A goose honked; the sound of Margaret’s voice came from the stairs.
Water was run in a basin.
Mr Corrigan began to pour the tea.
Steam rose above each cup.
A moment later, Margaret came in; she came directly to the table, poured the milk, gave out the sugar, went to a cupboard, came back with a tin.
‘She’s getting a wash,’ she said. ‘She won’t be a minute,’ and, in that instant, Bryan was possessed of the absurd notion that she was referring not to Mrs Corrigan but to Mrs Spencer and that, the next moment, the mother herself would appear at the door, grey-eyed, slim-featured, her hair drawn back and, with her habitual smile, inquire about their visit, comment on Mr Corrigan’s appearance, and invite them all to lunch.
The fire crackled; the hens clucked and from further afield came the lowing of a cow.
A cup of tea was placed by Mr Spencer’s elbow; he gazed towards the fire. Another was set by Mr Corrigan as he too took his place at the table, raising the cup, holding the saucer, drinking.
Mrs Corrigan appeared in the doorway; she had taken off her coat and folded it across her arm.
‘I wouldn’t mind a cup,’ she said to Margaret who had raised the teapot in her direction, setting down her coat, moving to the table. ‘Harold?’
‘I’ve got one.’ He lifted his saucer.
‘Are all the arrangements made?’ she asked Mr Spencer who, gazing at the fire, appeared not only not to hear but to have abstracted himself from the room entirely. ‘Are they made?’ she said again, this time to Margaret.
‘Dad?’
‘It’s all been done,’ Mr Spencer said.
His look was raised to the ceiling.
‘Would you like me to stay, Freddie?’ Mrs Corrigan asked.
‘There’s no need to, Fay,’ Mr Spencer said.
‘It’s a lot for Margaret to handle.’
‘She’s handled it afore.’ The farmer glanced at his daughter. ‘She’s been a big support these last few days.’
The forehead of his daughter gleamed; the boyish intensity of the face, its pale-blue eyes expanded, was heightened by the drawn-back hair: her cheeks glowed.
‘I’d gladly stay.’
Mr Spencer glanced at Bryan. ‘How about you lad?’
‘What about him?’ Mrs Corrigan said.
‘He could kip down if he liked.’
‘To stay?’
‘There’s room for a little ’un,’ the farmer added.
‘Would you like to stay, Bryan?’ Mrs Corrigan asked.
‘I wouldn’t mind,’ he said.
‘He can ’a’ a go on the tractor.’ The farmer smiled.
‘If Bryan doesn’t mind.’ Mrs Corrigan’s mouth had fallen.
‘Send his things o’er. Margaret’ll find a sheet and a blanket.’
‘He’ll need nore than a blanket,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘Are you sure you want an additional burden?’
‘It’s not a burden to me,’ the farmer said.
‘What about school?’ Mrs Corrigan asked.
‘He can go to his school from here. Margaret’ll take him with her pals.’ The farmer glanced at his daughter. ‘What do’st think to ’a’ing this rabbit?’
‘It’s all right by me.’ The daughter flushed.
‘I knew she’d leap at it.’ Mr Spencer laughed.
The sound reverberated in the kitchen, and was echoed, eerily, by the noises from the yard outside.
‘Are you sure I shouldn’t stay as well?’ Mrs Corrigan said.
‘We’ll be as well as ought,’ the farmer said.
A moment later, his boots pulled on in the porch, the dogs at his heels, he clumped out to the yard. His figure was visible, briefly, as he walked on to the distant sheds.
‘Are you sure your father wants Bryan here, Margaret?’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘He’s not quite sure what he’s doing.’
‘He wouldn’t have asked if he wasn’t sure, Aunt,’ Margaret said. ‘There’ll be plenty for him to do. It’ll not be a holiday,’ she added.
‘We can fetch his things over this evening, Fay,’ Mr Corrigan said.
Mrs Corrigan drew her fingers against the cloth. ‘I don’t know what your father wants. Adding responsibilities to those he’s got already.’ She began to cry. ‘I only spoke to Mary a day ago. She said she felt much better. Why didn’t she tell me she’d been so ill?’
