A Prodigal Child

by Storey, David;

  ‘Have you heard that, Bryan?’

  An exercise book had been placed on his desk: across his shoulder he felt the pressure of Miss Mitchell’s hand.

  ‘What did I say?’

  ‘Page nine.’

  ‘You haven’t looked at it,’ she said.

  ‘No, Miss Mitchell.’

  ‘I often wonder if you’re with us half the time.’

  Miss Mitchell seldom lost her temper; her pale-blue eyes would widen with alarm if something were done which she disliked: the alarm was not her own but reflected the apprehension she felt on behalf of any child who might have done something to displease her.

  This look of alarm she extended to Bryan.

  ‘You appear to be paying attention and gazing at me like everyone else, but I feel, for most of the time, your thoughts are not in this room at all.’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’

  ‘Perhaps you could tell me where they go to?’

  Bryan shook his head.

  ‘Are there pirates?’

  ‘No, Miss.’

  ‘Brigands?’

  He shook his head again.

  ‘Soldiers and aeroplanes?’

  ‘No, Miss.’

  ‘Ships and tanks?’

  ‘No.’

  At this catalogue of distractions the class had laughed.

  ‘Where, then? Where,’ she inquired, ‘does your imagination wander?’

  ‘All over.’

  ‘All over where, Bryan?’

  ‘The countryside, Miss Mitchell.’

  ‘What do you see in the countryside?’ she asked.

  ‘A house.’

  ‘A house in the countryside.’ She glanced at the class. ‘What sort of house?’

  ‘A large one.’

  ‘A large one.’ Her eyes expanded. ‘Who lives there?’

  ‘A woman.’

  ‘A woman.’

  ‘And a man.’

  ‘A man and a woman.’

  ‘They haven’t any children.’

  ‘Haven’t they?’

  ‘They decide,’ he said, ‘to have one.’

  ‘Do they have one?’

  ‘They go to a poor family who haven’t any money and ask for one of theirs.’

  ‘Do they get one?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you know anyone like that?’ Miss Mitchell asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  Miss Mitchell’s back was turned towards the class and she was gazing down at him directly.

  ‘Perhaps tomorrow, or the day after, Bryan,’ she said, ‘you can tell me more about it.’

  ‘There isn’t anything else to tell,’ he said.

  ‘I see.’

  Still she gazed down.

  ‘If there’s anything troubling you,’ she added, ‘you can always come and tell me.’

  Miss Mitchell taught in the Sunday School, across the road, and, although she wasn’t his teacher on the Sunday afternoon, she superintended the singing of the hymns and spoke the prayers, and read the lessons before the children broke up into separate groups.

  ‘Meanwhile,’ she concluded, ‘you’d better get out your pen and pencil.’

  He looked at the date inscribed on the board, and at the heading to be given to the work and, opening his desk, took out his book.

  Through the window he could see the lane which wound across the fields and, where the land dipped down across the valley, the darkness of the woods at Feltham.

  ‘Bryan?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Mitchell?’

  ‘Are you dreaming again?’

  ‘No, Miss Mitchell,’ and, stooping over the desk and opening his book, he dipped his pen in the ink and set to work.

  ‘It puts us into a pickle as much as ought,’ his father said.

  ‘It’s what I told him,’ his mother said, yet she didn’t indicate whether the ‘him’ she referred to was Alan or Bryan. The content of their discussion that morning had been repeated by his mother as his father was about to have his tea, the letter and its envelope laid on the cloth before him.

  ‘I don’t think she’s thought about it,’ his father said.

  ‘She can’t have.’ His mother nodded her head.

  Alan sat upright on a chair beside the fire, gazing at his father with a disinterested look.

  ‘Peterson’s.’ His father shook his head.

  ‘I’ve heard of one or two who have gone there,’ his mother said.

  ‘Who?’ his father said.

  ‘Chatterton’s, for one.’ She mentioned the family-owned engineering works at which Mr Morley’s father and his brothers at one time had worked. ‘They had two sons at Peterson’s.’

