A Prodigal Child

by Storey, David;

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘What did she say when you modelled it?’

  ‘She offered to help.’

  ‘I’m surprised Berresford has come to agree with her,’ Mr Corrigan said. ‘He’s got the Governors to think of.’

  ‘Are we to discourage someone with a gift,’ Mrs Corrigan said, ‘because of the prejudices of a religious bigot?’

  ‘Propriety is one thing, bigotry is another,’ Mr Corrigan said. ‘Whether Bryan’s figure should have been done in the first place, and whether, once done, it should have been exhibited in the manner in which it was, comes under Max’s province, not ours.’

  ‘Have you seen the figure, Harold?’ Mrs Corrigan said.

  ‘Have you?’ Mr Corrigan said.

  ‘I’ve spoken to Mr Waterhouse who described it as a remarkable work of art which he was proud to have had produced by someone in his class.’

  Mr Corrigan stood up.

  ‘You didn’t mention that before.’

  ‘I wondered how far you would go in supporting Beckerman,’ Mrs Corrigan responded.

  ‘I don’t support him,’ Mr Corrigan said. ‘I’m merely anticipating his point of view.’

  ‘His point of view,’ Mrs Corrigan said, ‘is one your friend Max is anxious to get rid of. If Peterson’s remains embalmed in moral attitudes that have no relevance to the world as it is at present then Max, your old friend, Harold, has no future there at all.’

  Bryan didn’t hear Mrs Corrigan’s voice: his gaze was fixed on her figure, on the downward curve of her cheek with its tint of rouge and its layer of powder, on the outward curve of her lashes as she blinked over her sewing and, beneath this attenuated profile, on the projection of her hips, the bunching of her thigh, the extension of her ankle, and the insertion of her foot inside her heelless slipper.

  ‘Doctor Beckerman isn’t married. He lives in Church House and has a housekeeper who looks after him.’ She glanced at Bryan and smiled.

  ‘We ought to call up Church House and inquire how he is,’ Mr Corrigan said.

  ‘It was a lunatic asylum he was taken to,’ Mrs Corrigan said.

  ‘Find out which one, in that case. He bought his furniture at the shop,’ Mr Corrigan said and, reaching to the mantelpiece, took down his pipe, lighting it slowly, glancing from the flame to Mrs Corrigan, then to Bryan, then – with a look Bryan had never seen before – back to Mrs Corrigan again. ‘In addition to which,’ he concluded, ‘he’s a member of my club.’

  SEVENTEEN

  The interior of the foyer glowed, its light reflected on the dampness of the steps outside. A rain had been falling when they’d left the house and now they had had a chance to walk through from the Bull Ring to the square in front of the theatre the last drops were splashing from the eaves of the building, rattling on the glass canopy above the steps, the damp pavement below flecked here and there by the light from the façade which glistened in the puddles.

  From the red-walled foyer they passed down a flight of carpeted stairs. A bar opened out at the end of a passage: in a rectangular mirror he saw Mrs Corrigan’s figure, her hat trimmed with fur, the fur collar of her coat drawn up – and saw what must have been a familiar alarm in his own expression, his mouth tight, his lips compressed, his eyes sunk in the shadows thrown out by the lamps.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘You take everything so seriously, Bryan. Why don’t you see the amusing side?’

  ‘Has everything an amusing side?’ he asked.

  ‘If this evening hasn’t one then I don’t know what has.’

  Despite her continuing to clasp his hand she glanced about her, stooping at one point, releasing his hand, and introducing herself to someone who had failed to recognize her, reclaiming Bryan’s hand only when the figure, a man accompanied by a woman, disappeared through a pair of doors at the opposite end of the bar.

  They entered the auditorium: seats, enclosed on either side by red-walled boxes, rose to the recesses of the coloured dome; gold-embellished curtains, tasselled, and drawn in symmetrical folds, hung across the stage.

  Sinking down, she loosened her coat and, glancing about her, her face more brightly lit than ever, said, ‘We forgot to buy a programme.’

  ‘Shall I get you one?’ he said.

  She opened her bag. ‘I seem to have forgotten everything. What about a box of chocolates?’ She produced a pound note and called, ‘Excuse me,’ to the people in the row as he made his way to the aisle.

