TWELVE

‘You can have another one. I don’t have to save any until after.’

His hand crumpled the paper inside the box, drew out another chocolate and, not familiar with the shape, he bit it, tasted something soft, sucked it quickly, then swallowed it.

The light flickered in its passage through the smoke-filled air.

‘Do you like Ginger Rogers?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘She’s pretty.’

‘Yes.’

Periodically she pulled herself upright, depressing the back of his seat as well as her own, pushing her legs sideways, their knees colliding, at which, sharply, she whispered, ‘Sorry!’

He didn’t like the dancing figures; yet the warmth of the cinema was sufficient to distract him and, on each occasion that the screen was filled with a gigantic head in which the mouth opened like a cavern and the lips tremored and the teeth were bared, he gazed up at the larger orifice of the stage itself. In addition, there were the chocolates and the intermittent bustling in the seat beside him, the hissed, ‘Sorry!’ and the occasional, ‘Do you like her dress?’ Perhaps it was the smell of the perfumed box of chocolates which reminded him of Mrs Corrigan but, in each made-up face, bright with lipstick, powder and rouge, with its sparkling, pencilled-in eyes, he struggled to identify her features.

‘You didn’t have to come if you didn’t want to,’ Margaret said as they came out to the foyer.

‘I wanted to,’ he said.

‘You were wriggling all the time.’

‘You were.’

‘I was wriggling, if I was, because I was excited.’

‘I didn’t know I was wriggling.’

‘You were.’

He saw how her mouth was streaked with chocolate and he wondered, as he wiped his own, at the propriety of pointing it out to her, or whether it might be better if she discovered it herself.

‘You’ve got chocolate on your mouth.’

‘Have I?’ Instantly a handkerchief was taken from her pocket and she rubbed her cheek. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I have told you.’

‘Earlier.’

‘I’ve only just seen it.’

‘Is it off?’

He examined her mouth.

‘I think so.’

‘Honestly!’

She returned the handkerchief to her pocket.

‘Where did you get the chocolates?’ he asked.

‘Mummy knows someone who keeps a shop.’

She was gazing about her, still standing on the steps.

‘Is your father meeting you?’ he said.

‘No.’ Having pulled on her beret, she added, ‘He says I have to show you to your stop.’

‘I know the way.’

‘It’s what he said.’

They walked up the hill which led past the church to the Bull Ring. Over her shoulder she carried her satchel and in her hand the box of chocolates.

The invitation to go to the cinema had been brought by his father, and the money to go had been saved for over two weeks. However, the coins were still in his pocket and all he had spent was his fare on the bus.

‘That’s Uncle Harold’s shop.’

Two plate-glass windows, bevelled outwards, flanked, between them, a glass-panelled door. Bryan identified, inside the panes, the shape of a table.

‘It’s very expensive.’ Margaret breathed on the glass. ‘Even Daddy can’t afford it.’

‘Who can afford to buy it?’ Bryan said.

‘Only the best.’ She raised her head. ‘There’s an upstairs as well.’

‘Have you been in?’

‘Once or twice.’ She indicated a passage at the side. ‘That goes down to the workshop. They make the furniture as well.’

They continued up the hill.

‘How did you like Aunt Fay?’ she added.

‘I like her,’ Bryan said.

‘She’s very nervous.’

‘Why nervous?’

‘Mummy says she’s nervous. She’s very tense.’

‘I hadn’t noticed,’ Bryan said.

‘She’s like a child.’

They walked in silence; vehicles edged up and down the hill, the headlights casting glimmerings on the road which were reflected in the panes of the shops on either side. A figure passed them on the pavement.

‘She likes you,’ she added.

‘Why?’

‘You tell me.’ She hummed a tune from the film, then added, ‘Daddy says I shouldn’t have invited you to the cinema and Mummy says I should.’

‘Why shouldn’t you?’

‘He says I shouldn’t encourage you.’

They were almost opposite her stop; the outline of the church dominated the slope at the top of the hill.

‘Perhaps she can’t have children,’ Margaret added.

‘Why not?’

‘Some women can’t. It’s to do with their insides. Why else,’ she added, ‘should she invite you?’