  ‘So you can see how ridiculous it is,’ his father said. ‘The fees alone come to more than I could earn in a year.’

  ‘We wouldn’t be paying,’ his mother said.

  ‘Would you let someone else pay for the education of your son?’ his father asked.

  His mother glanced away. ‘What’s best for Bryan is what we have to think about,’ she said.

  ‘What’s best for Bryan is for him to believe, because it happens to be true, that he has been brought up by parents who love him, and Alan, too,’ his father said. ‘And to believe that they are parents who don’t go back on their word.’

  Bryan was standing in front of the fire and, although Alan periodically drew him aside, indicating he was shielding the heat from the room, because of his agitation he invariably drifted back again, gazing over at his father, examining each gesture he made with his hand as he picked up the letter and, having read it a fourth time, put it down again.

  ‘The principle,’ his mother said, ‘is to bring him up the best way possible. And the best way possible is to equip him to live his life when we aren’t here any more. The same with Alan. If somebody came along and gave Alan a chance like that we’d not think twice about it.’

  His father glanced at Alan.

  ‘We’d think,’ his mother continued, ‘how we could do the best for Bryan.’

  ‘I’d have thought we’d do the same for both of them,’ his father said.

  ‘We would.’

  ‘How could we do the same for both if one’s got a chance the other hasn’t?’

  ‘They’re not going to come out equal, anyway,’ his mother said. ‘They’ve different natures. One will do one thing, and the other,’ she continued, ‘will do another.’

  ‘We’ll give one a chance that the other can’t have?’ his father inquired.

  ‘We’ll give them an equal chance,’ his mother said. ‘We can’t stop a chance that comes from somewhere else.’

  ‘It’s not the Corrigans’ responsibility to bring up our children.’

  ‘It’s our responsibility,’ his mother said.

  His father, having started his tea, had now abandoned it: he was waiting, Bryan assumed, for his mother to decide it for him.

  ‘And he’ll go to live at Chevet?’ he asked.

  ‘He’ll live here at weekends,’ his mother said. ‘And holidays, too,’ she added.

  ‘You think he ought to go?’

  ‘I’m not saying he ought to go,’ she said. ‘All I’m saying is there’s another side to the question.’

  ‘We don’t even know the Corrigans,’ his father said.

  ‘We’ve seen them once or twice.’

  ‘How much knowing is that?’

  ‘She’s Spencer’s sister,’ his mother said.

  ‘And think how much you respect Mr Spencer.’

  ‘I don’t say that he treats you right, though he has at times in the past, as you know yourself, as well as Mrs Spencer,’ his mother said. ‘He’s always pulled round when the going got rough. There’s no farmer round here who’s a better employer. Which isn’t saying much, I know, but it happens to be true. He’s fair according to his lights. Even if you don’t happen to agree,’ his mother continued, ‘that his lights are anything to write home about.’ She picked up the letter. ‘He’s even invited
Bryan over. They’ve taken him to the pictures. I’d never see him doing the same for Jack Woolgar’s boy, or Finnegan’s, and they’ve both been there for as long as you have.’ She glanced at Bryan. ‘How’s he going to thank us later when he comes up with a dead-end job?’

  His father glanced at Alan who, in turn, glanced at his mother, and kicked his heel at the rug.

  ‘In your opinion he should go,’ his father said, when it seemed his mother had nothing more to add.

  ‘We have to consider what’s best for Bryan.’ She glanced at Alan herself, ‘What do you think, Alan?’

  ‘He ought to go.’

  ‘Should he?’ his father said.

  ‘He’d be daft not to,’ Alan said.

  His brother sat upright, watching his father intently.

  ‘Wouldn’t you feel your nose put out wi’ having a brother at Peterson’s?’ his father asked.

  His brother shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t want to go,’ he said. ‘Not even if they asked me.’

  His father waited.

  ‘You might regret it later, Alan.’

  ‘I shouldn’t. There’s nought for me at Peterson’s, fro’ what I reckon.’

