FIFTEEN

‘Is it better than Stainforth?’ His brother’s head was cowled within the blankets.

‘Different,’ Bryan said.

‘How different?’

‘All the teachers are men.’

‘It’s changed your voice.’

‘How?’

‘It’s posh.’

From below came the murmur of his parents’ voices and the occasional rooting of the poker against the fire.

‘How is it posh?’

‘It’s smarter.’

‘How smart?’

‘A lot.’ The blankets and the counterpane were bunched where, beneath them, his brother held them in his hand. ‘I don’t suppose you like coming back.’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘I bet.’ The voices droned on in the room below. ‘My father’s taken it worst.’

‘How?’

‘The way he goes around.’

Some distortion of his brother’s face was evident beneath the bedclothes.

He had arrived home, as it was, as late as he dared, insisting on travelling on the bus alone rather than Mr Corrigan bringing him in the car, and even refused Mrs Corrigan’s offer to accompany him as far as the Bull Ring.

No doubt, below, they were discussing his return, his clothes, the change in his behaviour, particularly in his response to them.

‘What’s Mrs Corrigan like?’

‘All right.’

‘Does she kiss you good night?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘How often?’

‘Once or twice.’

‘Has she got good legs?’

‘Why?’ He asked.

‘You ought to look,’ his brother said.

‘Why?’

‘I’m interested in everything you do,’ his brother said.

‘It doesn’t concern you,’ Bryan said.

‘You could give her a grope.’ His brother paused. ‘You know what a grope is?’

‘No,’ he said.

‘You know what a quim is?’

‘No.’

His brother waited.

‘What about jess?’

He shook his head.

‘Jess,’ his brother said, ‘are a woman’s breasts. A quim is what she has between her legs. A grope is when she lets you feel her.’

There was no connection between what his brother was telling him and what he knew of Mrs Corrigan, just as there was no connection, any longer, between his brother and himself.

‘You know Muriel O’Donald? She let Cloughie have a look at hers. Her tits are a couple of beauties. One neet last week she got hold of his cock. You know what a cock is?’ His brother raised his head.

‘Yes.’

‘Does she kiss you on the lips?’

‘Who?’

‘Mrs Corrigan.’

‘Why do you keep on about her?’ Bryan said.

‘I suppose all your time you have to spend working.’

‘Yes.’

‘School-work.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Harder than Stainforth?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do they talk very smart?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘I suppose they laugh at you.’

‘Not much.’

‘Have they bought you a uniform?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you brought it with you?’

‘No.’

His brother’s head returned to the blankets.

‘I’ll go to sleep now,’ Bryan said.

‘See you in the morning.’

‘Right.’

‘Don’t forget,’ his brother said. ‘You can tell me about it when you come next week.’

Bryan closed his eyes: he listened to his brother’s breathing and, lulled by the sound, he fell asleep.

The church was a brightly-illuminated interior; if he had agreed to come at all it was to reassure his mother: she had examined his suit with pride and he had thanked himself for his foresight in having brought it with him. ‘Is it Bennett’s?’ she had asked, examining the label. It was the first time a Bennett item of clothing had been inside the house: he had had to stand about the room while she called his father’s attention to it several times – to the coat as well as the trousers, to the stockings as well as the shoes, her excitement fading only when she saw Alan’s expression, adding, ‘Newness isn’t everything,’ pulling down his brother’s jacket, straightening his tie and concluding, as Alan complained, ‘We want you to look as neat as one another. It’s tidiness alone that counts.’

Now, sitting in church, he could see his brother in the Senior pew, the Crusader emblem of a knight’s head fastened to a shield on the wall behind, and, looking round at the plain-glass windows, at the ochreish-looking walls, he thought, ‘If Mrs Corrigan is my instructress what is her relationship to the spirit which resides above the cross?’ gazing up at the largest of the plate-glass windows and wondering, ‘If the benevolent spirit, in which I still believe, exists in a world beyond our own, what is its relationship to this other spirit which exists inside this building?’

