A Prodigal Child

by Storey, David;

  ‘Are you comfortable back there?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ he said, sitting – the case beside him – on the metal floor.

  Mr Proctor got in behind the wheel.

  ‘Are you all right, Fay?’ he asked, and started the engine. ‘All right, back there?’ he added.

  ‘All right,’ Bryan said.

  ‘See you, Bryan,’ Mr Spencer said, and added, ‘You, too, Fay, whenever you care to come.’

  ‘Cheerio, Freddie,’ Mr Proctor called and, lowering his window, shouted, ‘Don’t I get a kiss, then, Maggie?’

  ‘No thanks,’ came Margaret’s voice behind.

  ‘I may change my mind about coming back.’

  ‘I hope you will.’

  ‘I hoped I’d get some encouragement,’ the butcher announced, but already Margaret was moving back to the house and it was her father’s laugh that came from the window.

  ‘Are we leaving now,’ Mrs Corrigan said, ‘or are you stopping?’

  ‘Cheerio,’ Mr Spencer called and his figure was framed against the window as the van pulled out of the drive.

  ‘I wish I’d brought the horse and trap, Fay,’ Mr Proctor said. ‘Remember the old days? There wasn’t a gymkhana we didn’t visit. More than once,’ he added.

  ‘Do you normally drive at this slow speed?’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘Or can we get there quicker?’

  ‘I’m running it in, Fay,’ Mr Proctor said.

  The speed of the van increased.

  ‘Not that I’d hear a word against Harold,’ the butcher continued. ‘The best man won. I said it then and I say it now. Before witnesses,’ he added. ‘Do you remember that day at Snaresbrook? You looked a cracker. Everybody thought so.’ He glanced at Bryan. ‘The judges couldn’t take their eyes off her. Never mind the horse and trap. If we’d walked round that field we’d have come in first. I don’t think there’d have been a man objected. There might have been a woman, mind.’ He laughed, straining his bulk against the seat. ‘Mrs Corrigan was the prettiest woman for miles around. And everybody knew it. She wasn’t much more than a kitchen maid in those days but there wasn’t anyone theer who would have known it.’

  ‘I was a housekeeper,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘I trained,’ she added, ‘in household management.’

  Mr Proctor raised his hand. ‘You started as a scullery girl, Fay, at Spinney Top. I met a woman you worked for the other day. She still remembers. “That girl,” she said, “had the pick of the barrel.”’

  The van drew into the station yard; the moment it had stopped Mrs Corrigan got out.

  Mr Proctor, opening the rear door, lifted out the case.

  ‘What a woman,’ he said, helping Bryan down: when they crossed to the platform Mrs Corrigan was already standing at the opposite end, gazing off across the fields.

  ‘Millinery was her first ambition.’ He set Bryan’s case by his feet. ‘After she left this woman I was telling you about. She worked in a shop, a chemist’s, then, after a while, old Corrigan took a liking to her, after his wife had died. Purely platonic. She took one look at Harold, who was as shy in those days as he is at present, and thought, “If that isn’t a cloud with a silver lining, I don’t know what is.” Harold, in those days, being one of the best-known bachelors in town. Best known, tha knows, because he’d been around so long.’ He laughed, took out a handkerchief, and mopped his brow. ‘He’s certainly not half the man his father was. Corrigan’s has gone downhill since he took o’er.’

  Mrs Corrigan came back along the platform.

  Mr Proctor, surveying her figure, nodded as she passed, while Mrs Corrigan, reaching the opposite end of the platform, turned, paused and, conscious of his inspection, gazed off to the woods across the track. ‘She won’t mind me telling you this,’ he added, ‘but not many years ago I took a shop in town, not three or four doors above Corrigan’s, for she was in the habit of coming in each day, just after they married, to see old Harold. It cost a pretty penny, and I lost a fortune by keeping it open, but I stood at the window each morning, just to see her pass. I can’t tell you how much I looked forward to that moment, and I can’t tell you the pleasure it gave me, as it gives me now.’

  Mrs Corrigan tapped her toe against the platform, the shape of her extended ankle outlining the slenderness of the calf behind.

