A Prodigal Child

by Storey, David;

  ‘I’d better get back, Missis,’ his father said from the open door. ‘I think Bryan’ll make a hole in it,’ he added.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he will,’ Mrs Meredith said, coming forward and, together with Bryan and Mrs Corrigan, gazing down to where his father, the door held for him by Mr Corrigan, was getting into the car.

  ‘See you soon, Bryan,’ Mr Corrigan said as he got in behind the wheel and, as the car dipped down the drive, his father’s hand appeared, waving from the window.

  ‘What do you think to it?’ Mrs Corrigan said.

  She opened the wardrobe door.

  Inside were several sections of wood secured by straps and wooden wedges.

  ‘If you unfasten the straps and release the screws you have a collapsible easel.’

  On the floor, beside it, lay a wooden box.

  Metal clasps secured the lid.

  ‘Oil paints,’ Mrs Corrigan said, ‘have you ever tried them?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘You can use the lumber-room to paint in.’

  She indicated a rug beside the bed.

  ‘I want you to keep it tidy.’

  ‘I shall,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sure it’s what you’re used to. You can try your easel out, if you like.’

  He released the canvas straps and unfolded the wood: Mrs Corrigan held one end, he arranged the other.

  ‘At the back of the wardrobe, if you look, there’s a further surprise.’

  He drew out a paper parcel; unfolding it he extracted a canvas mounted on a stretcher, and several pieces of board with canvas stretched across.

  ‘The boards are to practise on, and the canvas to use when you feel more confident,’ she added.

  ‘Mrs Corrigan,’ came Mrs Meredith’s voice. ‘Do you want tea now or later?’

  ‘Oh, we’ll come down now, Rose,’ Mrs Corrigan said, and added, ‘I’m sure that Bryan is hungry.’

  And downstairs, sitting by the fire, with the tea arranged on a tray between them, she said, ‘I have a great respect for your parents, but a change of clothes is essential. Our next appointment is to go into town.’

  She watched him eat.

  ‘I hope you’re going to be happy, Bryan.’

  ‘I will be,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t look happy at present.’

  ‘I feel it,’ he said.

  ‘You’re missing home.’

  ‘Not much,’ he said.

  ‘Oh dear. I hope it’s going to work,’ she said. ‘Let’s do something jolly.’

  She led him to the piano, raised its lid and arranged several sheets of music on the stand above the keyboard.

  She began to play.

  ‘There!’

  She glanced up at him and smiled.

  ‘Can you sing?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Let’s try something together.’

  She rearranged the music, turned a final sheet then, stabbing it with her finger, said, ‘Can you see the words?’

  He read the first line out.

  ‘I’ll play the tune. We’ll sing together.’

  She played the music through, turning the pages, indicating the words; then, with a flourish, she added, ‘When I say “three”.’

  Occasionally Mrs Meredith’s voice called from the hall outside; at each response Mrs Corrigan would nod her head and, raising her own voice, indicate that Bryan should join in, too.

  ‘How about a jolly one?’

  ‘Wasn’t that one jolly?’

  ‘This is jollier.’

  Her fingers raced across the keys, her shoulders swelling: she sang the first verse through herself.

  ‘When I say “three”.’

  Answering responses came from the hall outside.

  ‘That was a good one!’

  She finished with a flourish; her hands flew up: she replaced the sheets of music on the stand, selected a new song, examined it closely then, practising the notes, she added, ‘This is even better!’

  Some time later Mr Corrigan appeared at the door: the grey-haired figure stooped with his head inside and called as they came to the end of a song. ‘What a jolly sound to come in to,’ adding, ‘Supper’s ready whenever you like.’

  ‘Come and join us!’ Mrs Corrigan said.

  ‘Oh, I’ll only spoil it,’ Mr Corrigan said, still standing at the door.

  ‘We don’t mind,’ Mrs Corrigan said, running her hands across the keys, and added, ‘The more the merrier for Bryan and me!’

  Mr Corrigan came inside: a flower had been added to his buttonhole.

  ‘Did Bryan’s father get back all right?’

  ‘Safe and sound.’ He stooped from his vast height and examined the music. ‘“The Centipede”,’ he said. ‘My favourite. “So many feet, and so many toes, that everyone hears him, wherever he goes!”’ He laughed, glancing down at Bryan, and added, ‘Ready!’

