‘This is it.’

  A lawn swept up to a stone-built terrace; beyond, square windows were inset with leaded glass.

  ‘It might have been politeness.’

  ‘What politeness?’

  ‘Inviting you. They wouldn’t expect you to come.’

  A metal-studded door was inset within a pillared porch.

  ‘Are you going up?’

  ‘I think so.’

  He stepped past his brother and started to the drive.

  ‘Do you want me to come up with you?’

  His brother still stood at the open gate; something of the incongruity of his appearance struck Bryan at last: the ill-fitting coat, the trousers which, from a distance, appeared too large, the dishevelled stockings, the bent wings of his collar – his hair, which he had neatly brushed and which, by its neatness, lent an air of absurdity to his half-anxious figure.

  ‘No.’ He started up the drive.

  His brother was still standing there when he reached the door.

  A flight of stone steps ran up to the porch: to one side, in a brass surround, was a white-buttoned bell.

  He knocked.

  A key was turned and the door drawn back.

  A woman in a black dress gazed out; she wore a small white apron.

  Then, with narrow features and large brown eyes, she glanced over his head to the garden behind.

  ‘Bryan? We thought you’d got lost.’

  The door was opened wider.

  ‘Come in.’ She stooped to take his coat. ‘Did you come on the bus?’

  ‘We were late catching it,’ Bryan said.

  ‘Someone brought you?’

  ‘My brother.’

  ‘Is he outside?’

  ‘He’ll have gone now.’

  ‘That was kind of him,’ she said.

  A broad staircase swept up to a banistered landing.

  ‘You can look at a book Mrs Corrigan’s bought you. Come into the sitting-room.’ The woman led the way to a door at the end of the hall.

  A grand piano stood beside a window; beyond the window a garden, enclosed by flower beds, stretched down to a clump of trees: the roofs and chimneys of another house were visible beyond.

  Several chairs were arranged in front of a fire; on one of them, a settee, lay a picture book with a galleon on the cover.

  Bryan sat down.

  The woman closed the door; he could hear her voice calling from the foot of the stairs.

  Feet echoed as they crossed a wooden floor.

  The walls of the room stretched up to a decorated ceiling; a frieze of plaster leaves and flowers encircled the lampshade at the centre.

  He opened the book, examined the drawings, of ships at sea, of figures fighting, read the heading to one of the chapters, ‘Barnabus Strikes Back’, and, stooping, smelled the ink.

  Above the fireplace hung a picture of cattle standing in water at the edge of a lake. Below it, on the mantelpiece, stood several photographs in wooden frames.

  The fire crackled; it had been lit for some time, the redness reflected on the tiles of the hearth and on the stone projections enclosing the grate.

  To the side of the fireplace, on a bamboo table, stood a wireless plugged to the wall.

  The door opened; a woman dressed in a dark-green skirt and a dark-green jacket came in: her face glowed, its features caught by the light from the window and by the redness of the fire.

  ‘Bryan.’

  A smell of perfume filled the room.

  ‘We thought we’d have to come and find you.’

  ‘I came on the bus,’ he said.

  ‘And with your brother. You should have brought him in as well.’

  She took his hand and, sitting on the settee beside him, added, ‘What are those?’

  ‘I’ve brought you some pictures.’

  ‘You have been prolific.’ She removed the elastic band. ‘We wondered if it were the right thing to send.’ She unrolled the sheets of paper. ‘I shall have to look at these more closely.’ After glancing at the top one she put them down. ‘Have you seen your book?’

  She picked it up.

  ‘Barnabus and the Pirates. I thought I might read you a story. Mr Corrigan isn’t home from work, but when he comes we can have so
me tea. Then, when you go, you can take it with you.’

  Her head erect, her back straight, she turned the pages.

  ‘Do you mind my reading?’ she added.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘If Mr Corrigan isn’t back, I can show you round the house.’

  From a table beside the settee she picked up a pair of glasses.

  ‘“Barnabus,”’ she read, “was sitting at his desk and wondering what he could do at the beginning of the holidays. His parents were away and the house was in the charge of Mrs Kay.”’ She paused. ‘You’ve met Mrs Meredith? She was the lady at the door.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Did you like her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She has children of her own, who are now grown up.’ She read again, ‘“He stared out of the window to where the path ran down to the cliff.”’

  Her knees were turned towards him and glistened with the redness of the fire. On her feet, matching the greenness of her skirt, were a pair of green-coloured slippers: they were tucked beneath her so that the weight of her feet rested on her toes.

  On the lapel of the jacket she wore a brooch and, beneath the jacket, a white-coloured blouse: a button secured its collar and a row of buttons ran down the front.

  Above each blue eye was a smear of colour; her mouth was reddened; flecks of powder showed round her nose.

  The curls of hair were shaped in ringlets and danced to and fro, her head raised then lowered to emphasize the effect of someone speaking.

  Her forehead glowed.

  At no point, while she read, did she glance in his direction; once she glanced at the fire, sideways, still speaking, and once, lifting her head, she glanced at her nails.

  She closed the book with a snap.

  A smell of scent was mixed with the smell of the ink and the paper.

  ‘That was good!’

  On the settee, beside her, were the rolled-up pictures and, dropping the book on top, she added, ‘Anyone you recognize?’

  She stood and, from the mantelpiece, lifted down a photograph.

  A familiar face gazed out from beneath the peak of a riding hat. Margaret was wearing a pair of jodhpurs; in her hand she carried a crop.

  She put the photograph down, picked up another, put it down, then picked up a third.