  ‘To watch your money drain away and the cause of it to pass your window every morning of the week would drive most men that I know mad. To me it wa’ worth every penny. Until she realized why I wa’ standing at the window, then she took to coming into town from the opposite direction. I sold up within a month and moved out to where I am at present.’

  Mrs Corrigan came down the platform: the sound of a whistle and a plume of smoke announced, beyond a belt of trees, the arrival of the train; she made an attempt to take Bryan’s case but Mr Proctor stooped down before her. ‘I’ll bring it along,’ he added.

  The platform reverberated as the engine passed.

  Most of the carriages were empty.

  Mr Proctor put down the case to open the door, indicating that Mrs Corrigan might go in before him.

  ‘Anything else I can do?’ he asked and shook Bryan’s hand. He was about to do the same with Mrs Corrigan when the station clerk came past.

  His case was lifted in. The door was closed.

  A whistle blew.

  The engine started.

  ‘Any time,’ he called through the window.

  His stocky figure disappeared.

  Mrs Corrigan crossed her legs.

  ‘The man’s a fool.’

  ‘He said he bought a shop,’ Bryan said, ‘in order to watch you pass.’

  ‘It’s the sort of thing he would do.’

  ‘It cost him a lot of money.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘Didn’t you mind him as a friend?’

  ‘He wasn’t a friend,’ she said, and added, ‘Why did you encourage him?’

  ‘I wanted to know what he thought of you.’

  ‘Like most men did in those days, Bryan.’

  ‘You drove in his horse and trap.’

  ‘I drove in lots of traps.’

  ‘Were you really a maid at Chevet?’

  After contemplating the fields outside she took his hand, glanced down, then, securing his hand more firmly, returned her gaze to the fields and laughed.

  TWENTY

  ‘We could stay in town,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘I’ve looked at the designs in Maplethorpe’s window.’

  ‘You never mentioned it,’ Mr Corrigan said.

  ‘I’ve mentioned it now.’ Mrs Corrigan smiled.

  ‘Do you have a place in mind?’ Mr Corrigan asked.

  ‘The Buckingham,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘I’ve always liked it.’

  ‘You’re not thinking of our moving there?’ Mr Corrigan said.

  ‘Temporarily.’

  Mrs Corrigan smiled again.

  The light from the candles, which had been lit for the evening meal, was reflected in Mr Corrigan’s eyes: the colour in his cheeks had deepened.

  ‘It sounds as if it’s decided, Fay,’ he said.

  In the kitchen a plate was dropped and sound of Mrs Meredith’s singing was interrupted.

  ‘There’s a green I’d like for the bedrooms.’

  ‘Upstairs as well?’ Mr Corrigan glanced at Bryan.

  ‘If we are to be at the Buckingham for several weeks, they might as well do the whole of it,’ Mrs Corrigan said.

  ‘Several weeks.’

  ‘That was Maplethorpe’s suggestion.’

  ‘I thought you only looked in the window,’ Mr Corrigan said.

  ‘There’s scarcely any point in my looking in the window if I don’t go in and get an estimate,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘You could go in tomorrow yourself and ask to see the colours.’

  ‘I shall.’

  ‘There’s a yellow that would go well in here and an ochre in the study.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘With brown pain
twork and a white relief.’

  ‘There’s little left for me to choose,’ Mr Corrigan observed.

  ‘These are only suggestions, Harold. They’re easily changed.’

  ‘We can’t afford it.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘I’d say so.’

  ‘There’s no point in sulking,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘The house needs doing. I’m sure you’ll agree.’

  Mr Corrigan glanced at the unblemished paintwork, at the unblemished ceiling, at the unstained wallpaper: finally, he glanced at Bryan.

  ‘The sooner it’s done the better, Harold.’

  ‘I’ll look in tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ve rung the Buckingham and booked a suite.’

  ‘Already?’

  ‘The Wellington,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘It has a central view and is least affected by the traffic.’

  Two weeks later they moved out of the house and into the Wellington Suite at the Buckingham Hotel. Bryan had a single room adjacent to the central sitting-room on the other side of which were the doors to the bathroom, to a dining-room, and to Mr and Mrs Corrigan’s bedrooms.

  On his first day there, when he came home from school, he stood on a balcony outside the sitting-room window: odd figures passed below, Mr Waterhouse, Miss Lightowler, Mr Berresford; he called out to one or two pupils from the school, Parkinson included, but none of them heard him above the roar of the traffic.