  By the light of the fire they sang songs which only Mr and Mrs Corrigan knew; the room darkened: Bryan watched the movement of her hands and endured the strange intimacy which came from the movement of her arm as, in the darkness, she drew herself more closely to him.

  ‘Everything to order?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He was already in bed.

  From below came the sound of Mrs Meredith’s voice and the additional sound, a moment later, of her feet as she came upstairs.

  When a knock came on the door Mrs Corrigan called, ‘Come in, Rose, he isn’t sleeping,’ and Mrs Meredith put her gaunt-featured face inside and said, ‘All tucked up and cosy?’

  ‘I think so, Rose. I was just,’ Mrs Corrigan added, ‘kissing him good night.’

  ‘We don’t want to spoil him, do we?’ Mrs Meredith said, advancing into the room herself.

  ‘I shan’t spoil him, Rose.’ She stooped towards him and, for Mrs Meredith’s benefit, kissed his cheek.

  ‘I’ll say good night, too,’ Mrs Meredith said. ‘I hope dinner was all you wanted.’

  ‘Perfect, Rose,’ Mrs Corrigan said, smiling at Bryan and squeezing his hand.

  ‘Mr Corrigan has said he’ll run me home.’ She kissed Bryan’s cheek. ‘You won’t mind an old woman kissing you good night,’ she added.

  ‘You’re not old, Rose!’ Mrs Corrigan laughed.

  ‘Not really. Only feel it,’ and, returning to the door, she added, ‘See you tomorrow.’

  Mrs Corrigan drew up his quilt.

  The light went out.

  The door was left ajar.

  Later, the front door downstairs was opened and he heard, once more, the sound of Mr Corrigan’s voice.

  ‘Everything all right, Fay?’

  ‘All right, Harold,’ came Mrs Corrigan’s cheerful answer.

  ‘We’ll go to Bennett’s first,’ she said, pausing by a nearby window, examining the draped figures displayed inside and adding, ‘Do you think the brown would suit me? Perhaps, if you wouldn’t mind, I could try it on.’

  When they entered the shop an assistant glanced at Mrs Corrigan, glanced at her again, and called, ‘Why, Mrs Corrigan, I didn’t know you.’

  ‘Why on earth not?’ Mrs Corrigan laughed.

  ‘You look so young,’ the woman said. ‘Younger than I’ve ever seen you.’

  Having disappeared behind a counter she returned with a costume.

  The costume was followed by a dress, the dress by a skirt. On each occasion Mrs Corrigan emerged from the curtained-off alcove within which she tried on each garment, she glanced across Her shoulder and called, ‘What do you think?’ adding to the assistant, ‘He is, I might tell you, my severest critic.’

  The assistant smiled; other clothes were brought: a bill was produced. ‘I shall ask Mr Corrigan to call this evening,’ Mrs Corrigan said and, after the assistant had followed them to the door where, blinking, they re-emerged in the morning light, she added, ‘Your turn now, I think.’

  Three plate-glass windows gave access to Bennett’s shop, the two entrances placed on either side of
a central window. As in the previous shop, an assistant came directly out from behind a counter, complimented Mrs Corrigan on her appearance and, having been introduced to Bryan, shook his hand. Measurements were taken; a suit was produced: alterations were suggested. He tried on a blazer; stockings and shirts were laid on a counter; a tie was selected. Shoes were bought. ‘Mr Corrigan will call before this evening,’ Mrs Corrigan said and, outside the shop, she added, ‘How about paying Mr Corrigan a visit?’

  As they entered the bow-windowed shop a figure detached itself from a group of assistants waiting by the door.

  ‘Mrs Corrigan?’ the figure said, to which Mrs Corrigan inquired, ‘Is Mr Corrigan in?’

  ‘He is, Mrs Corrigan,’ the figure said and, bowing, led the way to a flight of stairs.

  Halfway up, Mrs Corrigan straightened Bryan’s collar, ran her hand across his hair, and asked, ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘If you’d rather we didn’t go up you only have to say.’

  ‘I want to,’ he said.

