The laughter broke out more loudly.
‘If Parkinson will sit up we’ll all get down to work,’ the teacher said, glancing round the room, and adding, ‘Everyone suitably frightened, are they?’ glancing down at Bryan, smiling, and calling, ‘When I say “three” take out your pens. One, two,’ pausing, his hand raised, ‘two and one half, two and three-quarters, two and seven-eighths, two and fifteen-sixteenths, two and thirty-one thirty-seconds, two and sixty-three sixty-fourths,’ and, beaming at the room in general, ‘two and one hundred and twenty-seven one hundred and twenty-eighths,’ and, finally, ‘three!’
‘Why did you come here if you didn’t have to?’ Parkinson said. He walked beside Bryan in the tarmacked yard, his hands in his pockets, his tall figure stooped, his freckled face turned down to watch his shoes. A tennis ball rose, bounced off the windowed wall of the school, fell back to the yard and was pursued, still bouncing, to a chorus of shouts.
‘I was invited to come here,’ Bryan said.
‘Who invited you?’
‘My aunt.’
‘Who’s she?’
‘Mrs Corrigan.’
‘Never heard of her.’
‘They own a shop in town.’
‘Oh, that Corrigan,’ Parkinson said.
‘Do you know them?’
‘I’ve seen the shop. My father gets most of his furniture there.’
‘Does Waterhouse really frighten you?’ Bryan asked.
Surprisingly, at a window overlooking the yard, the figure of Mr Corrigan was gazing down; a moment later it disappeared to be replaced by that of Mr Berresford.
‘We call him “Watty”,’ Parkinson said. ‘I once made him cry, as a matter of fact.’
‘How?’
‘I have my means.’
A tall, red-haired figure had come out from the glass-panelled door at the back of the school and stood for several seconds, picking a scab on its cheek, gazing down the flight of steps at the figures in the yard below: the tennis ball rose against the wall of the building, rattled a window, and came down again. The red-haired figure, after raising its arm, called, turned, and went back inside.
‘Have you a brother at Peterson’s?’ Bryan asked.
‘Clive.’
‘What’s your name?’ Bryan said.
‘Gordon.’
At the window overlooking the yard the figure of the headmaster had disappeared.
‘Why did your aunt send you,’ Parkinson said, ‘and not your parents?’
‘They haven’t any money,’ Bryan said.
Parkinson examined the toe of each shoe.
‘Why not?’
‘My father works on a farm,’ he said.
‘Which one?’
‘Spencer’s.’
Parkinson’s head came up. ‘My father knows Spencer.’
‘How does he know him?’
‘By way of business.’ The tennis ball passed by. Parkinson took a kick, missed, and, but for Bryan extending his hand, might have fallen.
‘Ronald!’ someone shouted.
‘Saunders!’
‘Victor!’
‘Who’s Ronald Saunders Victor?’ Bryan said.
‘Me.’
‘I thought you said your name was Gordon.’
‘My nickname. R.S.V.P.’ He nodded his head, kicked at the ground, and added, ‘Why did you come here if you didn’t have to?’
‘I wanted to come here,’ Bryan said.
‘If I had a choice I wouldn’t.’ Parkinson flung out his hand. ‘I don’t often come, in any case,’ he added.
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t like it.’
‘Where do you go?’
‘Reggie’s.’
‘What’s Reggie’s?’ Bryan asked.
‘Reggie’s is Reggie’s,’ Parkinson said. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of it?’
‘I haven’t.’
‘I’ll take you one day.’
‘Aren’t you ever found out?’
‘They don’t mind.’
‘Why not?’
‘My wadjers wanted me to come so here I come and here I stay and here I take a day off whenever I like.’
‘What’s a wadjer?’ Bryan asked.
‘A wadjer,’ Parkinson said, ‘is a parent. Don’t tell me you don’t know what a wadjer is?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘R.S.V.P.,’ came a shout behind.
‘Rotters,’ Parkinson called across his shoulder.
‘Morley moccasins,’ came another shout.