  A fire burned in the sitting-room grate and, shortly after his return, tea was served by a maid.

  ‘Isn’t it cosy?’ Mrs Corrigan said, as stimulated by the noise of the traffic as she was by the room itself – the flower-patterned chairs, the flower-patterned wallpaper, the flower-patterned draperies and carpets and curtains. ‘It’s like being at the seaside, or in a foreign city. We must travel, Bryan, when we get the time.’

  Yet Mrs Corrigan was scarcely ever there; when he left in the mornings she was invariably in bed and, if not asleep, disinclined to greet him and, when he came home in the afternoons, she was invariably in the tea-rooms below where, in an alcove opening off the central lobby, she entertained her friends.

  One afternoon he came home from school to find the check-suited figure of the butcher sitting by the fire. ‘There you are, Bryan,’ he said in a voice loud enough to be heard in the adjoining bedroom. A moment later Mrs Corrigan appeared, her make-up freshly done, and said, ‘There you are. You’ve just missed tea.’ A tray stood on a table by the window. ‘I have to go out. If you want tea, ring,’ indicating the telephone as she drew on a coat.

  ‘Are you coming back soon?’ he asked her.

  ‘I may be late,’ she said. ‘Mr Proctor dropped by. He can see me down.’ Not once did she look in his direction. ‘Don’t wait up,’ she added while outside, on the landing, Mr Proctor wheezed.

  Without glancing back, she closed the door.

  It was long after Mr Corrigan had gone to bed that he heard the closing of the outer door; by the time he’d got out of bed Mrs Corrigan had gone through to her bedroom and though he walked slowly up and down, creaking the floorboards, and switching on the light, she didn’t come out: only once, faintly, did he hear, as if yawning, or singing, the murmur of her voice.

  ‘How is that great oaf?’ Mr Corrigan asked the following morning.

  ‘As usual,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘He was only here for three or four minutes. By coincidence, at tea-time. If Bryan hadn’t have arrived he’d have insisted on staying longer. The two of us soon got rid of him.’

  ‘How did the meeting go last night?’ Mr Corrigan asked. ‘Anything of interest?’

  ‘The usual,’ Mrs Corrigan replied.

  ‘Anyone I know?’

  ‘One or two. I doubt if I’ll go again,’ she added.

  ‘How did Proctor know we were staying here?’ Mr Corrigan asked.

  ‘He frequents the bar and saw you passing through.’ Shadows darkened the skin beneath each eye: her cheeks were sallow, the corners of her mouth turned down.

  ‘I thought you’d been drinking when you came in.’ Mr Corrigan, who was standing at the window, glanced down at the street.

  ‘These meetings wouldn’t be complete without refreshment,’ Mrs Corrigan said.

  ‘Much?’ Mr Corrigan said. ‘Or little?’

  ‘We called at the Settle.’

  ‘The Settle?’ Mr Corrigan raised his head from his inspection of the street below.

  ‘A club that one of the members belongs to.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Nothing the least improper.’

  ‘I’m sure it isn’t,’ Mr Corrigan said.

  ‘I did feel tired, as a matter of fact.’ She glanced at Bryan. ‘It was nearly midnight by the time I got in.’

  ‘Aren’t you enjoying staying here, Fay?’ Mr Corrigan asked.

  ‘I am enjoying it.’ Mrs Corrigan flushed.

  ‘We’re not obliged to stay,’ Mr Corrigan said. ‘The decorators could work around us.’

  ‘I’d prefer to stay, Harold,’ Mrs Corrigan said, and added, ‘I thought I might go out this evening.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To a friend’s. It was just a suggestion.’

  ‘Will you be late?’

  ‘I might.’

  The panes in the window rattled; a coal fell in the fire.

  ‘It makes very dull company in the evening, Fay,’ Mr Corrigan said.

  ‘I thought it would be a change to have dinner by yourselves.’ She indicated Bryan.

  ‘I thought you were feeling tired,’ Mr Corrigan said.

  ‘I’ll brighten up when I get some fresh air.’ Mrs Corrigan flushed more deeply.

  ‘And dull company, too, for Bryan,’ Mr Corrigan continued.

  ‘I’m sure one evening, or even two, won’t upset Bryan unduly,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘Why not go down to the bar? There’s bound to be someone you know.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Mr Corrigan said.

  ‘With living so far out at Chevet you’ve forgotten what sociability can do,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘You’d be surprised whom you’d meet, if you went this evening.’

  ‘Stan Proctor.’

  She crossed to the bedroom.

  ‘There’s bound to be someone you know. The Buckingham is a place where everyone meets.’

  ‘Will you be there?’ Mr Corrigan asked.

  The bedroom door was closed.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to go out, too?’ Mr Corrigan asked Bryan that evening. ‘I could give you the money for the pictures.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ he said.

  ‘Are you going to bed?’ Mr Corrigan asked.

  ‘I thought I’d go for a walk,’ Bryan said, having opened his door and taken his coat.

  ‘Like me to come with you?’ Mr Corrigan asked.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t fancy this hotel,’ Mr Corrigan said as they went down in the lift. ‘Let’s try my club.’

  They walked through the darkened streets together.

  ‘It’s called the Liberal,’ Mr Corrigan added, ‘though there aren’t many Liberals left. Only one or two like me.’

  Stone steps led up to a stone-flagged hall; wood-panelled doors opened off on either side. ‘At one time a businessman in this town could spend half his working day in here. On that side a restaurant, on the other a library. Offices now,’ he added.

  They ascended a flight of stairs; a room opened out beyond a pair of double doors: chairs, the majority upholstered, were arranged along its length. At the far end, surmounted by a mirror, stood a stone-flanked fireplace. There was a smell of damp, of cigarette smoke, and a faint aroma of coffee.

  A man in a white jacket and black trousers moved amongst the chairs: in one a man was sleeping, in another a figure looked up as Bryan entered; a man was playing cards on a folded table.

  Mr Corrigan ordered a drink; a glass of lemonade was brought for Bryan.

  ‘It used to be the legal district.’ Mr Corrigan waved his arm to the tall, framed
windows. ‘Dentists came in next. Even a barber. After that,’ he waved his arm again, ‘it went to pieces.’

  He turned in his chair, finished his drink, and ordered another.

  ‘The first time my father brought me here I wasn’t much older than you. A Minister had come up from London to explain the extension of the franchise. All I remember is a crowd of men who seemed at the time on the verge of a riot.’ He raised his glass. ‘It was the centre of enlightenment in those days. All it is now is an evening’s retreat for,’ he counted up the figures, ‘six men and a boy who have no home to go to.’

  He consumed his second drink and ordered a third. He asked for another. A man called out across the room; Mr Corrigan laughed. After the fourth drink Bryan decided he had never seen Mr Corrigan look so happy.

  ‘Have you ever had the feeling you’d like to run away?’

  ‘Where to?’ Bryan asked.

  ‘Anywhere.’

  Bryan shook his head.

  ‘I often felt the temptation when I was young. I got up one morning, bought a ticket for the first train that turned up at the station, and set off for a place I’d never heard of. A seaside town.’ He raised his glass, finished it, and gave indications to the white-coated figure across the room that he’d like another. ‘One place is very much like the next. You take your problems with you and, in the vacuum of an unknown place, they only multiply and become more insoluble than they were before.’

  The empty glass was taken away and replaced a moment later; a figure stirred across the room. In the darkened panes Bryan could see his own reflection.

  ‘For you,’ Mr Corrigan said, ‘the future is an open book, with the pages, as yet, unwritten on. For me, at your age, I knew what I would have to do, whether I cared for it or not.’ He finished his drink. ‘My father’s son. Whereas for you,’ he concluded, ‘everything is different.’

  The door opened; a figure came inside: dressed in an overcoat, a hat in its hand, it glanced round, noted the several faces, glanced at Mr Corrigan and then at Bryan, then at Bryan again, and went back out.

  Mr Corrigan smiled; having drained his glass he didn’t ask for it to be replenished: he examined his shoes, one foot raised above the other.

  The leather shone, the laces neatly fastened.

  In the window Bryan examined their two faces and, for the first time, realized that, superficially, he might easily have been mistaken for Mr Corrigan’s son: the same gauntness, the same dark eyes, the same sallowness in the evening light.