‘You’re not deserting me, Fay?’ the actor asked. ‘I can’t stand broken promises,’ he added.
‘I haven’t promised anything,’ Mrs Corrigan said.
Her arm was taken as she turned to the door, the actor moving with her. ‘Promise at least you’ll try,’ he said, drawing her to him. ‘The matinée would give us an opportunity to meet before the evening performance.’
‘I’ll see,’ Mrs Corrigan said.
‘There’s a great deal in this town I’ve never seen before,’ the actor said, allowing her to precede him and, finally, as they reached the door, he added, ‘I’m at the Buckingham Hotel.’
Bryan followed Mrs Corrigan out to the yard; behind him Miss Lightowler was swinging her legs on the knee of the seated figure, waving her arm and, to Bryan’s surprise, blowing a kiss.
‘Until tomorrow,’ the actor said.
‘Tomorrow?’ Mrs Corrigan glanced round at Bryan.
‘At the Buckingham. Any time can get me.’ Without any further pronouncement the actor turned, stepped briskly to the door, waved, and disappeared inside.
‘That was a pressing individual,’ Mrs Corrigan said.
She took his hand.
‘Will you see him tomorrow?’ Bryan asked.
‘Until that man has gone I shan’t come to the Phoenix again,’ she said. Yet he could feel even now the tremoring in her arm, an agitation that hadn’t ceased by the time they’d found a taxi. ‘I suppose you admired his performance,’ she added.
‘Which one?’
She laughed.
‘The first of the two,’ she said, and laughed again.
‘I didn’t notice,’ he said.
‘He’s performed in London. Several times. And has appeared, I understand, in one or two films. There’s a profile in the programme.’ She opened her bag. ‘I must have dropped it.’
‘Good,’ he said.
‘It wouldn’t have been unusual,’ she said, ‘if you’d asked him for an autograph.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘I’m sure that’s what he wanted.’
‘I thought,’ Bryan said, ‘it was something else.’
‘It must be later than I thought.’ She flushed. ‘It’s a good job we didn’t ask Harold to meet us. We must have been at the Nelson longer’, she concluded, ‘than I imagined.’
‘It seemed long enough to me.’
‘You were very patient.’ She squeezed his hand.
‘There wasn’t a great deal I could do,’ he said.
‘As I say,’ she said, ‘he’s a pressing man.’
The house was in darkness when they arrived.
A light had been left on above the door: a glow flooded in from the drive outside.
He had never felt so glad to get back to the house itself, nor had he ever felt more conscious of its quietness.
‘Do you feel like supper?’
‘No, thanks,’ he said.
She went to the kitchen. He heard a kettle being filled and the gas turned on.
He went into the sitting-room; the fire burned brightly behind a metal guard.
‘Are you sure you don’t want anything?’ she called.
She appeared in the door, her coat unbuttoned.
‘No, thanks.’
‘You’re not sulking?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘I shan’t allow it.’
‘How would you stop me?’
‘Oh, I’d find a way,’ she said and, without glancing in his direction, returned to the kitchen.
He listened to the running of a tap and, finally, the kitchen door was closed; then came the sound of her going upstairs.
He listened to the creaking of the floor as she moved from the bathroom to her bedroom.
‘Can you bolt the front door before you come up?’ she called, waiting for an answer.
He got up from the fire, damped it down, went to the front door, drew the bolt, looked back at the sitting-room fire, then went upstairs.
Her light was on.
He went into his own room and got undressed.
When he came out her light was off.
He went to her door and knocked.
‘Do you want me to come in?’ he asked.
‘I have a headache, with that awful drink.’
‘Shall I kiss you good night?’
‘I should leave it till the morning.’
‘It won’t be good night in the morning,’ he said.
‘You can kiss me good morning instead.’ Her voice was scarcely a murmur.
‘Good night,’ he said.
‘Good night,’ she said. ‘And thank you for the evening.’
‘Why should you thank me for it?’ he said.
‘Thank you especially for this evening.’ She turned on the bed.