  From the rear of the theatre he watched her face: one eye was visible as she turned her head and, with a child-like gesture, looked up at the dome, at the rows of seats, and at the lamp-lit, curtained recesses of the red-walled boxes.

  Having bought the programme and a box of chocolates, he paused at the end of the row to gaze at her again: her look traversed the curtains, the dome, the other figures seated beside her: the light glowed, beneath her hat, on the fringes of her hair.

  ‘There you are,’ she said, her face turned up. Taking the programme and glancing down at it she added, ‘I’ve heard of her. She was here years ago when I came with Harold.’

  The lights faded; the curtains parted: a knock came at a door. A figure entered: Mrs Corrigan reached down and took his hand.

  ‘Am I mad?’ he thought. ‘Can’t I experience anything unless, first of all, it comes through her?’

  He was conscious of her laughter, of her involvement with the actors on the stage, with their passing to and fro from doors to windows and back to doors, from chairs to tables and back to chairs, her head drawn back and slightly raised, her mouth open, her eyebrows lowered, her eyes gleaming.

  When the lights went up it was not her, however, of whom he was conscious but a figure wearing a bottle-green dress of knitted wool.

  ‘This is a surprise,’ Miss Lightowler said, leaning down in the seat beside him.

  ‘This is Miss Lightowler,’ Bryan said, recovering from his surprise more quickly than Mrs Corrigan. ‘This is Mrs Corrigan, my aunt,’ he added.

  Miss Lightowler leant across; Mrs Corrigan shook hands.

  ‘Miss Lightowler teaches art,’ Bryan said. He added, ‘She helped me cast the figure.’

  ‘I hope you defended Bryan,’ Mrs Corrigan said.

  ‘I defended the figure,’ Miss Lightowler said. ‘Bryan I defended by imputation.’

  ‘After all, we’re not living in the Middle Ages,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘If Peterson’s has been led to assume that it is then it’s our duty to disabuse them. How is Doctor Beckerman?’ she added.

  ‘Recovering.’

  Miss Lightowler glanced down at Bryan.

  ‘Do you come here often?’ Bryan asked.

  Miss Lightowler laughed; she shook her head. ‘I work here, Bryan.’

  ‘What as?’

  She gestured at the curtains.

  ‘I do the costumes.’

  ‘Bryan never told me,’ Mrs Corrigan said.

  ‘It’s not as grand as it sounds. Most of the shows are on tour and I touch up the scenery and do repairs. It’s why I’m here this evening. This show has just arrived.’

  Bryan turned in his seat to examine her more closely; her hair, instead of being drawn back with some severity and fastened in a pony-tail, was combed down smoothly on either side.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she added, ‘you’d like, afterwards, to come backstage and meet the cast?’

  ‘I’d like that,’ Mrs Corrigan said.

  ‘I’ll collect you after the Anthem,’ Miss Lightowler said, and disappeared up the gangway.

  ‘What a charming woman,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘She certainly stood up to the school over the fuss about your statue.’

  Something of the intensity of Bryan’s feelings evaporated in the second half of the evening; the prospect of sharing Mrs Corrigan was not something that he welcomed: ‘She is not here to be admired by other people,’ he thought, for, if Mrs Corrigan had enjoyed the first half of the evening, she en
joyed the second half more – breaking into applause, her applause expanding into laughter, her laughter accompanied, in turn, by indecipherable moans and cries only, a moment later, for her laughter, followed by her applause, to spring out once again.

  Standing to the sound of the Anthem, the applause faded, the music trickling on in distant corners to be replaced, once the recorded sound was over, by a burst of conversation.

  ‘That was good,’ Mrs Corrigan said as Miss Lightowler appeared in the gangway. ‘I haven’t enjoyed an evening more. I can’t tell you how much we’ve enjoyed it.’

  She turned to Bryan.

  ‘It wasn’t bad,’ he said for the noise around them made it difficult for him to hear Mrs Corrigan’s voice – as difficult to hear it, or Miss Lightowler’s, as it was to suppress his instinct to get out of the building and take her away from it for good.

  ‘We can cut through here,’ Miss Lightowler said, directing Bryan to a door marked ‘Private’. ‘Lead the way,’ she added.

  A narrow passage opened on to a faintly illuminated area adjacent to the stage; a flight of stone steps led up to a landing: doors opened off on either side.