  ‘Well,’ she said, glancing up the stairs. ‘Try and look happy.’

  ‘I am,’ he said.

  ‘In that case,’ she said, ‘happiness with you must look like misery to most other people.’

  She laughed; from behind a glass-panelled door at the top of the stairs came the sound of Mr Corrigan’s voice.

  ‘Mrs Corrigan to see you, Mr Corrigan,’ the assistant said, thrusting his head inside.

  ‘Come in, Fay,’ Mr Corrigan said, emerging from behind a desk. ‘And come in, Bryan.’ He shook Bryan’s hand and, as the door closed behind them, stooped to Mrs Corrigan and kissed her cheek. ‘What a surprise.’

  ‘We’ve just been shopping,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘If you’ll call at Bennett’s and Charlesworth’s before you come home this evening.’

  ‘I shall.’ Mr Corrigan held out a chair and indicated that Bryan should take a second.

  The office looked out to a tiny yard; a van, with ‘Corrigan and Son’ painted on the side, was visible through an open window.

  Their two chairs were drawn up in front of the desk.

  ‘Coffee?’ Mr Corrigan inquired.

  ‘Oh, we’ll have coffee out, Harold,’ Mrs Corrigan said.

  She glanced at Bryan and smiled.

  ‘Or tea, if you’d like,’ Mr Corrigan added.

  ‘Oh, we’ll have it out,’ Mrs Corrigan said again, and added, ‘I hope you’ll like his clothes.’

  ‘I’m sure I shall.’ Mr Corrigan smiled. ‘His Peterson’s uniform.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I can’t wait to see it.’

  Mr Corrigan clasped his hands; his desk was littered with files: a telephone and a calendar occupied one corner and, mounted in a silver frame – and almost hidden amongst the files – a photograph of Mrs Corrigan: she was dressed in a light-coloured suit and was sitting formally, half-turned towards the camera, in a high-backed chair: a look of extraordinary sadness characterized her features.

  ‘Swainley show you up?’ Mr Corrigan added.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Never misses a turn.’

  ‘He doesn’t.’

  A door on the opposite side of the office opened.

  A woman, with short, tawny-coloured hair, appeared; she was wearing a blouse, a dark skirt and carried a sheaf of papers in one hand and a handbag in the other.

  ‘I didn’t know you were busy, Mr Corrigan,’ she said, and glanced at Bryan.

  ‘Come in, Clare,’ Mr Corrigan said. ‘Meet Bryan.’

  The woman was younger than Mrs Corrigan, although she wore more make-up. ‘Hello, Bryan,’ she said, and added, ‘Is he looking for a job?’

  ‘He’s here to be introduced,’ Mr Corrigan said and, taking the papers from the woman, added, ‘By now he’s met so many he must be feeling confused.’

  Bryan stood up.

  ‘This is Miss Watkinson, Bryan,’ Mr Corrigan continued. ‘Miss Watkinson is my secretary, and Mr Swainley, whom you’ve met already, is the manager of the shop.’

  ‘Tea or coffee?’ Miss Watkinson said, shaking Bryan’s hand.

  ‘Neither, Clare,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘We’ve already been invited but I’m taking Bryan to Fraser’s.’

  ‘That’s a nice place,’ Miss Watkinson said. ‘Do sit down,’ she added to Bryan.

  He indicated the chair, however, and stepped aside.

  ‘Oh, secretaries don’t sit down,’ she said. ‘They have to work.’

  Mr Corrigan laughed.

  ‘Not all the time,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ Miss Watkinson said, ‘but most of it.’ She glanced at Mrs Corrigan intently. ‘You’re looking very well, Mrs Corrigan.’

  ‘Thank you, Clare.’

  ‘I’ve never seen you look more lovely.’

  ‘I’ve never felt so well,’ Mrs Corrigan said.

  ‘Not for a long time, Clare.’ Mr Corrigan glanced from his secretary to his wife then back to his secretary again.

  ‘How long is Bryan to be with us?’ Miss Watkinson said, the chair still empty between them. ‘What wonderful manners he’s got.’

  ‘He’s about to attend,’ Mrs Corrigan said, ‘Peterson’s School, and is staying with us during term-time.’