‘Good night,’ he said again and, to show his displeasure, closed the door with a bang.
‘There you are,’ she said. ‘I didn’t see you.’ She straightened his collar and glanced off along the street. ‘I’d made an arrangement to meet a friend. I came in early, so I’ve only myself to blame if I have to wait.’
‘I’ll wait with you,’ Bryan said.
‘I’ve an appointment at the Fraser.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Bryan said.
‘I’m perfectly capable of going to the Fraser without you escorting me.’ She laughed, glanced down, and straightened his cap.
‘You’ve welcomed it before,’ he said.
She glanced back the way he’d come. ‘Why are you out of school so early?’
‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘I’m late.’
She examined a watch on her wrist. ‘Is it as late as that?’
‘There’s that actor over there.’
‘Where?’
He pointed across the street; the figure was waiting on the opposite corner.
‘I can’t see without my glasses.’
He might, in different circumstances, have been entertained by her attempts to conceal her interest: her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright and her make-up, he thought, more garish than ever.
‘The one in the dark-brown overcoat two sizes too big, and the trilby hat pulled over his eyes.’
‘It doesn’t look like him at all.’
‘I’ll go across.’
‘I’d prefer you not to.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’d prefer you not to encourage him, Bryan.’ She took his arm. ‘You can walk me to the Fraser and leave me at the door.’
‘I’ll come up with you,’ Bryan said.
‘No, thank you.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’ll be all right as far as the door.’
They set off in the direction of the café.
‘I don’t suppose he’s got in touch,’ he said as she held his arm to cross the street.
‘I see no reason why he should,’ she said.
He glanced behind.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to come up with you?’
‘You’d better get off home. I’ll see you this evening. I shan’t be late.’
She stepped inside the shop and mounted the stairs.
Bryan crossed to the opposite pavement. When the bus came he climbed upstairs and, as his feelings of misery increased, imagined, in the adjoining street, their two embracing figures.
He could hear a clock striking beyond the village when Mrs Corrigan came back.
He didn’t hear the front door open and assumed that, if she had returned by car, it had dropped her some distance from the house and she had walked to the gate, and up the drive, and let herself in without making a sound; it was only the creaking of the landing that disturbed him, and the clicking of her bedroom door.
A short while later he heard Mr Corrigan’s door, then the light tapping on Mrs Corrigan’s bedroom door, followed, after an interval, by his asking, ‘Fay? Are you all right?’
The murmur of her voice replied.
Bryan, getting out of bed, looked through
his own open door and saw the chink of light beneath Mrs Corrigan’s. A corresponding chink went out as he watched beneath Mr Corrigan’s. After waiting several seconds, he tip-toed back to bed.
No sound of any sort came from the house.
The clock struck once more beyond the village; perhaps she was sitting up in bed or, more likely, having undressed, was sitting in front of her mirror.
Or, perhaps, he thought, she was kneeling by her bed, something she did each evening – he had gone into her room on several occasions, ostensibly, if he’d been up late, to say good night, only to find her by the bed, her hands clasped, her head stooped, not stirring until she had said, ‘Amen’ in an instructional voice, her eyes blinking – unmascaraed – and the pale face smiling before she inquired, ‘Is there anything you want?’
‘Bryan?’
Her voice came from the door; she was standing there, however, not coming in.
‘Are you out of bed?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘I thought I heard you moving.’
‘I was wondering if your light was out.’
‘I’m sorry if I woke you.’
‘That’s all right.’
‘Good night.’
He lost her figure against the darkness then, from along the landing, came the clicking of her door.
The following morning, by the time he got up, she’d already left: her bedroom door was open and Mr Corrigan was downstairs, lighting the sitting-room fire.
He came out in a dressing-gown, carrying a bucket.
‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Sleep well?’
‘All right,’ he said, glancing to the kitchen as if he suspected Mrs Corrigan might well be there.
‘Fay’s out,’ Mr Corrigan said. He hurried on to the kitchen, unlocked the back door, and went out to the garden.