In tracing the origin of his belief to that benevolent spirit which came at Christmas, Bryan glimpsed the means by which his personal destiny as a prince was connected to that invisible presence which emanated from the area of the church above the cross – and specifically from that space where the patch of blue disappeared into a brightness animated only by the sun itself.

As he knelt for the prayers and stood for the hymns and listened to the talk of the vicar, walking up and down between the pews, this final thought absorbed him entirely.

And later, although his mother insisted on coming with him to the bottom of Spinney Moor Avenue, he had felt an immediate relief to see, on mounting the bus, the cinema then the Spinney Moor Hotel pass by, the bus rattling on towards the town and, watching its darkening contour approach, he had thought, ‘I am going back to her, and she, I know, will be just as glad to see me.’

‘Watty always picks on you,’ Parkinson said. ‘If he doesn’t pick on you in the morning, he will in the afternoon.’

‘On me?’ Bryan said, for Mr Waterhouse had seldom had the occasion, since his first day at Peterson’s, to speak to him directly.

‘On me,’ Parkinson said, quickening his stride. To their right appeared a tree-enclosed square: tall, terraced houses, with balconied first floors, looked out to a patch of grass encircled, in turn, by metal railings; the fourth side of the square was overlooked by a building Bryan had never seen before. At the top of a flight of yellow-tiled steps three pairs of glass-panelled doors opened on to a red-walled foyer: figures in black dresses were moving to and fro; a more conspicuous figure, in a dark-brown coat and a red peaked cap embellished with gold braid, was standing at the top of the steps themselves: a pair of yellow gloves was threaded through the tasselled strap on the shoulder of the coat, and a pair of large brown boots was conspicuous beneath the bottoms of the turned-up trousers.

Above the steps several cream-coloured columns rose to an entablature within the blue-painted recesses of which were arranged a number of white-coloured figures; the frieze itself, surmounted by a cornice, was overlooked in turn by a large glass dome: coloured panes of glass gleamed and glistened in the afternoon light.

‘The Phoenix,’ Parkinson said. His tall, pale-cheeked, red-haired figure swayed as he surveyed the lighted foyer, the lettering above and, more specifically, the tall, brown-coated man who, raising a hand, waved in their direction, indicating, as he did so, a sandwich board propped on the steps which read – in yellow lettering on a blue surround – ‘Matinée 2.30’.

‘How are you, Gordon?’ the man called down.

‘We’re all right, Tommy,’ Parkinson called up.

‘Where’s your brother?’

‘At school,’ Parkinson called out.

‘Why aren’t you?’

‘Lunch-hour.’ Parkinson was already moving off. ‘Come on,’ he added, scarcely glancing at the man again.

‘Come and see the show.’ The man gestured to the foyer.

‘Come on,’ Parkinson called again to Bryan.

‘Cater for all sorts,’ the man called down. ‘Long ’uns, fat ’uns, short ’uns, thin ’uns. Him an’ all,’ the man added, gesturing at Bryan.

‘Who’s that?’ Bryan said, catching Parkinson up.

‘A friend of my father’s.’ Parkinson paused.

‘How does he know him?’

‘By way of business. Though he knows my brother best,’ he added.

‘How does he know your brother?’ Bryan said, intrigued by the uniformed figure as well as by the square itself – its balconied houses, its overhanging trees, the flight of yellow-tiled steps, the red-walled foyer – and by what he could see now were the frosted panes of a public house, standing at the corner of the square and separated from the theatre by a cobbled yard.

‘He comes to the Nelson.’ Parkinson indicated a sign above the door on which was depicted a one-eyed, one-armed figure in a nautical costume, a telescope beneath its one good arm and a sailing ship, firing its guns, at sea, in the background.

Half-way along the yard, protruding from the wall of the theatre, was an illuminated sign which read ‘Artistes’ Entrance’.

Directly opposite stood a green-painted door on which, after glancing through a pane of bottle-green glass, Parkinson knocked; having received no answer he rattled the latch, opened the door and, calling, ‘Anyone at home?’ descended a flight of steps inside.

