Again, the familiar face gazed out: this time, in the company of Mrs Spencer, Margaret was frowning; she wore a dress and her hair was parted in the middle and arranged in plaits, one of which hung over her shoulder. Mrs Spencer was smiling – her eyes so nervously alive, that, seeing their two figures together, he was drawn to the conclusion that the mother and the daughter had little if anything in common and that, curiously, gazing at the shyness of the smiling face, Mrs Spencer was as much a child as the figure frowning beside her.
Yet, more than any of the photographs, more than any reassurance these glimpses of Mrs Spencer and Margaret might have given him, Bryan was conscious of the hand which held the frames, small, white-skinned, delicately fingered, the nails rounded – and painted so lightly that, at first glance, he assumed the pinkness to be their natural colour.
Inside the wrist he glimpsed her vein, ringed by a bracelet and disappearing beneath the buttoned sleeve of the blouse.
Her hand came down.
‘Mr Spencer doesn’t like having his picture taken. Nor did he,’ she added, ‘as a boy.’ She laughed; an exhalation of perfume came down as she raised her arm. ‘Nor does Margaret. She takes after her father, whereas Mrs Spencer likes it.’ She paused. ‘Do you like Mrs Spencer?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘She’s so hard-working. She has so much to do I can never keep track.’ Having replaced the photographs on the mantelpiece, she added, ‘She hasn’t a minute to herself, which I suppose is the lot of a farmer’s wife. I wouldn’t like the job myself.’
Bryan glanced up at the red-cheeked face, at the lipsticked mouth, at the froth of curls above the green-coloured jacket, and Mrs Corrigan, catching his expression, smiled and said, ‘I have no children of my own, otherwise there’d be someone here for you to play with.’ She clasped his hand. ‘I must show you where we’ve hung your picture.’
At the door she called across the hall, ‘I’m just taking Bryan up, Rose. We’ll give Mr Corrigan a few more minutes,’ at which a voice called from a room at the back, ‘Tea’s ready, Mrs Corrigan, whenever you want it.’
The voice was replaced a few moments later by the sound of singing.
They mounted the stairs; doors ran off from the banistered landing: a stained-glass window cast a tinted glow across the polished floor on either side of a broadly-fitted carpet.
‘This is my bedroom.’ Mrs Corrigan turned to a door which was already open and pushed it back.
A double bed faced a pair of curtained windows; through the windows he could see the trees at the front of the house.
‘I keep my clothes through here.’
She crossed to a door the other side; a small room was lined with cupboards, one of which Mrs Corrigan opened.
Dresses, in a multitude of colours, hung from a metal rail; in an adjacent cupboard, in varying colours and a variety of styles, hung a number of coats.
Beneath a window stood a dressing-table with a mirror, hinged at either end. A round mirror stood on a pedestal before it.
On the top of the dressing-table were arranged a number of boxes and bottles; several brushes were set side by side on a glass-bottomed tray.
‘This is my den.’
Reflected in the mirror, and echoed in the wing mirrors at either end, he saw Mrs Corrigan smile.
‘Where I put myself together, Bryan.’
She opened a second cupboard; skirts and dresses hung from a rail and, beneath the rail, arranged on metal racks, stood innumerable pairs of shoes.
She drew out a dress.
‘Do you like it?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘One of those I bought the day we met.’
She held it to the light, then drew it against her.
‘Margaret is right. I’m putting on weight.’
‘I don’t think you’re fat,’ Bryan said.
‘Don’t you?’
She laughed, gazing down at him, and added, ‘If there’s one thing I’m looking for, it’s praise. That’s kind of you to say so.’
She put the dress back, closed the cupboard door, touched her hair lightly and, taking his hand, drew him back once more to the bedroom and out to the landing.
At a door adjacent to the stained-glass window they entered a room which was occupied by a single bed; a cupboard and a wardrobe stood on either side of a window facing the bed and, beneath the window, stood a desk and a chair.
On the wall facing the door was a fireplace, surrounded by tiles and above which, pinned to the wall, was his picture of Mrs Corrigan.
‘This is the guest-room. Perhaps you can stay here one day.’
She examined the picture herself.
‘It’s Mrs Meredith’s favourite. She wanted to hang it in the kitchen but I thought the damp might spoil it.’ She smiled. ‘Everyone admires the likeness.’
She gestured to the room.
‘Do you like it?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
The ceiling, because of its height, and the heavy curtaining of the window, was enclosed in shadow; a frieze of plaster leaves and flowers ran round the top of the walls.
Through the window he could see the garden, the trees and the shrubs and, beyond the trees, the rear windows of a house.
‘You can see the moors from here.’
She drew the curtain aside.
Fields ran off from one side of the house and, beyond an intervening barrier of trees and the roof of an adjacent house, rose a darker, undulating line.
‘That’s Chevet Common. The line beyond is Chevet Moor. Have you ever been up?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘It’s wild. You’ll like it. It’s very pretty. Lots of lovely views up there.’
They returned to the landing.
‘That’s Mr Corrigan’s room. This is the bathroom. You don’t want to use it by any chance?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘This is another spare bedroom. Mrs Meredith stays there if we’re having guests and it’s too late to go back to the village. Do you know Chevet?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘We’ll have to show you. It’s got lovely houses. Mrs Meredith has a cottage there.’
The sound of a car came from the front of the house and a moment later there was a knock on a door.
‘That’ll be Lawson’s. I’ve asked them not to drive up to the house, but they still insist on coming.’
She paused by a door at the back of the hall. A murmur of voices came from the other side: a door slammed; a few moments later a car engine was revved at the front of the house.
Mrs Corrigan opened the door and they entered a square-shaped kitchen.
A large table occupied the centre of the floor; a window, beyond it, looked out to the garden.
On the table stood a cardboard box from the top of which protruded a number of packets.
Standing at a stove across the room was the tall, black-dressed figure of Mrs Meredith.
She wore a coloured apron.
‘I’ve told him not to drive up to the house,’ Mrs Corrigan said.
‘I’ve told him, Mrs Corrigan. He says it’s too heavy to carry from the gate.’ She turned to the sink and carried a bowl to the table.
Beside the cardboard box stood a pan of peeled potatoes, a pan of carrots and, on a wooden block, a cabbage which had been cut in half.
Mrs Meredith smiled at Bryan; she had begun cutting up the cabbage, first into quarters, then into eighths, then she placed the leaves in the bowl of water.
‘How are you liking your visit, Bryan?’
‘I’ve been reading him a story, Rose,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘And showing him his picture.’
‘My favourite.’ Mrs Meredith came round the table, pouting her lips and kissing his cheek.
She passed by him to a door, disappeared inside, and came out a moment later with a piece of meat.
‘How is dinner coming on, Rose?’
‘Another hour,’ she said, ‘and we’ll be under way.’
<
br /> She placed the meat on the table.
‘Three hours from now, Mrs Corrigan, and dinner will be served.’
‘Shall we have tea now, or wait for Mr Corrigan?’ Mrs Corrigan asked.
‘Oh, we’ll give him a few minutes,’ Mrs Meredith said. ‘I thought it was him when I heard Lawson’s van. I had the kettle on the gas and now I’ve turned it off again!’
She laughed, her gaunt face with its large brown eyes turned once more in Bryan’s direction.
‘Play him one of your songs, Ma’am, I’m sure he won’t have heard them,’ she added. ‘As for tea, it’ll all carry through.’
They returned to the hall.
‘It’s difficult for Mr Corrigan to get back on Saturdays,’ she said. ‘It’s the busiest day of the week. On the other hand, he would have rung up if he couldn’t get.’
She indicated a telephone standing on a table by the foot of the stairs.
‘Let me show you his study.’
She opened a door with a large brass handle.
The interior was occupied by a large square desk, the top of which was inlaid with leather; two windows looked out to the front of the house.