He didn’t go to school that day; nor did Mr Corrigan go to work: when Mrs Meredith came Mr Corrigan sent her home. ‘Mrs Corrigan’s out,’ he said. ‘Take the day off, Rose. It’s not often that Bryan and I have the chance of a chat,’ indicating that this was an arrangement that he and Bryan had come to together.
It was midday when Mrs Corrigan came back; as she hurried past, wiping her hand at her face, he could see from the smudged mascara, the smeared lipstick, the distortion of her mouth as she endeavoured to control her voice, that she’d been crying. ‘I shan’t be a minute,’ she called, running to the stairs. A weird cacophony of wails and cries expanded in the silence which followed the closing of her bedroom door.
‘Shall I go up to her?’ he asked.
Mr Corrigan shook his head. He was wearing an apron, one normally used by Mrs Meredith, and, shaking his head a second time, he returned to the kitchen, a pan in one hand, a cloth in the other, and called, ‘I’ll go up in a minute, Bryan.’
A quarter of an hour had elapsed, however, before Mr Corrigan finally went up, not knocking on Mrs Corrigan’s door but going directly in and closing it behind him.
Bryan waited in the sitting-room; after a while he went through to the kitchen: pans were on the gas; meat was roasting in the oven.
He washed up the cooking utensils and cleared the table.
He had never taken much regard of the Corrigans’ garden: the broad lawn, flanked by flower beds, led down to a summer-house; with nothing else to do he wandered down the path and looked inside.
Deck-chairs were folded against a wall.
He glanced back at the house: above the sitting-room, the hall and the kitchen windows were, respectively, the windows of the guest-room, the landing and of his own room, with the dormer window of the lumber-room, where he did his modelling, and occasionally his painting, above.
‘Bryan?’
Mr Corrigan had appeared at the kitchen door.
He came into the garden, pulling on his jacket.
‘Mrs Corrigan’s on the telephone.’
‘Who with?’
‘Her brother.’
For a moment he wondered who her brother was; only slowly did the thought occur: ‘The farm, the kitchen, the blue-eyed man.’
‘Mrs Spencer died this morning.’
Bryan glanced at the house.
‘Is that where she’s been?’
‘She’s only just heard.’
‘I thought she was upset before she came in.’
‘She was.’
He wondered what on earth Mrs Corrigan could say.
‘Why was she upset?’ he said, turning to the house.
‘I’ll drive her over to Feltham,’ Mr Corrigan said, not answering the question. ‘Lunch is cooking. Perhaps you’d keep an eye on it. I may leave her there,’ he added, ‘and come back myself. We could get something to eat, if you like, together.’
Mrs Corrigan came down a little later; she had re-done her make-up and changed her clothes.
‘Isn’t Bryan coming?’ she said, seeing him waiting behind in the hall.
‘I thought it better he didn’t,’ Mr Corrigan said, already on the steps outside.
‘He’ll have to come,’ she said. ‘There’s not much more I can say to Freddie.’
Mr Corrigan returned to the kitchen to turn off the gas.
Mrs Corrigan got into the back seat of the car and indicated that Bryan should get in the front, waiting for Mr Corrigan to lock the front door.
‘I hope you’ve not been troublesome,’ she said.
‘No,’ Bryan said.
‘That you’ve helped Mr Corrigan.’
‘I have.’ He didn’t glance back.
A light was burning in one of the ground-floor windows when they reached the farm; Mrs Corrigan tapped on the front door and, without waiting for an answer, went inside.
Upstairs, on the landing, there was the sound of footsteps then, from the kitchen, Margaret appeared.
‘There you are, Aunt,’ she said, turning her cheek to be kissed. ‘Hello, Bryan,’ she added, and led the way to the kitchen.
A fire burned in the tall, enamelled range: the dogs stirred, growling, then sank by the hearth.