It was a thought which had preoccupied Bryan himself and the only conclusion he had come to was that Mrs Corrigan was aware of who he was.

‘Do you like going to see her?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you hoping she’ll leave you something when she dies?’

‘Is she going to die?’

‘When she dies.’ Margret added, ‘Uncle Harold wouldn’t allow it.’

‘Why wouldn’t he?’

‘He thinks she’s making a fool of herself.’

She stepped aside to allow someone to pass; a moment later a voice said, ‘Why, Margaret! What on earth are you doing here?’

‘Hello, Aunt,’ Margaret said. ‘We’ve been to the pictures.’

Mrs Corrigan’s face was invisible beneath the brim of a hat. ‘What film have you been to?’ she asked.

‘The Regal.’

‘I was meeting Mr Corrigan there,’ she said. ‘I’ve just come up to town on the bus.’

‘We went after school.’ Margaret glanced down the hill as if, despite the coincidence of their meeting, she were wishing her aunt to go.

‘Is it worth seeing?’

‘I enjoyed it very much. Bryan didn’t. Except for the news.’

‘Are you on your way home?’

‘I’ll catch the bus when I’ve seen Bryan to his stop,’ Margaret said.

‘That’s kind of you.’ Mrs Corrigan stooped to Bryan to see him more closely.

‘I was told I had to,’ Margaret said.

‘I’m wondering whether I shouldn’t see you on to yours,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘Wandering around in the dark at this time. I’m surprised your mother allows it.’

‘I’ve done it before,’ Margaret said.

‘Did they know it would finish as late as this?’

‘Mummy suggested it,’ Margaret said.

‘And you’ve been into town on your own before?’

‘Often.’

‘It can’t be often.’

‘If I have to stay behind at school it’s often dark by the time I get back.’

‘Only in winter.’

‘I like it darker.’

‘Do you?’

Still she stood there.

‘I’d still better see you to your bus.’

‘I don’t mind,’ Margaret said. ‘There’s one coming now, as a matter of fact.’ As the glow of the vehicle appeared from behind the church and its headlights focused on the cobbled slope, she added, ‘What about Bryan?’

‘I’ll see him to his,’ Mrs Corrigan said.

Bryan was conscious of Margaret’s gaze as she turned to the bus and, the next instant, Mrs Corrigan had grasped their hands and was leading them across the road.

‘Good night, Aunt,’ Margaret said once they’d reached the other side. ‘I’ll tell Mother I saw you.’

‘Take care the other end,’ Mrs Corrigan said.

‘I shall.’

Margaret mounted the bus: her white stockings flashed against the metal steps then, with a run, she disappeared to the upper deck.

‘That’s one girl where charity goes astray,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘Where’s your stop, Bryan?’ she added.

‘It’s in the Bull Ring.’

‘Stainforth estate. Which do you have, the Town Road or the Moor Top bus?’

‘The Town Road.’

She turned along the pavement, holding his hand. ‘I used to travel by bus a great deal when I was younger. The Moor Top bus especially.’

‘Did you live at Moor Top?’ Bryan asked, for this was the area beyond Stainforth, beyond the church, the school and the hospital, where several larger houses stood.

‘I travelled up there almost every day. But things have changed a great deal since then.’

They passed round the darkened edifice of the church and, by a shop-enclosed lane, entered the triangulated area of the Bull Ring. A bus from the Town Road stop was pulling out.

‘There, then, that’s a nuisance,’ she said. ‘How long to the next one?’

‘I can wait,’ Bryan said. One or two other people, running up to the stop, were gazing after the bus themselves.

‘I can’t leave you on your own,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘Now you’re in my charge.’ She stepped back into the doorway of a shop: its glass panes enclosed them in a narrow porch.

Her hand came down and drew up his collar.

‘I’m sorry the picture wasn’t much fun.’

‘Perhaps you’ll like it,’ Bryan said.

‘Oh, I shall. Anything that’s gay and happy.’ Mrs Corrigan laughed, and added, ‘We’ll miss the second feature, but that doesn’t matter.’

They stood in silence; other people joined the queue or stood like them against the shop. He was conscious not only of the warmth but of the pressure of her hand.

‘How thin your coat is. Is that the only one you’ve got?’

‘Yes.’

She gazed across the street to the illuminated windows of the Buckingham Hotel: balconies looked out to the street below; figures moved to and fro behind the panes. A faint sound of music came from an open door.

‘Did you enjoy your visit?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ he said.

On his mother’s advice he had written to Mrs Corrigan to thank her for the tea and for the present of the book.

‘Mr Corrigan and I have been wondering how, in the future, we might help you.’

‘How?’ he said.

‘For one thing, with your education. For another,’ she continued, ‘with your clothes.’

He felt the warmth of her breath on his face.

His hand was squeezed more tightly.

Then, as the bus drew up, she added, ‘We’ll have to see what the future holds,’ and, drawing him to the bus door, she called, ‘Good night,’ and, walking several steps along the pavement, her figure illuminated by the streetlamps, waved as the bus drew out from the stop.

The letter, held in his mother’s hand, had a serrated edge and the writing which occupied it had been set out neatly down the centre; a second page had been completed and a third page had been written halfway down. He recognized the scrawl unfamiliar only with the straightness of the lines and the neatness of the setting out.

His mother, having read the letter, read it once again.

‘Who’s it from?’ his brother asked.

‘The Corrigans.’

His brother stood up.

‘They want him to go to Peterson’s.’

‘What’s Peterson’s?’ Neither Alan nor his mother had glanced at Bryan since the letter had arrived.

‘It’s a private school.’

‘What do they want him theer for?’

‘They’re prepared to pay the fees.’

‘Does he have to live theer?’ his brother asked.

‘They’ve suggested he stays at Chevet, and comes back home at weekends.’ She folded the letter up. ‘Have the Corrigans mentioned it to you?’

‘No,’ Bryan said. ‘I haven’t even heard of Peterson’s.’

‘It’s a private school. In town.’ She added, ‘I suppose the idea of your going there is to give you a better start, and the idea of you living at the Corrigans’,’ she paused, ‘is to give you a better address. They’d hardly expect a pupil to come from Stainforth.’

‘Why not?’

‘In summer,’ his mother said, ‘they wear a straw hat.’

His brother laughed.

His mother replaced the letter inside the envelope, held it in her hand a moment, then set it on the mantelshelf, behind the clock.

‘Did they mention another school?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he said.

His brother pulled on his jacket and stood in the door.

‘Are you going to let him go, then, Mother?’

His mother shook her head. ‘I might. What will you feel like?’ she added.

‘I don’t mind.’ His brother shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

‘Why not?’

‘If they’ve offered him a chance, why should he turn it down?’ His brother clenched his fists. ‘He can alus come home at the weekends,’ he added, ‘if thy doesn’t want to see him i’ uniform up here.’

His mother stood over the fire; finally, she glanced at Bryan.

‘Any road,’ Alan said, ‘that’s what I think,’ and, having drawn on his coat, he called, ‘I’m off,’ and was out of the door before his mother could answer.

‘So much for his thoughts,’ she said.

Bryan went out to the hall to get his coat.

‘Do they criticize the way we’ve brought you up?’ she asked.

‘No,’ Bryan said.

‘Her letter is considerate enough, but I don’t think she’s aware of the complications. Not all of them.’ She followed him to the scullery.

‘I wouldn’t mind going to a better school,’ he said.

‘Wouldn’t you?’

‘I could be an artist,’ Bryan said.

His mother laughed. ‘What does an artist do?’ she said. ‘Can you imagine an artist on Stainforth estate? How, when you leave school, would you earn a living?’

‘By selling pictures.’

She laughed again.

‘You’ll sell none round here. Nor anywhere else. You’ve to have a job to earn a living. Being an artist,’ she concluded, ‘isn’t one.’

At the door, she added. ‘We can’t give to one child what we don’t to the other: that’s something Mrs Corrigan, with not having any children, fails to understand.’

She watched him from the scullery window as he walked down the path and he imagined her still watching as he set off along the road.

Ahead of him, halfway up the hill, he could see his brother walking with an arm on Barraclough’s shoulder and his own, in turn, supporting Shawcroft’s.

Walking up the other side of the road was Alison Foster and a group of girls; he could hear their shouts and the occasional call from his brother, from Barraclough and, also walking with their group, from O’Donald.

At school he gazed at his teacher, Miss Mitchell, and transposed her features into those of Mrs Corrigan. Miss Mitchell was an ‘old’ person: she was past the age when she might have married but was nowhere near as old as Miss Walters who was the deputy Headmistress, and who had hair bristling in clusters from her chin; nor was she, he suspected, as old as his mother nor even as old as Mrs Corrigan herself, whom he didn’t think of as ‘old’ nor, indeed, as of any definite ‘age’ at all.

Miss Mitchell wore glasses, whereas Mrs Corrigan did not; but she had the same full-lipped mouth, and the same pink-tinted cheeks and similar, though not as clearly marked, blue eyes. Unlike Mrs Corrigan, she didn’t wear make-up but, in the slanting, downward-projecting light of the room, this was scarcely noticeable: even her hair, though roughly groomed, was comprised of the same profusion of tawny-coloured curls which, like Mrs Corrigan’s, fell forward in a fringe across her brow.

If he were to stay at Stainforth Miss Mitchell was the teacher he would have like to have stayed with; if he were to leave she was the person he would miss the most. As he listened to the transposed Mrs Corrigan mark the register and watched her laying out the work for the lesson, he wondered what his mother might be doing at home, whether she might not, having glanced at the letter, be reconsidering her decision in the light of what his brother had said.

What Alan had said took him on to speculate on what his father would have to say; which in turn took him on to conclude that Mrs Corrigan’s suggestion, so casually executed – he could imagine her stooped to Mr Corrigan’s desk and writing the letter without raising her head – had, with his father, less chance of succeeding than it had with his mother.

‘Have you heard that, Bryan?’

An exercise book had been placed on his desk: across his shoulder he felt the pressure of Miss Mitchell’s hand.

‘What did I say?’

‘Page nine.’

‘You haven’t looked at it,’ she said.

‘No, Miss Mitchell.’

‘I often wonder if you’re with us half the time.’

Miss Mitchell seldom lost her temper; her pale-blue eyes would widen with alarm if something were done which she disliked: the alarm was not her own but reflected the apprehension she felt on behalf of any child who might have done something to displease her.

This look of alarm she extended to Bryan.

‘You appear to be paying attention and gazing at me like everyone else, but I feel, for most of the time, your thoughts are not in this room at all.’

‘Yes, Miss.’

‘Perhaps you could tell me where they go to?’

Bryan shook his head.

‘Are there pirates?’

‘No, Miss.’

‘Brigands?’

He shook his head again.

‘Soldiers and aeroplanes?’

‘No, Miss.’

‘Ships and tanks?’

‘No.’

At this catalogue of distractions the class had laughed.

‘Where, then? Where,’ she inquired, ‘does your imagination wander?’

‘All over.’

‘All over where, Bryan?’

‘The countryside, Miss Mitchell.’

‘What do you see in the countryside?’ she asked.

‘A house.’

‘A house in the countryside.’ She glanced at the class. ‘What sort of house?’

‘A large one.’

‘A large one.’ Her eyes expanded. ‘Who lives there?’

‘A woman.’

‘A woman.’

‘And a man.’

‘A man and a woman.’

‘They haven’t any children.’

‘Haven’t they?’

‘They decide,’ he said, ‘to have one.’

‘Do they have one?’

‘They go to a poor family who haven’t any money and ask for one of theirs.’

‘Do they get one?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Do you know anyone like that?’ Miss Mitchell asked.

‘Yes,’ he said.

Miss Mitchell’s back was turned towards the class and she was gazing down at him directly.

‘Perhaps tomorrow, or the day after, Bryan,’ she said, ‘you can tell me more about it.’

‘There isn’t anything else to tell,’ he said.

‘I see.’

Still she gazed down.

‘If there’s anything troubling you,’ she added, ‘you can always come and tell me.’

Miss Mitchell taught in the Sunday School, across the road, and, although she wasn’t his teacher on the Sunday afternoon, she superintended the singing of the hymns and spoke the prayers, and read the lessons before the children broke up into separate groups.

‘Meanwhile,’ she concluded, ‘you’d better get out your pen and pencil.’

He looked at the date inscribed on the board, and at the heading to be given to the work and, opening his desk, took out his book.

Through the window he could see the lane which wound across the fields and, where the land dipped down across the valley, the darkness of the woods at Feltham.

‘Bryan?’

‘Yes, Miss Mitchell?’

‘Are you dreaming again?’

‘No, Miss Mitchell,’ and, stooping over the desk and opening his book, he dipped his pen in the ink and set to work.

‘It puts us into a pickle as much as ought,’ his father said.

‘It’s what I told him,’ his mother said, yet she didn’t indicate whether the ‘him’ she referred to was Alan or Bryan. The content of their discussion that morning had been repeated by his mother as his father was about to have his tea, the letter and its envelope laid on the cloth before him.

‘I don’t think she’s thought about it,’ his father said.

‘She can’t have.’ His mother nodded her head.

Alan sat upright on a chair beside the fire, gazing at his father with a disinterested look.

‘Peterson’s.’ His father shook his head.

‘I’ve heard of one or two who have gone there,’ his mother said.

‘Who?’ his father said.

‘Chatterton’s, for one.’ She mentioned the family-owned engineering works at which Mr Morley’s father and his brothers at one time had worked. ‘They had two sons at Peterson’s.’

‘So you can see how ridiculous it is,’ his father said. ‘The fees alone come to more than I could earn in a year.’

‘We wouldn’t be paying,’ his mother said.

‘Would you let someone else pay for the education of your son?’ his father asked.

His mother glanced away. ‘What’s best for Bryan is what we have to think about,’ she said.

‘What’s best for Bryan is for him to believe, because it happens to be true, that he has been brought up by parents who love him, and Alan, too,’ his father said. ‘And to believe that they are parents who don’t go back on their word.’

Bryan was standing in front of the fire and, although Alan periodically drew him aside, indicating he was shielding the heat from the room, because of his agitation he invariably drifted back again, gazing over at his father, examining each gesture he made with his hand as he picked up the letter and, having read it a fourth time, put it down again.

‘The principle,’ his mother said, ‘is to bring him up the best way possible. And the best way possible is to equip him to live his life when we aren’t here any more. The same with Alan. If somebody came along and gave Alan a chance like that we’d not think twice about it.’

His father glanced at Alan.

‘We’d think,’ his mother continued, ‘how we could do the best for Bryan.’

‘I’d have thought we’d do the same for both of them,’ his father said.

‘We would.’

‘How could we do the same for both if one’s got a chance the other hasn’t?’

‘They’re not going to come out equal, anyway,’ his mother said. ‘They’ve different natures. One will do one thing, and the other,’ she continued, ‘will do another.’

‘We’ll give one a chance that the other can’t have?’ his father inquired.

‘We’ll give them an equal chance,’ his mother said. ‘We can’t stop a chance that comes from somewhere else.’

‘It’s not the Corrigans’ responsibility to bring up our children.’

‘It’s our responsibility,’ his mother said.

His father, having started his tea, had now abandoned it: he was waiting, Bryan assumed, for his mother to decide it for him.

‘And he’ll go to live at Chevet?’ he asked.

‘He’ll live here at weekends,’ his mother said. ‘And holidays, too,’ she added.

‘You think he ought to go?’

‘I’m not saying he ought to go,’ she said. ‘All I’m saying is there’s another side to the question.’

‘We don’t even know the Corrigans,’ his father said.

‘We’ve seen them once or twice.’

‘How much knowing is that?’

‘She’s Spencer’s sister,’ his mother said.

‘And think how much you respect Mr Spencer.’