An interior, paved by flagstones and illuminated by a single window adjacent to the door itself, was occupied by a black enamelled range and, in the centre of the floor, by a large square table. Hanging from a number of wooden beams were a side of bacon, several rabbits, a hare, an unplucked hen and what looked like, in the furthest corner, the carcase of a sheep.

A roar of voices, intermingled with the sound of glasses, came from beyond a glass-panelled door.

Sitting by the fire was a figure covered by a shawl who, at Parkinson’s inquiry, ‘Is Reg in, Mrs Brierley?’ called, ‘He won’t hear you, sonny. He’s far too busy,’ glancing across at Bryan and adding, ‘If you ask me, he’s as daft as his brother.’

Parkinson crossed to the glass-panelled door but, before he could reach it, it was pushed open from the other side: a small, square-shouldered man with a balding head, glistening with sweat, and dark-brown eyes, a broken nose and a rugged jaw, came bustling in. ‘Anything up?’ he said, catching sight of Parkinson as a burst of laughter came from the bar the other side. ‘What’s this, then, Gordon? Not at school?’

‘It’s lunch-hour, Reggie,’ Parkinson said.

‘Bit of the usual?’

‘I wouldn’t say no.’

‘Shan’t be a sec.’ The man disappeared once more to the bar, his reappearance beyond the door greeted by a burst of shouts.

‘Reggie’s popular,’ Parkinson said. ‘He used to be a boxer,’ and sat down at the table, indicating that Bryan might do the same. ‘This is Reggie’s mother,’ he added.

‘How do you do?’ The woman, having turned to scrutinize Bryan, laughed, soundlessly, her mouth – bereft of teeth – wide open.

‘She’s eighty-two.’

‘Three,’ the woman said.

‘I knew it was over eighty,’ Parkinson said.

‘Who are you?’ the woman said.

‘This is Bryan, Mrs Brierley,’ Parkinson said.

‘Who?’

‘Morley.’

‘Never heard of him,’ the woman said.

‘He’s a friend of mine,’ Parkinson insisted.

‘I never knew you had a friend.’ She returned her gaze to the fire.

The surface of the table was covered by sheets of newspaper; half the sheets were coloured pink, and the other half green: several bottles and a miscellaneous collection of glasses, together with several patterned plates and a pile of knives and forks, were stacked along one side.

‘The actors come over,’ Parkinson said. ‘Some of them have digs upstairs.’

‘They’re not here now,’ the woman said. ‘They’re over for the matinée.’

‘Have you been to see it?’ Parkinson said.

‘I haven’t. I’ve never been, nor will I ever,’ the woman said, glancing at Bryan just as the door opened from the bar and the square-shouldered, bald-headed figure of Mr Brierley reappeared.

‘Who’s this?’ he said, catching sight of Bryan.

‘His name’s Morley,’ the woman said. ‘He’s a friend of Clive’s.’

‘Gordon,’ Parkinson said, and added, ‘This is Reggie, Bryan.’

‘Glad to meet you.’ The man extended his hand, clasped Bryan’s, shook it, and added, ‘I suppose you’d like a drop yourself,’ and returned to the door the other side.

‘To your good health, Mrs Brierley.’ Parkinson raised the glass Mr Brierley had brought him.

‘Good health and fiddlesticks. I’m old and poorly,’ Mrs Brierley said.

‘You look well enough to me, Mrs Brierley,’ Parkinson said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, belching, and adding, with a glance at Bryan, ‘Grand.’

‘Do you know his brother?’ the woman said to Bryan.

‘No,’ he said.

‘His name is Gordon.’

‘I’m Gordon,’ Parkinson said.

‘So you’re Gordon,’ the woman replied, ‘I thought you were Clive,’ glancing at Bryan again, and winking.

The door from the bar reopened; several bowls and a plate were pushed aside and a glass set down. ‘Anything else while I’m here?’ Mr Brierley asked.

‘This’ll do fine, Reg.’ Parkinson raised his glass and drank, lengthily, in illustration.

The man turned to the woman, adding, ‘I’ll be in the bar if you want me, Mother,’ and closed the door, once more, behind.