‘She preferred not to make a fuss.’ Margaret, lamely, glanced at Bryan.
‘She was such a stoical woman.’ Mrs Corrigan felt for her handbag, drew out a handkerchief, and blew her nose.
‘She’d hate to see you crying,’ Margaret said. ‘She was always making an effort not to indulge her feelings.’ She glanced at Bryan again.
‘If you ever wish to stay at Chevet,’ Mrs Corrigan said. Her fingers, once more, moved about the cloth, massaging one starched end of a broken thread then another.
‘If there’s anything we can do, Margaret,’ Mr Corrigan said, ‘you’ll let us know.’
‘Oh, I’ll let you know, Uncle,’ Margaret said, glancing to the window. They could see Mr Spencer now as he crossed the yard, wheeling back to the sheds a bale of straw on a barrow.
‘Let me help you with lunch,’ Mrs Corrigan said, wiping her eyes.
‘I doubt if we’ll have lunch today,’ Margaret said. ‘I couldn’t eat anything. Neither could Dad.’
‘Perhaps we ought to get back, Fay,’ Mr Corrigan said. ‘Margaret has enough to deal with at present.’
‘You will ring us this evening?’ Mrs Corrigan said, getting up. ‘Mr Corrigan will come across with Bryan’s things. Perhaps I could see you outside,’ she added to Bryan.
He followed her to the hall then out to the garden where the path ran down to the wicket gate and, beyond the wicket gate, to the grass slope above the dammed-up stream: pigs were rooting in the earth by the bank.
‘I don’t think it was a wise thing to agree to Mr Spencer’s whim. It’s not as if I didn’t care about what you’re doing.’ The tears reappeared at the corners of her eyes.
‘What about the actor?’ Bryan said.
She glanced at the house: the curtains of a room upstairs were drawn and, perhaps for the first time, she saw the light burning in the lower window.
‘If I’ve made a fool of myself,’ she said, ‘you don’t have to rub it in.’
Mr Corrigan had appeared at the front door of the house; he made a pretence of talking to Margaret, smiling at one point and nodding his head.
‘I don’t think I could bear it if you stay here for very long.’
‘Why not?’
‘I need you at Chevet. You don’t know how I feel at present.’
She gestured towards the house.
‘Are you two finished?’ Mr Corrigan called.
‘I’m asking Bryan to do his best,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘I’m sure he’ll manage,’ she added to Margaret, stooping to her, finally, when they returned to the door, embracing her, and, moving to the car, she called, ‘Tell your father I’ll call this evening.’
Margaret walked with her arm in Mr Corrigan’s, not glancing back as they reached the car and, after Mr Corrigan and Mrs Corrigan had got inside, stood in front of Bryan, waving, as the car pulled out from the drive.
EIGHTEEN
His room looked out to the yard: it was here, on the Monday, as he was about to leave for school, that he met his father; he saw him walking out towards the fields and called, waving, seeing the hesitation in his father’s step as if, for that instant, his father couldn’t understand who, in the dark raincoat and the blue-beaded cap, was calling.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.
‘Didn’t you get my letter?’
‘Which one?’
‘I posted it Friday.’
‘It mu’n have come this morning,’ his father said. ‘Afore I left.’
‘I’m staying here this week,’ he said.
His father glanced at the house.
; ‘How’s Mr Spencer?’
‘All right.’
‘I heard about his wife.’ He gestured to the sheds. ‘I thought I’d go in later and say I wa’ sorry.’
‘I’m off to school,’ Bryan said.
‘I might see you tonight, in that case,’ his father said.
Bryan watched him walk off but only when he called did his father wave, turning, and walked on more quickly towards the fields.
Bryan stayed at the farm for the next five days. He avoided meeting his father whenever he could, and, if he happened to glimpse him, he refrained, for some reason, from calling out, reluctant to remind his father either of his own position in the house, or of his father’s subservience to Mr Spencer.
The greater part of his time Mr Spencer spent in town, returning home each evening relaxed, slumping in a chair where he smiled and talked about his work, or the weather or, more interestedly, inquired about Bryan’s school: ‘These statues we hear about,’ listening with a sidelong look, dazed, as he might to a voice from another room.