  Knocking on one of the doors Miss Lightowler pushed it open, put her head inside, withdrew it, and said, ‘He won’t be a minute,’ when a voice called, ‘Come in, Di. Come in, sweet dove,’ at which she opened the door wider and indicated that Bryan and Mrs Corrigan might go in before her. ‘Bring her in,’ came the voice again and Bryan entered to find a figure in a dressing-gown standing in front of a mirror: reaching past him to clasp Mrs Corrigan’s hand, he called, ‘Bring in a chair, Di,’ as Miss Lightowler said, behind Mrs Corrigan’s shoulder, ‘Mrs Corrigan, may I introduce Felix Pemberton. Felix, this is Bryan.’

  ‘Bryan,’ the figure said, glancing at Bryan. ‘Mrs Corrigan,’ he added, glancing at Mrs Corrigan. ‘Come inside. We’ll get a chair if Di can fetch one.’

  Two further chairs were handed in the door and the sound of several voices came from the corridor outside: names were called, doors banged, laughter burst out in an adjoining room.

  ‘We’ve enjoyed it so much.’ Mrs Corrigan sat down.

  ‘I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before.’ The actor clasped her hand more firmly. ‘Your mother is a beautiful woman,’ he added to Bryan.

  ‘Bryan isn’t my son.’ Mrs Corrigan flushed.

  ‘Too old. I can see that,’ the actor said. ‘You’d never have a son his age.’

  ‘We’ve so enjoyed the show.’ Mrs Corrigan flushed more deeply. Conscious of her hand being clasped, she sat upright in the chair.

  ‘So rare for anyone to come round and say so,’ the actor said. ‘Particularly someone so attractive.’ He joined his one free hand to the other and secured Mrs Corrigan’s between the two. ‘I’ve been to this town so often I thought I’d met everyone worth meeting. All this time and I never knew.’

  ‘We come so rarely to the theatre.’ Mrs Corrigan smiled at Bryan.

  He observed the actor’s knees, and the black curled hair on the front of his legs, and observed, too, the make-up which had not been completely removed from around the eyes and about which he appeared to be indifferent: he had a fleshy face and square-shaped hands.

  ‘More the loser that you haven’t been more often.’ The man released one hand to indicate the mirror.

  ‘The dialogue was charming.’ Mrs Corrigan endeavoured to remove her hand from such close proximity to the actor’s knees.

  ‘Oh, the dialogue,’ the actor said. ‘Superb.’

  ‘And the acting.’

  The actor shook his head. Reclaiming Mrs Corrigan’s hand, he glanced once more to the mirror.

  ‘Wonderful.’

  ‘The set was so attractive.’

  ‘We have Di to thank for that,’ the actor said.

  ‘Are you coming to the Nelson, Felix?’ a voice called from the corridor outside.

  ‘I shan’t be a minute,’ the actor replied, raising his head, listening to a receding burst of voices, a clattering of feet down a flight of steps, then adding, ‘Perhaps you’d come over, Mrs Corrigan? We can’t let this opportunity go without offering you a drink.’

  ‘I’ll take them over, Felix,’ Miss Lightowler said.

  ‘Unless Mrs Corrigan doesn’t mind if I dress,’ the actor said.

  Mrs Corrigan rose quickly, her knees, as a consequence, catching the back of the actor’s hand.

  ‘Where is the Nelson?’ she asked.

  ‘Di can show you. She spends more time in there than I do. We have an arrangement with the landlord. Mention my name,’ he added to Miss Lightowler. ‘I’ll be over in a jiffy.’

  Mrs Corrigan followed Bryan out, the dressing-gowned figure appearing at the door, smiling, glancing out, and calling, ‘Don’t let her go. Entertain her. Don’t let her escape,’ raising his hand in Mrs Corrigan’s direction before she followed Bryan to the flight of steps.

  ‘Do we have to go?’ he said.

  ‘I said we would.’ Mrs Corrigan spoke with her hand on his shoulder.

  ‘We don’t have to,’ Bryan said. ‘You weren’t given a chance to refuse.’

  ‘Oh, Felix won’t be long,’ Miss Lightowler said, as if the inconvenience to the actor were Bryan’s concern. ‘He’s such good company, too,’ she added.

  A passage and a further flight of stairs brought them out at the side of the theatre.

  Directly opposite stood the side-door to the Nelson, already open.