  ‘That’s a grand school,’ Miss Watkinson said. ‘He’ll have to have his brains screwed in to stick in there.’

  ‘Was it anything important, Clare?’ Mr Corrigan asked, resuming his place behind the desk.

  ‘I’ll come back later.’ Miss Watkinson smiled at Bryan and then at Mrs Corrigan and, returning to the door, she added, ‘See you again, no doubt,’ closing it behind her.

  ‘Would you like to see the shop, Bryan?’ Mr Corrigan said.

  ‘We’ll see it another day, Harold.’

  Mrs Corrigan stood up.

  ‘What about the workshop?’

  ‘We’ll see that another day, too.’

  Something about Mr Corrigan’s behaviour had suddenly displeased her.

  ‘Drop in any time,’ Mr Corrigan said.

  ‘We shall.’

  Mr Corrigan got up and opened the door and, moments later, at the entrance to the shop, he asked, ‘Is there anything more you’d like me to do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Mrs Corrigan said.

  ‘I can drive you home if you like,’ he said.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘After you’ve been to the Fraser Café.’

  ‘We may not go to Fraser’s. I’d like some fresh air,’ Mrs Corrigan said.

  Already she was moving off and Mr Corrigan, after gazing after her, called, ‘I shan’t forget Charlesworth’s and Bennett’s,’ gazed after her a moment longer, waved, and disappeared inside the door.

  ‘Don’t you like the shop?’ Bryan asked.

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t dislike it, Bryan,’ she said. ‘But,’ she continued, ‘I don’t like it as much as Mr Corrigan. At least, not enough to indulge myself.’

  ‘Is looking at the shop indulgence?’ he said.

  ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘But at the moment we have better things to do.’

  Intermittently, passing a shop window, he caught a glimpse of Mrs Corrigan’s reflection – a pale figure, wearing a lilac suit and a lilac hat, her animated face hidden beneath its brim – and thought, ‘What on earth made her change her mind?’ and as they threaded through the crowds and came to the market with its confusion of stalls and its even more thickly-congested pavements, and he caught sight of several children moving to and fro in the company of their parents, he reflected, ‘If it wasn’t that I’d seen it happen I’d have thought the two of us were mad,’ and yet, a moment later, he was consoling himself with the thought, ‘All this is planned: it was bound to happen. She has no more say in it than I have.’

  They were walking aimlessly through the market when, some distance ahead, he caught sight of his mother; she was standing at a stall, feeling in
her purse, examining its contents and, a moment later, glancing up at the stall itself.

  He couldn’t help but compare her shabbily-coated figure with that of the woman by his side – her hand clasping his, if anything, more tightly – and he decided in that instant not to point his mother out, turning Mrs Corrigan across the street and into a thoroughfare which led, by a series of yards, back to the road from which they’d come.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘Nowhere,’ he said.

  ‘We’re walking in circles.’

  She probably wouldn’t have recognized his mother, he thought, even if his mother had been pointed out. He even speculated on the possibility that his mother might have seen him – that, moments before he’d glimpsed her himself, she had turned aside and busied herself with her purse in order to avoid him. If anything, that glimpse of the shabbily-coated figure with its familiar stoop and the anxious, bird-like cocking of its head, reassured him that, even if there had been something to unite them in the past, there was nothing now.

  ‘I saw someone I knew.’

  ‘Who?’

  Mrs Corrigan’s regular habit, in walking past a shop, was to examine her reflection; having returned to the main road that ran below the church, and having emerged into it some distance below Mr Corrigan’s shop, she paid no attention whatsoever either to the windows or – another medium by which she judged the effect of her appearance – to the other passers-by, but walked with her eyes fixed firmly ahead, her look, if anything, abstracted.

  ‘My mother.’

  She released his hand.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the market.’

  ‘Did she see you?’

  ‘No.’

  She glanced behind.

  ‘Why didn’t you stop?’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d want to meet her.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She glanced behind her again.

  ‘I didn’t want to talk to her.’

  ‘I see.’

  Grasping his hand more firmly, they continued in the same direction; they passed Bennett’s, and the couturier’s, passed the Regal Cinema, and continued down the road to the river.

  ‘I have a confession to make as well.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It wasn’t the shop I didn’t like.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘Someone there.’