TEN

Alan jangled the coins in his pocket: he glanced up Spinney Moor Avenue, he glanced at the arcade of shops, at the Empire Cinema, the foyer of which was lit for the children’s matinée, at the Spinney Moor Hotel, in front of which several cars were parked. ‘What’s that you’ve got?’

‘Pictures.’

A roll of paintings, covered by a sheet of newspaper, he carried in his hand.

‘They want some more, then, do they?’

‘I’ve done them some.’

‘What’s she like?’

‘All right.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘He’s very tall.’

When, finally, a bus came into sight, his brother didn’t move; it was Bryan who put out his hand and only when the bus slowed did Alan glance up in recognition.

They sat downstairs; his brother handed over the money for the tickets then gazed out at the houses and gardens before the larger buildings of the town began. Finally, as the bus reached the summit of the central hill, he got up and stood at the door, ready to jump off before it halted.

They walked through the narrow streets, crowded with afternoon shoppers, to a stop immediately below the gate of All Saints Church. The clock chimed out a quarter to four and, never having paused by the church, Bryan gazed up at its tall, dog-toothed spire, crowned, against the cloud, with a gold-coloured cockerel, and at the massive white, black-segmented, black-handed face of the clock itself.

‘It’ll take longer than fifteen minutes. Thy’ll never make it.’ His brother had never been out to Chevet himself and had asked someone in the queue if they were waiting at the proper stop. When the bus drew up it was already crowded.

They stood downstairs, hemmed in by shoppers.

‘Can you tell us where to get off for Carlton Drive?’ Alan asked the conductor who, taking the fares, answered over his shoulder.

‘That’s Corrigan’s,’ his brother added, indicating a façade of shops outside but, through the intervening heads and shoulders, Bryan merely caught a glimpse of a blur of faces.

The bus rattled on; they crossed the river, and started up the valley side: beyond the nearest roofs lay a stretch of woodland.

The bus emptied; soon, but for one other passenger, they were the only ones downstairs.

The conductor sat across the aisle, counting the money from his bag and checking his tickets.

‘Is this Chevet?’ his brother asked as the first of several houses came into sight.

‘Chevet it is.’

‘Where’s Carlton Drive?’

‘You the ones for Carlton Drive?’ He reached up for the bell as the other passengers got up. ‘Two stops on.’

The houses, each enclosed by trees, stood back from a central green.

The bus passed on, turned into a narrow lane, and descended the slope the other side.

‘Here’s Carlton Drive.’ The conductor rang the bell.

‘Is there a stop for coming back?’ his brother said.

‘We’ll be coming back,’ the conductor said, ‘in ten or fifteen minutes.’

A stream passed beneath the parapet of a stone-walled bridge: it flowed through a narrow valley, shrouded with trees. At the side of the stream a road wound up the valley side.

They passed between a row of wooden bollards: houses looked out across the valley.

‘Do you still want to go?’ His brother gazed up at the massive windows. ‘They must be millionaires up here.’

In one of the drives a car was parked; a man in uniform leaned over the bonnet.

‘Which is the Corrigans’?’ he added.

Bryan consulted the paper in his pocket.

‘It’s called “Aloma”.’

‘Let’s have a look.’

His brother had read the address before setting off; now he examined it more intently.

‘Don’t they have a number?’

‘It doesn’t give one.’

They passed a house entitled ‘Riviera’, its name embellished in gold lettering on the metal gates: a drive curled off across a terraced lawn: at the front of a large stone façade stood several cars.

‘You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.’

‘They’re expecting me.’

‘Perhaps they thought you wouldn’t come.’ His brother gazed up at a stone mansion, shrouded by trees, the drive to which was approached by a pair of metal gates.

‘This is it.’

A lawn swept up to a stone-built terrace; beyond, square windows were inset with leaded glass.

‘It might have been politeness.’

‘What politeness?’

‘Inviting you. They wouldn’t expect you to come.’

A metal-studded door was inset within a pillared porch.

‘Are you going up?’

‘I think so.’

He stepped past his brother and started to the drive.

‘Do you want me to come up with you?’

His brother still stood at the open gate; something of the incongruity of his appearance struck Bryan at last: the ill-fitting coat, the trousers which, from a distance, appeared too large, the dishevelled stockings, the bent wings of his collar – his hair, which he had neatly brushed and which, by its neatness, lent an air of absurdity to his half-anxious figure.

‘No.’ He started up the drive.

His brother was still standing there when he reached the door.

A flight of stone steps ran up to the porch: to one side, in a brass surround, was a white-buttoned bell.

He knocked.

A key was turned and the door drawn back.

A woman in a black dress gazed out; she wore a small white apron.

Then, with narrow features and large brown eyes, she glanced over his head to the garden behind.

‘Bryan? We thought you’d got lost.’

The door was opened wider.

‘Come in.’ She stooped to take his coat. ‘Did you come on the bus?’

‘We were late catching it,’ Bryan said.

‘Someone brought you?’

‘My brother.’

‘Is he outside?’

‘He’ll have gone now.’

‘That was kind of him,’ she said.

A broad staircase swept up to a banistered landing.

‘You can look at a book Mrs Corrigan’s bought you. Come into the sitting-room.’ The woman led the way to a door at the end of the hall.

A grand piano stood beside a window; beyond the window a garden, enclosed by flower beds, stretched down to a clump of trees: the roofs and chimneys of another house were visible beyond.

Several chairs were arranged in front of a fire; on one of them, a settee, lay a picture book with a galleon on the cover.

Bryan sat down.

The woman closed the door; he could hear her voice calling from the foot of the stairs.

Feet echoed as they crossed a wooden floor.

The walls of the room stretched up to a decorated ceiling; a frieze of plaster leaves and flowers encircled the lampshade at the centre.

He opened the book, examined the drawings, of ships at sea, of figures fighting, read the heading to one of the chapters, ‘Barnabus Strikes Back’, and, stooping, smelled the ink.

Above the fireplace hung a picture of cattle standing in water at the edge of a lake. Below it, on the mantelpiece, stood several photographs in wooden frames.

The fire crackled; it had been lit for some time, the redness reflected on the tiles of the hearth and on the stone projections enclosing the grate.

To the side of the fireplace, on a bamboo table, stood a wireless plugged to the wall.

The door opened; a woman dressed in a dark-green skirt and a dark-green jacket came in: her face glowed, its features caught by the light from the window and by the redness of the fire.

‘Bryan.’

A smell of perfume filled the room.

‘We thought we’d have to come and find you.’

‘I came on the bus,’ he said.

‘And with your brother. You should have brought him in as well.’

She took his hand and, sitting on the settee beside him, added, ‘What are those?’

‘I’ve brought you some pictures.’

‘You have been prolific.’ She removed the elastic band. ‘We wondered if it were the right thing to send.’ She unrolled the sheets of paper. ‘I shall have to look at these more closely.’ After glancing at the top one she put them down. ‘Have you seen your book?’

She picked it up.

‘Barnabus and the Pirates. I thought I might read you a story. Mr Corrigan isn’t home from work, but when he comes we can have some tea. Then, when you go, you can take it with you.’

Her head erect, her back straight, she turned the pages.

‘Do you mind my reading?’ she added.

‘No,’ he said.

‘If Mr Corrigan isn’t back, I can show you round the house.’

From a table beside the settee she picked up a pair of glasses.

‘“Barnabus,”’ she read, “was sitting at his desk and wondering what he could do at the beginning of the holidays. His parents were away and the house was in the charge of Mrs Kay.”’ She paused. ‘You’ve met Mrs Meredith? She was the lady at the door.’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Did you like her?’

‘Yes.’

‘She has children of her own, who are now grown up.’ She read again, ‘“He stared out of the window to where the path ran down to the cliff.”’

Her knees were turned towards him and glistened with the redness of the fire. On her feet, matching the greenness of her skirt, were a pair of green-coloured slippers: they were tucked beneath her so that the weight of her feet rested on her toes.

On the lapel of the jacket she wore a brooch and, beneath the jacket, a white-coloured blouse: a button secured its collar and a row of buttons ran down the front.

Above each blue eye was a smear of colour; her mouth was reddened; flecks of powder showed round her nose.

The curls of hair were shaped in ringlets and danced to and fro, her head raised then lowered to emphasize the effect of someone speaking.

Her forehead glowed.

At no point, while she read, did she glance in his direction; once she glanced at the fire, sideways, still speaking, and once, lifting her head, she glanced at her nails.

She closed the book with a snap.

A smell of scent was mixed with the smell of the ink and the paper.

‘That was good!’

On the settee, beside her, were the rolled-up pictures and, dropping the book on top, she added, ‘Anyone you recognize?’

She stood and, from the mantelpiece, lifted down a photograph.

A familiar face gazed out from beneath the peak of a riding hat. Margaret was wearing a pair of jodhpurs; in her hand she carried a crop.

She put the photograph down, picked up another, put it down, then picked up a third.

Again, the familiar face gazed out: this time, in the company of Mrs Spencer, Margaret was frowning; she wore a dress and her hair was parted in the middle and arranged in plaits, one of which hung over her shoulder. Mrs Spencer was smiling – her eyes so nervously alive, that, seeing their two figures together, he was drawn to the conclusion that the mother and the daughter had little if anything in common and that, curiously, gazing at the shyness of the smiling face, Mrs Spencer was as much a child as the figure frowning beside her.

Yet, more than any of the photographs, more than any reassurance these glimpses of Mrs Spencer and Margaret might have given him, Bryan was conscious of the hand which held the frames, small, white-skinned, delicately fingered, the nails rounded – and painted so lightly that, at first glance, he assumed the pinkness to be their natural colour.

Inside the wrist he glimpsed her vein, ringed by a bracelet and disappearing beneath the buttoned sleeve of the blouse.

Her hand came down.

‘Mr Spencer doesn’t like having his picture taken. Nor did he,’ she added, ‘as a boy.’ She laughed; an exhalation of perfume came down as she raised her arm. ‘Nor does Margaret. She takes after her father, whereas Mrs Spencer likes it.’ She paused. ‘Do you like Mrs Spencer?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘She’s so hard-working. She has so much to do I can never keep track.’ Having replaced the photographs on the mantelpiece, she added, ‘She hasn’t a minute to herself, which I suppose is the lot of a farmer’s wife. I wouldn’t like the job myself.’

Bryan glanced up at the red-cheeked face, at the lipsticked mouth, at the froth of curls above the green-coloured jacket, and Mrs Corrigan, catching his expression, smiled and said, ‘I have no children of my own, otherwise there’d be someone here for you to play with.’ She clasped his hand. ‘I must show you where we’ve hung your picture.’

At the door she called across the hall, ‘I’m just taking Bryan up, Rose. We’ll give Mr Corrigan a few more minutes,’ at which a voice called from a room at the back, ‘Tea’s ready, Mrs Corrigan, whenever you want it.’

The voice was replaced a few moments later by the sound of singing.

They mounted the stairs; doors ran off from the banistered landing: a stained-glass window cast a tinted glow across the polished floor on either side of a broadly-fitted carpet.

‘This is my bedroom.’ Mrs Corrigan turned to a door which was already open and pushed it back.

A double bed faced a pair of curtained windows; through the windows he could see the trees at the front of the house.

‘I keep my clothes through here.’

She crossed to a door the other side; a small room was lined with cupboards, one of which Mrs Corrigan opened.

Dresses, in a multitude of colours, hung from a metal rail; in an adjacent cupboard, in varying colours and a variety of styles, hung a number of coats.

Beneath a window stood a dressing-table with a mirror, hinged at either end. A round mirror stood on a pedestal before it.

On the top of the dressing-table were arranged a number of boxes and bottles; several brushes were set side by side on a glass-bottomed tray.

‘This is my den.’

Reflected in the mirror, and echoed in the wing mirrors at either end, he saw Mrs Corrigan smile.

‘Where I put myself together, Bryan.’

She opened a second cupboard; skirts and dresses hung from a rail and, beneath the rail, arranged on metal racks, stood innumerable pairs of shoes.

She drew out a dress.

‘Do you like it?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘One of those I bought the day we met.’

She held it to the light, then drew it against her.

‘Margaret is right. I’m putting on weight.’

‘I don’t think you’re fat,’ Bryan said.

‘Don’t you?’

She laughed, gazing down at him, and added, ‘If there’s one thing I’m looking for, it’s praise. That’s kind of you to say so.’

She put the dress back, closed the cupboard door, touched her hair lightly and, taking his hand, drew him back once more to the bedroom and out to the landing.

At a door adjacent to the stained-glass window they entered a room which was occupied by a single bed; a cupboard and a wardrobe stood on either side of a window facing the bed and, beneath the window, stood a desk and a chair.

On the wall facing the door was a fireplace, surrounded by tiles and above which, pinned to the wall, was his picture of Mrs Corrigan.

‘This is the guest-room. Perhaps you can stay here one day.’

She examined the picture herself.

‘It’s Mrs Meredith’s favourite. She wanted to hang it in the kitchen but I thought the damp might spoil it.’ She smiled. ‘Everyone admires the likeness.’

She gestured to the room.

‘Do you like it?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

The ceiling, because of its height, and the heavy curtaining of the window, was enclosed in shadow; a frieze of plaster leaves and flowers ran round the top of the walls.

Through the window he could see the garden, the trees and the shrubs and, beyond the trees, the rear windows of a house.

‘You can see the moors from here.’

She drew the curtain aside.

Fields ran off from one side of the house and, beyond an intervening barrier of trees and the roof of an adjacent house, rose a darker, undulating line.

‘That’s Chevet Common. The line beyond is Chevet Moor. Have you ever been up?’

‘No,’ he said.

‘It’s wild. You’ll like it. It’s very pretty. Lots of lovely views up there.’

They returned to the landing.

‘That’s Mr Corrigan’s room. This is the bathroom. You don’t want to use it by any chance?’

‘No,’ he said.

‘This is another spare bedroom. Mrs Meredith stays there if we’re having guests and it’s too late to go back to the village. Do you know Chevet?’

‘No,’ he said.

‘We’ll have to show you. It’s got lovely houses. Mrs Meredith has a cottage there.’

The sound of a car came from the front of the house and a moment later there was a knock on a door.

‘That’ll be Lawson’s. I’ve asked them not to drive up to the house, but they still insist on coming.’

She paused by a door at the back of the hall. A murmur of voices came from the other side: a door slammed; a few moments later a car engine was revved at the front of the house.

Mrs Corrigan opened the door and they entered a square-shaped kitchen.

A large table occupied the centre of the floor; a window, beyond it, looked out to the garden.

On the table stood a cardboard box from the top of which protruded a number of packets.

Standing at a stove across the room was the tall, black-dressed figure of Mrs Meredith.

She wore a coloured apron.

‘I’ve told him not to drive up to the house,’ Mrs Corrigan said.

‘I’ve told him, Mrs Corrigan. He says it’s too heavy to carry from the gate.’ She turned to the sink and carried a bowl to the table.

Beside the cardboard box stood a pan of peeled potatoes, a pan of carrots and, on a wooden block, a cabbage which had been cut in half.

Mrs Meredith smiled at Bryan; she had begun cutting up the cabbage, first into quarters, then into eighths, then she placed the leaves in the bowl of water.

‘How are you liking your visit, Bryan?’

‘I’ve been reading him a story, Rose,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘And showing him his picture.’

‘My favourite.’ Mrs Meredith came round the table, pouting her lips and kissing his cheek.

She passed by him to a door, disappeared inside, and came out a moment later with a piece of meat.

‘How is dinner coming on, Rose?’

‘Another hour,’ she said, ‘and we’ll be under way.’

She placed the meat on the table.

‘Three hours from now, Mrs Corrigan, and dinner will be served.’

‘Shall we have tea now, or wait for Mr Corrigan?’ Mrs Corrigan asked.

‘Oh, we’ll give him a few minutes,’ Mrs Meredith said. ‘I thought it was him when I heard Lawson’s van. I had the kettle on the gas and now I’ve turned it off again!’

She laughed, her gaunt face with its large brown eyes turned once more in Bryan’s direction.

‘Play him one of your songs, Ma’am, I’m sure he won’t have heard them,’ she added. ‘As for tea, it’ll all carry through.’

They returned to the hall.

‘It’s difficult for Mr Corrigan to get back on Saturdays,’ she said. ‘It’s the busiest day of the week. On the other hand, he would have rung up if he couldn’t get.’

She indicated a telephone standing on a table by the foot of the stairs.

‘Let me show you his study.’

She opened a door with a large brass handle.

The interior was occupied by a large square desk, the top of which was inlaid with leather; two windows looked out to the front of the house.

The walls adjacent to the desk were lined with books; over a mantelpiece hung a framed photograph, several feet in length, across the foot of which was arranged a group of men in long white aprons, with a second standing group behind and, in the background, two large, bow-shaped windows above which, in large lettering, was painted, ‘Corrigan and Sons’.

‘This is Mr Corrigan’s study.’

Mrs Corrigan rearranged a blotter; she rearranged a ruler, an ink-stand, a paper-knife and a rack containing pencils.

‘And this is where we shall have tea,’ she added, returning to the door, closing it behind them, and opening a door across the hall.

Beneath two curtained windows stood a long rectangular table.

One end of the table had been laid with a cloth: in the centre of the cloth stood several bowls, a cake, and a plate of jelly designed in the shape of a rabbit.

A fire glowed in a marble-fronted grate.

‘Do you like salmon?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Those are the sandwiches Mrs Meredith has made. Also a jelly.’ She indicated the red-shaped mound standing by the cake. ‘Mrs Spencer was telling me when you went to tea at the farm you were taken ill.’

‘Yes.’

‘I hope it’s not a habit.’

‘No.’

‘If you’d like to look at your book I’ll telephone Mr Corrigan and see if he’s left.’

They returned to the sitting-room and Mrs Corrigan went out to the hall.

Her voice came a moment later from beyond the door.

He sat down, pulled up his stockings, and gazed at the fire.

Through Mrs Corrigan’s voice came the more distant sound of Mrs Meredith singing.

Then, from the front of the house, came the sound of a car.

‘There he is now,’ Mrs Corrigan called and, a moment later, the front door was opened and he heard Mrs Corrigan add, ‘I was just ringing, Harold, to see where you were.’

‘Delayed,’ came Mr Corrigan’s voice followed, after a further moment, by the sound of a kiss. ‘Has Bryan arrived?’

‘In the sitting-room.’

‘Have you shown him his book?’

‘I’ve read him a story.’

‘Seen his picture?’

‘He has.’

‘Not missed tea?’

‘Not yet.’

The door opened.

‘Here we are,’ Mrs Corrigan added.

Mr Corrigan followed her in.

‘Here he is, is he?’ he said. ‘Found us without too much trouble, did he?’

‘His brother brought him up.’

‘Did he?’

Mr Corrigan wore a dark-grey suit in the buttonhole of which was a large red flower: his tie, also red, protruded conspicuously from a stiff white collar.

‘We thought of meeting you in town and giving you a lift,’ he added, shaking Bryan’s hand, his features lightened in their gravity by the glow from the fire. ‘Then, at the last moment, it proved too late to write you a letter. We trusted you’d find your way, after the initiative you showed in mending our tyre.’

‘I told you we’d get our own back, Bryan,’ Mrs Corrigan said, and added, ‘When Mr Corrigan is ready we can have some tea.’

‘Oh, I shan’t be a moment,’ Mr Corrigan said. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this tea all day. I’ve been saving up for it, as a matter of fact.’ One dark eye was closed while the other remained fixed on Bryan. ‘I don’t often have tea,’ he added. ‘So I thought I’d miss out on lunch.’

He disappeared to the hall.

‘And these are your pictures,’ Mrs Corrigan said, retrieving the roll from the settee. ‘Mr Corrigan and I can look at them later. Do you want to take your book with you, or will you leave it here?’

‘I’ll take it with me,’ Bryan said.

As they turned to the door Mrs Corrigan laughed, and said, ‘I meant, take it in to tea. Mr Corrigan hasn’t seen it yet.’

‘I’ll take it with me,’ he said, confused, and they returned to the hall and from there to the room where the tea was laid.

Mrs Corrigan took her own place facing Bryan, the chair between them, at the end of the table, left for Mr Corrigan.

Mrs Meredith came in.

‘See he leaves none of it behind. I don’t want to see any left,’ she said. ‘Nor any of that jelly.’

‘We’ve waited long enough, Rose,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘I’m sure he’ll do it justice.’

‘Justice is all I ask.’ Mrs Meredith smiled and, after the door had closed, Mrs Corrigan said, ‘Rose has a charming sense of fun. She can’t resist a joke, and is especially fond of children,’ and added, ‘You’re the first young person we’ve invited to tea for a very long time.’

The door reopened, Mr Corrigan came in: he took his place at the table, bowed his head, placed his hands together and, waiting for Bryan and Mrs Corrigan to do the same, said, ‘For what we are about to receive may the Good Lord make us truly grateful.’

‘Amen,’ Mrs Corrigan said.

‘Amen,’ Mr Corrigan and Bryan said together, the former handing the plate of sandwiches to Mrs Corrigan, then to Bryan, and adding, ‘Now, then, let’s see if, between the three of us, we can’t make a hole in this.’