  ‘You can’t see it from our angle,’ his father said, stooping from the table.

  ‘I’m saying what I think. I reckon there’s nought theer, Dad, for me, whereas I can see summat theer for Bryan.’

  ‘She says they specialize in art. Which is why they brought it to our attention,’ his mother said, taking up the letter. ‘“Bryan’s particular talent would be nourished in a sympathetic environment.”’ She glanced at his father before continuing. ‘“Sensitivity is something that can easily be destroyed by an environment which is not receptive to it.”’

  ‘He’s not sensitive,’ his father said.

  ‘Other people think so,’ his mother said.

  ‘There are lots of sensitive people who’ve had a harder life,’ his father said.

  ‘So you want him to do without this opportunity. You want him to give it up?’ his mother said.

  ‘I’m thinking about fairness,’ his father said, so vehemently that his mother looked away. ‘What do’st thy think, Bryan?’ he added.

  ‘I’d like to go,’ he said.

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘I can always come back at weekends.’

  ‘Better-off children of his age go to boarding-school,’ his mother said. ‘He wouldn’t even be away for more than five nights.’

  ‘You want to leave us?’ his father said.

  ‘I wouldn’t be leaving,’ Bryan said.

  ‘It’s a chance in a million,’ his mother said. ‘There’s everything out there for him to work for. There’s nothing for him here. Why,’ she continued, despite his father turning away, ‘if someone came along and said, “I can turn Alan into a champion boxer but he’ll have to come and live in my gymnasium,” you’d say, “Go ahead, grab your chance! You’ll not have another like it!” And he’d go. I know he would. And with Bryan: I know you’d say the same.’

  ‘You want to go to the Corrigans’?’ his father asked.

  ‘I’d like to go to Peterson’s,’ Bryan said.

  ‘Aren’t you happy living at home?’

  ‘I am,’ he said.

  ‘Why do you want to leave?’

  ‘I’m not leaving,’ Bryan said.

  ‘He could come back each Friday night,’ his mother said. ‘And go back Monday morning.’

  ‘He could never wear his uniform round here,’ his father said. ‘He’d have to stay five nights at least.’

  ‘We’d work something out,’ his mother said. ‘It’d be no different than a lot of families who send their children to school for three months at a time. Why, there were the Aitchisons in Hasleden Street who came into money and sent their children away to school and none of them were older than Bryan.’

  His father stood up.

  ‘Have you decided to send him?’ he asked, going to the door as if the argument were now resolved and he couldn’t delay his going any longer.

  ‘We have,’ his mother said.

  ‘In that case,’ his father said, ‘we’ll do what we always do: make the best on it we can.’

  He closed the door behind him.

  ‘I knew he’d want the opposite,’ his mother said as the sound of his father’s footsteps came from the stairs. ‘If he knew I’d be against it he’d be for it. He’ll soon get over it,’ she added, taking up the letter, re-reading it then laying it down once more before smiling and gazing down at Bryan as he started to eat his tea.

  THIRTEEN

  Throughout the journey she chatted to his father, as well as to Mr Corrigan, the two men sitting before them, the tall figure of Mr Corrigan and the shorter figure of his father silhouetted against the lightness of the road ahead.

  His father sat upright, nodding, half-turning but never actually glancing round, looking up once only, at Mrs Corrigan’s indication, as the car turned into the drive, the gates of which were already open, and the house was revealed, beyond the copse of trees, at the summit of the rise.

  As the car drew up, the front door of the house was opened and the white-aproned figure of Mrs Meredith appeared.

  His father got out, uncertain at first how to release the door.

  ‘Here we are, Rose,’ Mrs Corrigan called. ‘All safe and sound,’ and introduced his father.

  Unsure of Mrs Meredith’s function, his father extended his hand.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, we’ll look after him, Mr Morley,’ Mrs Meredith said. ‘We’ll keep an eye on him, don’t worry.’

  Bryan, in getting out of the car, had gone round to the boot but his father, stepping past him, took his case and, turning, fresh-faced, to the house, gazed up at it and said, ‘This is a grand place, Bryan.’