  ‘It needn’t take long,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘It’s only politeness not to refuse,’ pausing, however, on the step and gazing inside.

  ‘Are you sure we ought to go in?’ Bryan said. ‘I’ve been here before. I know what it’s like.’

  ‘When have you been here before?’ Mrs Corrigan said.

  ‘With a friend from school.’

  Her hand was clasped to his arm.

  ‘Lead the way, Bryan,’ Miss Lightowler called from the yard behind.

  ‘Who are all these people?’ Mrs Corrigan said, gazing about her at the crowded kitchen: a smell of cooking came from the room.

  ‘They’re the actors.’ He indicated a group of figures around the central table.

  ‘Two sherries and a lemonade, Reggie,’ Miss Lightowler called as the face of the landlord appeared at the bar-room door.

  Glasses were set down from a metal tray. Mrs Corrigan was introduced.

  From the table came a shout as the actor appeared at the top of the stairs.

  Dressed in a check-patterned overcoat with pouch-like pockets and a fur-trimmed collar, with a tasselled white scarf and a trilby hat, flush-faced, dark-eyed, he surveyed the room before, with a wave, he slowly descended.

  ‘Here you are. Not gone away. What can I get you?’ he asked Mrs Corrigan after shaking the hand of someone at the table, embracing a seated figure and receiving a kiss, and coming across the room to take Mrs Corrigan’s hand between his own.

  ‘We already have one,’ Mrs Corrigan said, indicating her own drink on the corner of the table, adjacent to which she had been found a chair.

  Bryan sat beside her.

  ‘Another, landlord. Another for Mrs Corrigan.’ The actor waved to the perspiring figure of Mr Brierley. ‘Good evening, Mrs Brierley.’ He waved simultaneously to a figure by the fire.

  ‘We shall have to go shortly,’ Mrs Corrigan said.

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘My husband is coming to collect us.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll wait.’

  The pinkness which had characterized Mrs Corrigan’s cheeks while they were in the actor’s dressing-room had given way to a sudden pallor: the sallowness of her cheeks added to the impression that she no longer knew what she ought to do, as confused by the bustle, the screams and the bursts of laughter that came from the room as she was by the manner of the actor himself.

  ‘We shall have to go,’ she said again.

  ‘Say you’re delayed.’ He laid his hand on her shoulder, whispered in her ear, withdre
w his head to examine her expression, and added, ‘You never told me your name.’

  ‘Mrs Corrigan.’

  ‘Your first name.’

  ‘Fay,’ Mrs Corrigan said.

  ‘Fay.’

  Bryan waited: he made an attempt to take her hand but found it obstructed and contented himself with sitting as close to her as her preoccupation with the actor might allow.

  Another glass of sherry was brought; a glass of a similarly coloured liquid was set in the actor’s hand: a glass of lemonade was set on the table by Bryan.

  ‘Is it always so busy?’ Mrs Corrigan asked.

  ‘Reggie’s is a popular place,’ the actor said. ‘And more popular still to have someone here who is a cut above the rest. Not that they,’ he continued, with a wave of his hand to indicate the crowded kitchen, ‘aren’t of the very highest.’

  Across the room Bryan could see Miss Lightowler in her bright-green dress sitting on the knee of somone by the fire.

  By the fire itself the shawled figure of the elderly Mrs Brierley rocked to and fro, the dark eyes periodically raised to examine the figures around her.

  ‘Most of the time, Fay,’ the actor said, ‘we feel forgotten.’

  ‘I’m sure you must have many distractions,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘So often on the move.’

  The actor lowered his head. ‘But so seldom someone we can really talk to.’

  He glanced at Bryan.

  ‘Is this a nephew?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘Perhaps he’d like to step outside to see if Mr Corrigan is waiting.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ Bryan said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’ve no desire to,’ Bryan said.

  ‘Would half-a-crown induce you?’ The actor felt in his pocket.

  ‘No, thanks,’ Bryan said. To Mrs Corrigan he added, ‘We ought to be going. I’m not sure I’m keen on this place at all.’

  ‘Come another evening, Fay,’ the actor said.

  ‘I’ve seen the show already,’ Mrs Corrigan said.

  ‘A second time you’ll see more in it.’

  ‘I doubt if I’ve another evening free,’ Mrs Corrigan said.

  She began to rise.

  ‘Come to a matinée.’

  ‘I shall have to think about it.’