‘That’ll be your nickname,’ Parkinson said.
‘Mocky,’ came a further shout.
‘That’ll be the one they’ve chosen.’
‘Why’s that?’ Bryan said, glancing at the figures cascading across the yard behind.
‘Don’t ask me,’ Parkinson said. ‘I’ve only been here three years, and I know less about the place than when I started.’
‘I enjoyed it,’ Bryan said.
She took his arm and, glancing to the main entrance of the school – a metal gate which led round to the yard at the back – she said, ‘I set off over an hour ago and have been walking up and down for the past ten minutes.’
She’d been standing across the cobbled street, adjacent to the door of the building opposite which, like the entrance to the school itself, was approached by a flight of steps, lined by metal railings – and to the pavement end of which was attached a bracketed gas lamp: it was beneath the lamps, palely illuminated by their yellow glow, that she’d been waiting.
‘You didn’t have to wait,’ he said.
She laughed. ‘If I hadn’t have decided to meet you I couldn’t have got through the day,’ she said.
Mr Waterhouse came out from the front door of the building, drew a white raincoat about his stocky figure and, glancing across at Bryan and then at Mrs Corrigan, came quickly down the steps, raised a hat in Mrs Corrigan’s direction, and set off down the street towards the thoroughfare at the opposite end.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Mr Waterhouse glanced back, nodded, raised his hat, and hurried on.
‘He’s my teacher.’
‘He shows a great interest in you,’ she said and tightened the grip on his arm.
‘In you,’ he said.
She laughed. ‘I’m sure it must be you.’ Yet even as she spoke Mr Waterhouse glanced round again, stumbled against a flagstone, retrieved his balance, drew his white raincoat more closely about him, glanced back once more, then, breaking into a run, disappeared around the corner.
‘What on earth have you said to him?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You must have said something, Bryan.’
She was wearing a light-brown hat and, beneath the hat, a costume.
‘Mr Corrigan came at playtime,’ Bryan said.
‘I wish you’d call him Uncle.’
‘Uncle came at playtime.’
‘He rang me up to say he’d been across to see how well you’d settled.’
‘Why?’
‘I asked him to.’ She drew him across the street. ‘I don’t suppose,’ she said, ‘you’ve thought of me all day.’
‘I have.’
She brushed back his hair, and said, ‘I thought we’d go to Fraser’s.’
‘Why Fraser’s?’
‘I thought we’d celebrate.’
A rush of voices came from the opposite pavement.
‘I’m glad you came,’ Bryan said.
‘Are you?’
‘I’d have been unhappy if you hadn’t.’
‘Well,’ she said. She glanced about her. ‘That’s nice,’ and, clasping his hand more firmly, led him down the street.
The interior of the shop was lit by lamps.
Halfway up a flight of steps she paused at a mirror, examined her make-up, then her hat, then, glancing at Bryan, smiling, she said, ‘You needn’t look so scared.’ She laughed, turned to the remaining flight of stairs, took his arm, glanced ba
ck at the mirror, in which – wanly, grim-visaged – he caught a glimpse of his own dark eyes, spectral, expanded, seemingly distended, and added, ‘Nothing’s as bad as it seems.’
Numerous tables, the majority of them occupied by women, heavily coated and brightly hatted, stretched across a carpeted interior illuminated, from the centre of the ceiling, by a dome of coloured glass and, from the opposite end, by several plate-glass windows across one of which, in an arc, reversed, was printed, in gold, the one word ‘Fraser’s’. A hand was waved, Mrs Corrigan called out, called out a second time and, not pausing in her progress, crossed to where a waitress in a black dress and a small white apron was standing at a table recently vacated. ‘Thank you, Phyl,’ she said, and added, ‘This is Bryan. You’ll be seeing a lot of him in the future.’
‘Hello, Bryan,’ the woman said, her appearance not dissimilar to that of Miss Watkinson in Mr Corrigan’s office. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Cakes and tea, Phyl,’ Mrs Corrigan said, taking off her gloves. ‘It’s been his first day at Peterson’s,’ she added.