‘That’s Reggie,’ Parkinson said. ‘He’s a jolly good sort. I often come at lunch-times and sometimes, if I’ve had enough of Watty, I come in the afternoon. We sometimes play darts and have a sing-song. I come at weekends, too.’ He glanced at Bryan’s glass. ‘I’ll finish it off, if you like. Like nectar to the gods, is this.’

Bryan passed across his glass.

‘You ought to let him drink it. Puts hairs on your chest.’ The old woman laughed. ‘Takes everything he can that doesn’t belong to him. Like his brother. He’s just as bad.’

The brown liquid disappeared down Parkinson’s throat: he gulped, belched, said, ‘Excuse me,’ and, gazing at Bryan with a glazed expression, added, ‘Worth every penny.’

‘You don’t pay for it, that’s why,’ the woman said.

‘How much should I leave behind, Mrs Brierley?’ Parkinson asked.

‘We’re not allowed to sell to juveniles,’ the woman said. ‘You’re worse than your brother Gordon.’

‘I’m Gordon, Mrs Brierley,’ Parkinson said. He got up from the table, staggered, paused, then added, ‘We ought to be going. It’s Heppy this afternoon and he always tells Watty if I don’t turn up.’

‘Leaving us, are you?’ the woman said.

‘We’ve school,’ Parkinson said, ‘in one or two minutes. We’ll have to be going.’

‘I’ll school you when I see your brother Gordon.’ The old woman glanced at Bryan, winked and, indicating the rafters overhead, asked, ‘Do you want a rabbit?’

‘No, thanks, Mrs Brierley,’ Parkinson said.

‘Don’t let him lead you into mischief. He’s worse than his brother.’ The old woman stooped, picked up a poker and stabbed at the flames.

Parkinson mounted the steps to the door, called, ‘We’re going now, Reggie,’ and, getting no response, added, ‘We’re going now, Mrs Brierley,’ and, waiting for Bryan to precede him, stepped outside.

‘How did you come to know them?’ Bryan said as, emerging from the entrance to the yard, they passed in front of the theatre.

‘They’re friends of my father.’

‘Not too late to come in, boys,’ the uniformed man called down.

‘That’s Tommy,’ Parkinson said. ‘He knows everyone in town.’

‘How?’ Bryan said.

‘He makes it his business.’ Parkinson glanced across. ‘He’s as bad as Watty.’

‘Does Watty know everyone?’ Bryan asked.

Parkinson coughed. He cupped his hand to his mouth, swayed, held his hand to his forehead, and said, ‘He knows your aunt.’

‘How does he know her?’ Bryan said.

‘He said it was every man’s privilege to know one beautiful woman and his privilege had been acceded to when he first set eyes on Mrs Corrigan.’

‘Where did he see her?’ Bryan said.

‘In the street.’

‘He hasn’t spoken to her,’ he said.

‘How do you know?’

‘She would have told me.’

‘Does she tell you everything?’

‘Almost.’

Red double-decker buses were lined up at their stops in the Bull Ring.

‘Just like Watty to say he knows her. He said he knew my father before he met him.’

‘What does your father do?’ Bryan asked.

‘He’s a book-maker.’ Parkinson set off up the road to the school.

‘What sort of books does he make?’ Bryan said.

‘He doesn’t make books, he keeps one,’ Parkinson said.

‘What sort of a book?’

‘For backing horses.’ Parkinson flushed. ‘Reggie owes him money but my father doesn’t make him pay because he takes bets for him at the Nelson and gives us drinks. Watty bets as well,’ he added. ‘And Tommy, the doorman at the theatre, he takes bets as well. So does my brother,’ he continued. ‘So do I, as a matter of fact. Why, everything,’ he concluded as they neared the school – and emphasizing the word ‘everything’ by slapping one hand against the other – ‘in the last analysis, Mocky, comes down to money.’

‘I’ve already moved it once,’ Mr Hepplewhite said.

He indicated the blackboard on metal castors which had been swung round from his desk to face, at an oblique angle, the two windows across the room.