Mrs Corrigan came on two occasions, both time, travelling by a local train which by-passed the town, circuiting it to the south and, after several stops at intervening villages, called at the tiny Feltham station.
It was approached by a lane which ran below the surrounding fields and, but for a distant glimpse of Feltham Castle and its ruined walls, was enclosed by hedges, like the bed of a stream. He came here one evening, when he had nothing else to do, and leant againt the wall of the tiny, brick-built booking-hall and watched the rails and the occasional train that thundered through.
It was here, on both her visits, that he saw Mrs Corrigan into her carriage; in the walk from the farm to the station they spoke very little: only the sight of the slate roof and the soot-flecked brickwork prompted her to ask about the school and he, in turn, to inquire about the actor. ‘The show has moved on to another town,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why you bring it up.’ The gaslight of the station, set on a slight embankment, glowed above a distant hedge.
‘How do I know,’ he said, ‘you won’t be seeing him again?’
‘How could I possibly see him again?’
‘You could write to him,’ he said.
She walked with her hand in his; or, rather, since he resisted, with his hand in hers.
‘I’ve had no contact with him. Nor have I tried to get in touch,’ she said.
‘Does Mr Corrigan know?’ he asked.
‘What occurs between Mr Corrigan and me is not your concern,’ Mrs Corrigan said.
She walked along more quickly, drawing him with her. Yet with only a gas lamp to illuminate the lane, half-way along its length, she wasn’t sure of her step and stumbled, clutching his hand, drawing him to her: yet, having regained her balance, she thrust him away.
At the station, as they waited, she added, ‘I don’t understand why Mr Spencer invited you to stay at a time like this. He’s keeping his grief to himself. It’s self-defeating. He needs all the help he can get.’
‘He wants me there as a distraction,’ Bryan said. ‘He can’t bear to be alone in the house with Margaret, and can’t stand the friends she has from school. I’m the next best thing to a dog. Like I am at Chevet. Something that can be called on or ignored, whenever anyone chooses.’
‘Your life at Chevet hasn’t been like that at all,’ she said. And, after pacing up and down the deserted platform, she asked, ‘Is there any reason why I shouldn’t be attracted by another man? Do you want me to be absorbed in you entirely?’
Her expression was hidden by the brim of her hat and the shadows flung out by the station lamp.
The train appeared.
‘Last week was more than I could stand,’ Bryan said.
‘Was it any different for me?’ she asked.
‘It was all your doing,’ Bryan said.
She climbed into the carriage.
‘You don’t know what my feelings are,’ she said.
A whistle blew.
Her last words were lost as the train moved off.
All Bryan caught was the sound of his name.
On the Wednesday morning Mrs Spencer was buried; Bryan drove with the Corrigans in the car behind the one in which Margaret and her father were sitting: he could see the suited figure of the farmer sitting upright, stiff-necked, the straight-backed figure of his daughter beside him, her gaze, like her father’s fixed to the front.
At Feltham Church the coffin was lifted out, taken inside, brought out again, and buried in a clay-lined pit.
Bryan and Margaret, after a lunch at the Castle Inn, departed for school.
In the evening, when Bryan got back, the farmer talked not about the funeral, nor about his wife, nor about the Corrigans, not even about his life, but, curiously, about Bryan’s father. ‘He’s a funny man,’ he said. ‘He can’t say no to a pint, which doesn’t go against a man in my book,’ he raised his finger, ‘necessarily, but it went against his. I’ve seen him leave the Three Bells i’ the evening and many a time I’ve wondered if I’d see him back and Mary has said, “Shouldn’t you gev him a lift?” and I’ve said, “Gi’e him a lift and he’ll want it every neet.”’ The farmer laughed, leaning back from the table; he’d laughed, too, at the Castle Inn, and he laughed in much the same way now, and added, ‘he’s been late for work a time or two. I ne’er tipped a wink. I’ve watched him set off along that road, and thought, “He’ll be lucky if he gets home toneet,” and taken my cap off when he’s turned up next morning. “How’s thy do it, Arthur?” I’ve asked, and he’s said, “Do what, Mr Spencer?” bright as a penny, and never blinked an eye though I’ve known that he’s known that I’ve known he wa’ tippled the night afore. Remember the day thy pedalled here? He spent two months o’ lunchtimes on that bike, sanding it down and painting it i’ yon shed. If he’d worked as hard for me as he worked for hissen we wouldn’t be sitting here at present.’