‘Then he will be hungry,’ the waitress said and, smiling down, in turn, at Bryan, called, ‘I shan’t be long,’ and disappeared across the room.
‘Phyl’s nice,’ Mrs Corrigan said, and added, ‘She worked at the shop and when she got married she only wanted a part-time job. She always saves me a table.’
His hand was clasped beneath the cloth.
‘Isn’t it cosy?’ Beneath his hand he could feel her skirt and, beneath her skirt, the smoothness of her stocking. ‘Most of my friends come here,’ she said and, as a woman in a brightly coloured hat called, ‘How are you, Fay?’ she added, ‘We could come here each Friday, at the end of the week, and celebrate, and probably on Mondays, too,’ turning, as the waitress reappeared, holding a tray, swinging between the tables, and asking, ‘I don’t suppose Peterson’s is very different from what you’re used to?’ and, once the food had been laid out and, with a smile at her and one at Bryan, the waitress had disappeared across the room, concluding, ‘The teachers, I imagine, are much the same?’
‘Peculiar,’ Bryan said.
‘How peculiar?’
‘They put on more of an act,’ he said. ‘On top of which the children are different.’
‘Because they’re boys,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘You’ve been used to girls as well until now.’ She clasped his hand more firmly. ‘And now,’ she concluded, ‘you’ve only got me.’
A moment later, after watching him eat, she said, ‘You’ve no regrets, I take it?’
‘None,’ he said.
‘You see how silly I am.’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Am I silly?’ She laughed.
‘Very.’
‘I hope not.’
‘At times.’
‘Can everyone see it?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘You’ll have to tell me if they can.’
She acknowledged several waves.
And later, before they left, several women, who had been on the point of leaving, came over to the table. ‘Bryan is my recent charge. It’s been his first day at Peterson’s,’ Mrs Corrigan explained.
‘That’s a good school,’ the majority said, shaking Bryan’s hand or, in one or two instances, clenching it tightly and asking, ‘How did it go?’
‘I enjoyed it,’ Bryan said, varying his responses by adding, ‘I think I’ll be happy,’ or, ‘I’m going to like it,’ implying by his look that his circumstances previous to his attendance at Peterson’s had not been all he might have wished for.
‘How charming he is,’ several of the women said, one of the older, more soberly attired turning to Mrs Corrigan and adding, ‘Is he adopted, Fay?’ Mrs Corrigan, flushing, glancing back and answering, ‘It’s far too early to say,’ laughing, still flushed, and nodding her head at a further remark, the woman turning, and calling, ‘See you do everything Mrs Corrigan asks!’
‘That went well,’ Mrs Corrigan said as they crossed the room, acknowledging several further inquiries, and introducing Bryan at two further tables, and on the stairs she added, ‘That didn’t frighten you, I take it?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘It frightened me. But then,’ she added, ‘I frighten easily,’ pausing at the entrance, gazing out at the street and calling, ‘It’s begun to rain. We’ll take a taxi,’ allowing him to precede her up the hill and to open the door of the first of the line of cars waiting in the Bull Ring and, in the process of climbing in, concluding, taking Bryan’s arm, ‘I think we can tell Mr Corrigan that the day, as a whole, has been a huge success.’
FIFTEEN
‘Is it better than Stainforth?’ His brother’s head was cowled within the blankets.
‘Different,’ Bryan said.
‘How different?’
‘All the teachers are men.’
‘It’s changed your voice.’
‘How?’
‘It’s posh.’
From below came the murmur of his parents’ voices and the occasional rooting of the poker against the fire.
‘How is it posh?’
‘It’s smarter.’
‘How smart?’
‘A lot.’ The blankets and the counterpane were bunched where, beneath them, his brother held them in his hand. ‘I don’t suppose you like coming back.’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘I bet.’ The voices droned on in the room below. ‘My father’s taken it worst.’
‘How?’
‘The way he goes around.’
Some distortion of his brother’s face was evident beneath the bedclothes.