  ‘Look at the view, Mr Morley.’ Mrs Corrigan took his arm and indicated the area beyond the garden which dipped down to the narrow valley and, beyond, expanded to a broadening vista of the river and the slope of the hills above the town. ‘You can see to Spinney Top. It’s not so far away, after all,’ she added and, turning him to the door, she called, ‘Let’s see if Bryan’s room is ready.’

  ‘All ready,’ Mrs Meredith said, indicating to his father that he might go ahead.

  They entered the hall and Mrs Corrigan inquired, ‘Shall we have tea first, or go upstairs?’

  ‘Oh, go up and look, Mrs Corrigan,’ Mrs Meredith said. ‘I’m sure Mr Morley is dying to see it.’

  ‘Nay, I know he’s in good hands,’ his father said.

  He had scarcely glanced at Bryan, and not once had he looked at him directly; now he went ahead, the suitcase in his hand.

  Bryan, his hand held by Mrs Corrigan, followed.

  At the top of the stairs Mrs Meredith went ahead, opening the guest-room then stepping aside for his father to go in before her.

  ‘This is a grand room,’ his father said as Bryan and Mrs Corrigan, followed by Mrs Meredith, entered.

  ‘Perhaps we should leave the two of you together,’ Mrs Corrigan said, glancing at his father and then at Bryan. ‘Say your farewells, though it shan’t be for long.’

  ‘Oh, no time at all,’ his father said.

  Mrs Corrigan went out, followed by Mrs Meredith who, nodding at Bryan, closed the door.

  ‘It’s a grand room, Bryan,’ his father said.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘As cosy as ought.’

  His father crossed to the window.

  ‘Who lives in that house?’ He indicated the roof of the adjacent house above the clump of trees at the end of the garden.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Bryan said.

  ‘It’s bigger than this.’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘What do’st think to it?’ he gestured round.

  ‘I like it.’

  ‘Thy’s seen the room afore?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Smaller pieces of furniture had been added to it; an ele
ctric fire stood in the yellow-tiled hearth; a lamp had been placed on the bedside table; the bed had been covered by an eiderdown. Fresh curtains, with a floral design, had been draped at the window.

  ‘By go,’ his father said, ‘it’s grand,’ gazing at the plaster surrounds which circuited the ceiling. ‘Do’st want to unpack?’

  ‘I’ll do it later.’

  His father was wearing his only suit; his face gleamed from where he’d shaved, his hair greased down and combed, leaving a stark white line at the parting.

  ‘Is there ought else you want?’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘I hope you’ll make the best of it.’ His father, for the first time, glanced at him directly.

  ‘I shall.’

  ‘We’re alus theer. You can come home as often as you like,’ he added.

  ‘I shall.’

  ‘Shall I give you a kiss?’

  He didn’t wait for an answer but stooped, grasped his shoulder, and kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘I’d better be getting back.’

  He turned to the door.

  ‘There’s nought else I can do?’

  ‘No,’ Bryan said.

  ‘It’s what you wanted?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Right.’ His father clapped his hands.

  Downstairs Mrs Corrigan came out from the sitting-room at the back of the house and his father called, ‘I’ll be getting back, then, Mrs Corrigan, if that’s all right.’

  ‘Oh, but you’ll have some tea, Mr Morley,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘Mrs Meredith’s made it specially.’

  ‘Nay, I’d better be getting back,’ his father said. ‘Mrs Morley wa’re a bit upset afore I left.’

  ‘Well,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘I hope we’ll see you soon.’

  ‘Oh, you shall,’ his father said, and added, ‘We appreciate very much the chance you’re giving Bryan.’

  ‘We’re only too glad to help. It’s to our benefit as much as Bryan’s.’

  His father went directly to the front door which, after fumbling with the latch, he opened himself.

  Mrs Meredith emerged from the kitchen.

  ‘Aren’t you staying for tea, Mr Morley?’ she asked.