‘The light shines on it, Mr Hepplewhite,’ Parkinson called out.

‘A moment before,’ Mr Hepplewhite said, wiping one chalk-dusted hand on the other, ‘it didn’t shine upon it quite enough.’

‘It hides what’s written on it,’ Parkinson said.

‘There’s nothing written on it,’ the master said. ‘It is,’ he added, ‘a drawing of a scientific experiment which you should by now have copied in your book.’

‘I can’t see the blackboard,’ Parkinson said, his eyes matched in their gravity only by those of the teacher himself.

Mr Hepplewhite was a tall man; his skin was pale, and his hair, which was dishevelled as a result of his efforts to copy on to the blackboard a drawing from a black-bound book, was streaked here and there with flecks of dust. Patches of white chalk also marked his cheeks, and additional patches the sleeves and the collar of his jacket.

He moved the blackboard in Parkinson’s direction.

‘I can’t see it, sir,’ a voice called from across the room.

‘Move your desk.’ Mr Hepplewhite examined once more his black-bound book before, with a cry of vexation, he amended the drawing.

The legs of a desk scraped against the floor; its lid banged.

‘I can’t see because Williams has gone in front of me,’ another voice said.

‘Move your desk,’ Mr Hepplewhite said.

Another desk lid was banged; the legs of a chair were scraped against the floor.

‘I can’t see it, sir.’

‘Move.’

‘I can’t see it, sir,’ another voice said.

‘I expect this drawing to be finished by this afternoon.’

‘Charlesworth’s gone in front of me, sir.’

‘Move.’

Fresh clouds of dust rose from the blackboard: a chalk-dusted arm was raised; fresh lines were drawn across the greyish surface.

‘He’s not even qualified,’ Parkinson said, speaking behind his hand. ‘He gets it from a book then comes in here as if he knew it.’

‘You’ve pushed it back, sir,’ another voice said.

‘I shall move it for the last time.’ Mr Hepplewhite glanced at the room: his blue eyes, the brows and lashes of which were laden with dust, expressed surprise at the disorder of the desks before him. ‘Who gave you permission to move all those?’

‘You, sir.’

‘I shall listen to no further excuses about the light.’

He turned, drew on the blackboard, rubbed vigorously at an inadvertent line, drew again, consulted the black-bound book, drew, consulted the book, rubbed out, then drew again.

‘Sir?’

Mr Hepplewhite’s head remained bowed to the blackboard.

‘I can’t see it when you stand in front of it.’

‘I shall go immediately and fetch Mr Berresford.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The tall, white-haired figure strode quickly from the room.

Several desks were drawn hurriedly together.

Parkinson leaned back in his chair; he stretched his arms, belched, caused a ripple of laughter to pass across the room, yawned, belched, yawned, then belched again.

The door opened. A black-suited figure came inside.

His hair was plastered smoothly to the back of his skull; he wore, beneath his suit, a clerical collar and, beneath the collar, a black vestment.

His physique was large, his eyes expanded, his nostrils flared, his thick lips drawn back into the coruscations of flesh on either side.

‘Who?’ he said, standing in the door.

Mr Hepplewhite appeared from the hall behind.

‘That.’ He pointed at Bryan.

‘Stand up.’

The sound of traffic was audible from the street outside.

Bryan stood up.

‘Not him,’ Mr Hepplewhite said.

‘Who?’

‘The one behind.’

‘Parkinson.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Stand up.’

Parkinson stood up.

‘Sit down,’ the black figure added, indicating Bryan.

‘I didn’t do anything,’ Parkinson said.

‘He has done nothing but complain about the light,’ Mr Hepplewhite said.

‘I haven’t,’ Parkinson said.

‘In addition to several others moving their desks in imitation of the same complaint.’

‘Out.’

The black-clad figure stepped aside and one arm was raised to indicate the hall.

‘I shall deal with this individual,’ he added, ‘myself. Mr Berresford is not available at present.’ He gazed round him at the room. ‘Is there anyone else?’

‘Parkinson is the chief culprit,’ Mr Hepplewhite said.