Each time that he verged, in these reminiscences, on mentioning his wife, his gaze would turn to Margaret and, seeing an acknowledgement in her half-attentive face, he’d glance away and add, ‘He wa’re a good man. There wa’re alus summat behind him you could never put a finger on,’ leaning back, only, at the last moment, to draw himself forward, thrusting his arms at the table.
At the weekend he went back home to Stainforth; Alan was in the house, reading the morning paper, sitting in a chair with his legs across the arm: he looked up in surprise and said, ‘Kicked you out for good, or come back on a visit?’
‘I’ve come back for the weekend.’ He could see his last letter to his parents on the mantelpiece behind the clock, the torn lip of the envelope and the formality of the address, with the folded edge of the paper protruding from inside.
‘My mother’s out. My dad’s at work.’ Still his brother’s look persisted. ‘My mother was saying you were at the funeral.’ The newspaper dropped from his brother’s hand.
‘I went with the Corrigans,’ Bryan said.
In an adjoining chair was a carrier bag: as Bryan lifted it down he saw it contained a rolled-up towel, his brother’s boxing-boots and a packet of what looked like sandwiches, together with a flask.
‘Are you fighting?’
‘A little ’un.’ His brother laughed.
‘A little fight, or a little opponent?’
‘Both.’ He laughed again, straightening his body across the chair. ‘Did they have a beano after the funeral?’
‘They had a meal.’
‘Wheer?’
‘At the Castle Inn.’
Having set down his case and removed his brother’s bag, Bryan sat down, facing the fire which, from the freshness of the coal, had just been lit.
‘The Corrigans went?’
‘That’s right.’
‘How is she?’
‘All right.’
‘She wrote my mother a letter.’
‘What about?’
‘Putting her in the picture.’
Bryan’s gaze went b
ack to the clock.
‘It’s in her handbag, if you want to see it.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘She talks glowingly of you and says what a pillar of support you’ve been.’
The room was cold; he wondered why, in the circumstances, he’d troubled to come back: far better, he realized, to have gone to Chevet.
‘I slept in your bed last night,’ his brother said.
‘Why?’
‘I thought I’d have a change. You can sleep in mine, if you want,’ he added.
Bryan got up from the chair; he picked up his case and went to the stairs: he heard his brother poke the fire and, a few moments later, as he sat on his unmade bed and wondered which one of the two he ought to sleep in, his brother came in and stood in the door.
In the corner of the room, on the cupboard-top construction which marked the rising of the stairwell, was the first box of paints given him by Mrs Corrigan: something in the faded texture of the lid reminded him of the slightness of her build, of her querulous eyes, and in this featureless room – as austere in its own way as the one he had slept in at the Spencers’ – the feeling that he didn’t belong anywhere intensified.
‘How’s Spencer now his wife is dead?’
‘I don’t think he’s thought about it,’ Bryan said.
‘Did you see her?’
‘When?’
‘Afore she died.’
‘No,’ he said.
‘Did you see her after?’
His brother gripped the board at the end of the bed.
‘No.’
It was the tiny suitcase that absorbed his attention, absurd in its reproduction of the details of a larger case – the handle, the catches, the rectangular proportions, the sewing along the edge: a present from Mrs Corrigan at the beginning of his stay at Chevet.
‘My mother wa’re upset.’
‘Why?’
‘She used to know her.’
‘When?’
‘When my dad first worked theer. Mrs Spencer came to see her and give her some advice.’
The sneck sounded on the door below and he heard his mother’s step in the scullery, the setting down of a basket, a sigh, then a slow movement to the hall as she hung up her coat. ‘Alan?’ came her voice from the stairs.
‘We’re up here, Mother,’ Alan called.
A Prodigal Child Page 27