Mrs Corrigan sat down at the table – on the same chair on which she had been sitting the first time Bryan had seen her. Her look contrasted strangely with that previous occasion; not only was the table itself not occupied by parcels and the rudiments of a farm tea, but her manner as well as her expression were those of an older woman: she struggled to contain her feelings and Margaret, examining her aunt’s dark eyes, ringed beneath by lack of sleep, the sallowness of her cheeks, her strangely puckered lower lip, asked, ‘Shall I get you a cup of tea?’
‘Is your father upstairs, Margaret?’ Mrs Corrigan asked.
The strange force that now controlled her, compelling her to latch on to one grief in order to distract herself from another, caused her to get up from the chair and, stepping past Mr Corrigan, she ascended the stairs.
They heard her voice call, ‘Freddie?’
‘Anything we can do to help?’ Mr Corrigan asked Margaret, who had turned to the sink where she was washing up.
‘No, thanks,’ Margaret said.
She stood for a moment with her back to the room, looking out to the yard: hens and geese moved to and fro amongst the ruts and, faintly, from the dairy, came the sound of sweeping.
Gas burned beneath a kettle.
Mr Corrigan sat down; he sat at the table, in the chair vacated by Mrs Corrigan: as Bryan picked up a tea-towel he called, ‘I can do that, Bryan. You do the washing,’ rising once again and taking off his jacket.
‘It’s finished, Uncle,’ Margaret said, glancing round.
‘In that case,’ he said, ‘I’ll make the tea,’ crossing to the cupboards on the wall and opening several before finding the cups and saucers.
Bryan wiped the pots; no sound, other than those of the kitchen, came from the house: the methodical ploughing of Margaret’s hands in the water, the clattering of the crockery as she laid each piece down, the clattering as Bryan picked each item up, the dripping of the water, the crackling of the fi
re, the odd sounds made by Mr Corrigan as, his jacket back on, he moved around the table, emphasized rather than distracted their attention from the absence of any sound from above their heads.
‘You didn’t have to come over,’ Margaret said.
‘I wanted to,’ he said.
‘What about school?’
‘I took the day off.’
‘There isn’t much washing-up to do, as a matter of fact. We haven’t had any breakfast.’ Having dried her hands she crossed the room, found the tea-caddy for Mr Corrigan and, having handed it to him, moved over to the door, glanced to the stairs, and said, ‘I’ll go up and see if Aunt Fay wants one.’
Her feet faded to the landing.
Mr Corrigan sat down.
‘This is a to-do.’ He glanced at Bryan. ‘So early on in life.’
‘I didn’t know she’d been seriously ill,’ Bryan said.
‘For a long time,’ Mr Corrigan said. ‘She said little to anyone about it because, I suspect, she thought it was fatal.’
‘Hasn’t she been to hospital?’
‘We thought whatever it was had been contained. Why,’ he added, ‘I was going to call this morning to see how she was. Then other things intervened.’
He glanced away.
From the stairs came the sound of the farmer’s voice; a moment later Mr Spencer stood in the door: he was in his shirt sleeves and his stocking feet.
‘Bryan.’ He came into the room as Mr Corrigan stood up. ‘We’ve summat in to eat. Gone lunch-time, has it?’
‘We’re not hungry, Freddie.’ Mr Corrigan shook his hand. ‘We’ve a pot of tea on, if that’s all right.’ He crossed to the kettle as it began to boil.
‘How’s thy faither?’ Mr Spencer said, aimlessly, to Bryan.
‘All right.’
‘Good worker.’ He glanced at Mr Corrigan. Having laid his hand on Bryan’s shoulder, still grasping it, tightly, he added, ‘Is Fay all right?’
‘Fay?’ Mr Corrigan placed the lid on the teapot and brought it to the table.
‘She’s looking under the weather.’ To Bryan, he added, ‘She wa’re alus emotional when she wa’re a lass. Up one minute, down the next. She lives for the present and has ne’er à thought for what comes after.’ He sat down at the table, his legs apart.
‘Shall I go up to her?’ Mr Corrigan said.
‘Margaret’s wi’ her. She mu’n be all right. She’s more common sense than Fay,’ he added.
A Prodigal Child Page 26