The walls adjacent to the desk were lined with books; over a mantelpiece hung a framed photograph, several feet in length, across the foot of which was arranged a group of men in long white aprons, with a second standing group behind and, in the background, two large, bow-shaped windows above which, in large lettering, was painted, ‘Corrigan and Sons’.
‘This is Mr Corrigan’s study.’
Mrs Corrigan rearranged a blotter; she rearranged a ruler, an ink-stand, a paper-knife and a rack containing pencils.
‘And this is where we shall have tea,’ she added, returning to the door, closing it behind them, and opening a door across the hall.
Beneath two curtained windows stood a long rectangular table.
One end of the table had been laid with a cloth: in the centre of the cloth stood several bowls, a cake, and a plate of jelly designed in the shape of a rabbit.
A fire glowed in a marble-fronted grate.
‘Do you like salmon?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Those are the sandwiches Mrs Meredith has made. Also a jelly.’ She indicated the red-shaped mound standing by the cake. ‘Mrs Spencer was telling me when you went to tea at the farm you were taken ill.’
‘Yes.’
‘I hope it’s not a habit.’
‘No.’
‘If you’d like to look at your book I’ll telephone Mr Corrigan and see if he’s left.’
They returned to the sitting-room and Mrs Corrigan went out to the hall.
Her voice came a moment later from beyond the door.
He sat down, pulled up his stockings, and gazed at the fire.
Through Mrs Corrigan’s voice came the more distant sound of Mrs Meredith singing.
Then, from the front of the house, came the sound of a car.
‘There he is now,’ Mrs Corrigan called and, a moment later, the front door was opened and he heard Mrs Corrigan add, ‘I was just ringing, Harold, to see where you were.’
‘Delayed,’ came Mr Corrigan’s voice followed, after a further moment, by the sound of a kiss. ‘Has Bryan arrived?’
‘In the sitting-room.’
‘Have you shown him his book?’
‘I’ve read him a story.’
‘Seen his picture?’
‘He has.’
‘Not missed tea?’
‘Not yet.’
The door opened.
‘Here we are,’ Mrs Corrigan added.
Mr Corrigan followed her in.
‘Here he is, is he?’ he said. ‘Found us without too much trouble, did he?’
‘His brother brought him up.’
‘Did he?’
Mr Corrigan wore a dark-grey suit in the buttonhole of which was a large red flower: his tie, also red, protruded conspicuously from a stiff white collar.
‘We thought of meeting you in town and giving you a lift,’ he added, shaking Bryan’s hand, his features lightened in their gravity by the glow from the fire. ‘Then, at the last moment, it proved too late to write you a letter. We trusted you’d find your way, after the initiative you showed in mending our tyre.’
‘I told you we’d get our own back, Bryan,’ Mrs Corrigan said, and added, ‘When Mr Corrigan is ready we can have some tea.’
‘Oh, I shan’t be a moment,’ Mr Corrigan said. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this tea all day. I’ve been saving up for it, as a matter of fact.’ One dark eye was closed while the other remained fixed on Bryan. ‘I don’t often have tea,’ he added. ‘So I thought I’d miss out on lunch.’
He disappeared to the hall.
‘And these are your pictures,’ Mrs Corrigan said, retrieving the roll from the settee. ‘Mr Corrigan and I can look at them later. Do you want to take your book with you, or will you leave it here?’
‘I’ll take it with me,’ Bryan said.
As they turned to the door Mrs Corrigan laughed, and said, ‘I meant, take it in to tea. Mr Corrigan hasn’t seen it yet.’
‘I’ll take it with me,’ he said, confused, and they returned to the hall and from there to the room where the tea was laid.
Mrs Corrigan took her own place facing Bryan, the chair between them, at the end of the table, left for Mr Corrigan.
Mrs Meredith came in.
‘See he leaves none of it behind. I don’t want to see any left,’ she said. ‘Nor any of that jelly.’
‘We’ve waited long enough, Rose,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘I’m sure he’ll do it justice.’