‘I don’t say that he treats you right, though he has at times in the past, as you know yourself, as well as Mrs Spencer,’ his mother said. ‘He’s always pulled round when the going got rough. There’s no farmer round here who’s a better employer. Which isn’t saying much, I know, but it happens to be true. He’s fair according to his lights. Even if you don’t happen to agree,’ his mother continued, ‘that his lights are anything to write home about.’ She picked up the letter. ‘He’s even invited Bryan over. They’ve taken him to the pictures. I’d never see him doing the same for Jack Woolgar’s boy, or Finnegan’s, and they’ve both been there for as long as you have.’ She glanced at Bryan. ‘How’s he going to thank us later when he comes up with a dead-end job?’

His father glanced at Alan who, in turn, glanced at his mother, and kicked his heel at the rug.

‘In your opinion he should go,’ his father said, when it seemed his mother had nothing more to add.

‘We have to consider what’s best for Bryan.’ She glanced at Alan herself, ‘What do you think, Alan?’

‘He ought to go.’

‘Should he?’ his father said.

‘He’d be daft not to,’ Alan said.

His brother sat upright, watching his father intently.

‘Wouldn’t you feel your nose put out wi’ having a brother at Peterson’s?’ his father asked.

His brother shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t want to go,’ he said. ‘Not even if they asked me.’

His father waited.

‘You might regret it later, Alan.’

‘I shouldn’t. There’s nought for me at Peterson’s, fro’ what I reckon.’

‘You can’t see it from our angle,’ his father said, stooping from the table.

‘I’m saying what I think. I reckon there’s nought theer, Dad, for me, whereas I can see summat theer for Bryan.’

‘She says they specialize in art. Which is why they brought it to our attention,’ his mother said, taking up the letter. ‘“Bryan’s particular talent would be nourished in a sympathetic environment.”’ She glanced at his father before continuing. ‘“Sensitivity is something that can easily be destroyed by an environment which is not receptive to it.”’

‘He’s not sensitive,’ his father said.

‘Other people think so,’ his mother said.

‘There are lots of sensitive people who’ve had a harder life,’ his father said.

‘So you want him to do without this opportunity. You want him to give it up?’ his mother said.

‘I’m thinking about fairness,’ his father said, so vehemently that his mother looked away. ‘What do’st thy think, Bryan?’ he added.

‘I’d like to go,’ he said.

‘Would you?’

‘I can always come back at weekends.’

‘Better-off children of his age go to boarding-school,’ his mother said. ‘He wouldn’t even be away for more than five nights.’

‘You want to leave us?’ his father said.

‘I wouldn’t be leaving,’ Bryan said.

‘It’s a chance in a million,’ his mother said. ‘There’s everything out there for him to work for. There’s nothing for him here. Why,’ she continued, despite his father turning away, ‘if someone came along and said, “I can turn Alan into a champion boxer but he’ll have to come and live in my gymnasium,” you’d say, “Go ahead, grab your chance! You’ll not have another like it!” And he’d go. I know he would. And with Bryan: I know you’d say the same.’

‘You want to go to the Corrigans’?’ his father asked.

‘I’d like to go to Peterson’s,’ Bryan said.

‘Aren’t you happy living at home?’

‘I am,’ he said.

‘Why do you want to leave?’

‘I’m not leaving,’ Bryan said.

‘He could come back each Friday night,’ his mother said. ‘And go back Monday morning.’

‘He could never wear his uniform round here,’ his father said. ‘He’d have to stay five nights at least.’

‘We’d work something out,’ his mother said. ‘It’d be no different than a lot of families who send their children to school for three months at a time. Why, there were the Aitchisons in Hasleden Street who came into money and sent their children away to school and none of them were older than Bryan.’

His father stood up.

‘Have you decided to send him?’ he asked, going to the door as if the argument were now resolved and he couldn’t delay his going any longer.

‘We have,’ his mother said.

‘In that case,’ his father said, ‘we’ll do what we always do: make the best on it we can.’

He closed the door behind him.

‘I knew he’d want the opposite,’ his mother said as the sound of his father’s footsteps came from the stairs. ‘If he knew I’d be against it he’d be for it. He’ll soon get over it,’ she added, taking up the letter, re-reading it then laying it down once more before smiling and gazing down at Bryan as he started to eat his tea.