He had arrived home, as it was, as late as he dared, insisting on travelling on the bus alone rather than Mr Corrigan bringing him in the car, and even refused Mrs Corrigan’s offer to accompany him as far as the Bull Ring.
No doubt, below, they were discussing his return, his clothes, the change in his behaviour, particularly in his response to them.
‘What’s Mrs Corrigan like?’
‘All right.’
‘Does she kiss you good night?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘How often?’
‘Once or twice.’
‘Has she got good legs?’
‘Why?’ He asked.
‘You ought to look,’ his brother said.
‘Why?’
‘I’m interested in everything you do,’ his brother said.
‘It doesn’t concern you,’ Bryan said.
‘You could give her a grope.’ His brother paused. ‘You know what a grope is?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘You know what a quim is?’
‘No.’
His brother waited.
‘What about jess?’
He shook his head.
‘Jess,’ his brother said, ‘are a woman’s breasts. A quim is what she has between her legs. A grope is when she lets you feel her.’
There was no connection between what his brother was telling him and what he knew of Mrs Corrigan, just as there was no connection, any longer, between his brother and himself.
‘You know Muriel O’Donald? She let Cloughie have a look at hers. Her tits are a couple of beauties. One neet last week she got hold of his cock. You know what a cock is?’ His brother raised his head.
‘Yes.’
‘Does she kiss you on the lips?’
‘Who?’
‘Mrs Corrigan.’
‘Why do you keep on about her?’ Bryan said.
‘I suppose all your time you have to spend working.’
‘Yes.’
‘School-work.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Harder than Stainforth?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do they talk very smart?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘I suppose they laugh at you.’
‘Not much.’
‘Have they bought you a uniform?’
‘Yes.’
<
br /> ‘Have you brought it with you?’
‘No.’
His brother’s head returned to the blankets.
‘I’ll go to sleep now,’ Bryan said.
‘See you in the morning.’
‘Right.’
‘Don’t forget,’ his brother said. ‘You can tell me about it when you come next week.’
Bryan closed his eyes: he listened to his brother’s breathing and, lulled by the sound, he fell asleep.
The church was a brightly-illuminated interior; if he had agreed to come at all it was to reassure his mother: she had examined his suit with pride and he had thanked himself for his foresight in having brought it with him. ‘Is it Bennett’s?’ she had asked, examining the label. It was the first time a Bennett item of clothing had been inside the house: he had had to stand about the room while she called his father’s attention to it several times – to the coat as well as the trousers, to the stockings as well as the shoes, her excitement fading only when she saw Alan’s expression, adding, ‘Newness isn’t everything,’ pulling down his brother’s jacket, straightening his tie and concluding, as Alan complained, ‘We want you to look as neat as one another. It’s tidiness alone that counts.’
Now, sitting in church, he could see his brother in the Senior pew, the Crusader emblem of a knight’s head fastened to a shield on the wall behind, and, looking round at the plain-glass windows, at the ochreish-looking walls, he thought, ‘If Mrs Corrigan is my instructress what is her relationship to the spirit which resides above the cross?’ gazing up at the largest of the plate-glass windows and wondering, ‘If the benevolent spirit, in which I still believe, exists in a world beyond our own, what is its relationship to this other spirit which exists inside this building?’
In tracing the origin of his belief to that benevolent spirit which came at Christmas, Bryan glimpsed the means by which his personal destiny as a prince was connected to that invisible presence which emanated from the area of the church above the cross – and specifically from that space where the patch of blue disappeared into a brightness animated only by the sun itself.
As he knelt for the prayers and stood for the hymns and listened to the talk of the vicar, walking up and down between the pews, this final thought absorbed him entirely.
And later, although his mother insisted on coming with him to the bottom of Spinney Moor Avenue, he had felt an immediate relief to see, on mounting the bus, the cinema then the Spinney Moor Hotel pass by, the bus rattling on towards the town and, watching its darkening contour approach, he had thought, ‘I am going back to her, and she, I know, will be just as glad to see me.’
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