‘Justice is all I ask.’ Mrs Meredith smiled and, after the door had closed, Mrs Corrigan said, ‘Rose has a charming sense of fun. She can’t resist a joke, and is especially fond of children,’ and added, ‘You’re the first young person we’ve invited to tea for a very long time.’
The door reopened, Mr Corrigan came in: he took his place at the table, bowed his head, placed his hands together and, waiting for Bryan and Mrs Corrigan to do the same, said, ‘For what we are about to receive may the Good Lord make us truly grateful.’
‘Amen,’ Mrs Corrigan said.
‘Amen,’ Mr Corrigan and Bryan said together, the former handing the plate of sandwiches to Mrs Corrigan, then to Bryan, and adding, ‘Now, then, let’s see if, between the three of us, we can’t make a hole in this.’
ELEVEN
He ran up the path and, thinking the occasion warranted it, knocked on the front door, tested the handle and found it fastened.
He ran round to the back, glimpsed the trail of smoke from the chimney of the den, heard the shouts of several of the boys and, opening the back door, called, ‘Mother!’
The scullery was empty and when he went through to the living-room the fire was out.
‘Dad?’
He went to the stairs, called, waited, then went out to the garden.
His father’s bike was missing; his own and his brother’s were thrown against the fence.
He glanced out at the field; the sun was setting beyond a bank of cloud: a faint mistiness, interspersed with smoke, overhung the houses.
‘Alan?’
He heard someone shout, ‘Thy kid’s back, Ally.’
No one appeared from the den.
He went back in the house and closed the door.
He looked in the pantry; the Saturday’s shopping was arranged on the shelves, but not in a manner, he knew, which would have pleased his mother.
Returning to the living-room he sat by the fire.
He opened the book, glanced at the pictures, following the sequence through from the coloured frontispiece to the black-and-white drawing of a galleon, silhouetted, sailing into a sunset, at the back, then got up from the chair and took off his coat.
He went out to the garden again; the air was chill: avoiding the clay he climbed the fence and crossed over the field to the mouth of the den. Only as he ducked down to g
aze inside did a face peer out.
A moment later the face was replaced by that of his brother.
‘Where’s my mother?’
‘She’s gone to our Granny’s.’ His brother had changed back to his older clothes and wasn’t wearing his jacket: his face was blackened; a thin drift of smoke came up from the entrance as well as the chimney.
‘Where’s my dad?’
‘He went with her.’
‘What for?’
‘They went to show off.’
‘What about?’
‘The Corrigans. My dad came back. He got on his bike and went down to the pub.’
‘When’s she coming back?’
His brother shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea.’
He stepped back from the hole.
‘They’ve given me a present.’
‘What?’
‘A book.’
His brother’s face disappeared.
‘’Op it, Kipper,’ Barraclough said. ‘We don’t want any young ’uns here.’
A murmur of voices came from the darkness of the hole then someone called, ‘Gi’e o’er,’ then his brother’s voice called, ‘Has he gone, then, Cloughie?’
In addition to the smell of the wood smoke came the smell of cigarettes.
Bryan returned to the garden, climbed the fence, and went back inside the house.
He sat down once more in front of the fire, gazing at the ashes, rooting at them finally with the poker and, finding no glow, sat back again.
He looked at the clock.
Beside it, propped up, was a sheet of paper.
On it, in his father’s writing, was printed, ‘Gone out. Back soon. Dad.’
He turned on the wireless; he was still listening to it when the back door opened and his brother came in.
‘Are they back?’
Bryan shook his head.
‘Have you let the fire out?’
‘It was out already.’
His brother’s hands were grimy, his face black; his shoes and his stockings, his knees and his elbows, his trousers and his pullover, were covered in mud.
‘They said to keep it in.’
His brother poked the ashes and added, ‘I’d better light it,’ then, glancing up, he asked, ‘Is that the book they give you?’
He took it from him, turning the pages.
‘You’ll mucky it.’
A Prodigal Child Page 15