‘I don’t mind half a dozen,’ the black-clad figure said. ‘If anyone makes a whisper I shall require his presence in Mr Berresford’s study where the traditional method of correction will be employed.’

‘I shall send anyone else up directly,’ Mr Hepplewhite said.

The black-clad figure went out, closing the door behind.

‘Mr Berresford is not available, so anyone who misbehaves will have to be dealt with by Doctor Beckerman,’ Mr Hepplewhite said, returning to the blackboard.

The castors squeaked; several desks were realigned: no further sound came from the room save an occasional gasp from Mr Hepplewhite, a corresponding gasping from the children, and the subsequent scratching of the master’s chalk.

Four symmetrical patches of light fell directly on the table, isolating the sheets of paper laid there and intensifying further the shadows where the attic roof disappeared behind a line of cupboards.

‘One of our number is missing,’ Miss Lightowler said.

She examined the three other figures, in addition to Bryan’s, and added, ‘Gordon.’

‘He’s gone to see Doctor Beckerman, Miss Lightowler,’ one of the figures said.

‘What for?’

‘Misbehaviour in Mr Hepplewhite’s class,’ the figure said.

Miss Lightowler flushed.

‘I trust we shall have no repeat of it here.’

‘No, Miss Lightowler.’

The four figures seated themselves on stools and stooped to the table.

‘You have a natural facility, Bryan,’ Miss Lightowler said, watching Bryan’s pencil move across the paper then, as a consequence of her scrutiny, come to a halt. ‘If you’ve achieved eighty, I shall expect you,’ she added, ‘to aim for a hundred.’

‘A hundred what?’ one of the other three said.

‘The proverbial hundred,’ Miss Lightowler said. ‘Which is what,’ she concluded, ‘we all aspire to.’

Her eyes were cast in shadow from the attic window which in turn looked out to a chimney protruding from the roof of the adjoining buildings; tins of paint were assembled on a nearby table and, after examining each sheet of paper, Miss Lightowler began mixing colours in a variety of jars.

‘I want you to get on to paint,’ she said from the shadow of the room.

They drew in silence; periodically from below came the sound of someone shouting, the occasional slamming of a door, while, from outside, and across the adjoining roofs, came the distant roar of traffic.

A spire was visible beyond the window; clouds of smoke loomed across the sky. The woodwork of the rafters creaked.

Thin strands of dust gyrated in the pool of light which fell from the four-paned window.

‘My parents, Miss Lightowler, wanted me to do Greek,’ one of the figures said, its arm stretched out across the table.

‘I understand art was recommended, Phillips,’ Miss Lightowler said.

‘Yes, Miss.’

‘An unexpected bonus,’ Miss Lightowler concluded.

Her eyes glowed from the darkness; disproportionately positioned over the corners of her thin-lipped mouth, their size ensured they were the most prominent feature of her thin-boned face. Her hair, dark-brown, was swept back from a central parting and tied with a ribbon at the nape of her neck.

‘I’d prefer to do Greek, Miss Lightowler.’

‘Doctor Beckerman’s selection of classicists is invariably restricted,’ Miss Lightowler said. ‘Whereas art,’ she continued, ‘is accessible to all. It is not technique alone that counts, but feeling.’

The door of the attic room reopened and Parkinson’s half-bent figure came inside.

Miss Lightowler paused.

‘I trust Doctor Beckerman has given you permission to come up,’ she said.

‘Yes, Miss Lightowler,’ Parkinson said, his head thrust forward. ‘He said I could.’

‘I hope you are in a suitable condition for sitting down.’

‘Yes, Miss.’

‘I understand,’ Miss Lightowler said, ‘you have been subjected to chastisement by Doctor Beckerman.’

‘He telephoned my father,’ Parkinson said.

‘What did your father say?’

‘He said he’d see me when I got back home.’

‘Of the two chastisements, I imagine the domestic rather than the pedagogical will be the more severe.’

‘Yes, Miss,’ Parkinson said and, stooping to the table, thrust his legs beneath it, dislodging, as he did so, a tin of paint.