SEVENTEEN

The interior of the foyer glowed, its light reflected on the dampness of the steps outside. A rain had been falling when they’d left the house and now they had had a chance to walk through from the Bull Ring to the square in front of the theatre the last drops were splashing from the eaves of the building, rattling on the glass canopy above the steps, the damp pavement below flecked here and there by the light from the façade which glistened in the puddles.

From the red-walled foyer they passed down a flight of carpeted stairs. A bar opened out at the end of a passage: in a rectangular mirror he saw Mrs Corrigan’s figure, her hat trimmed with fur, the fur collar of her coat drawn up – and saw what must have been a familiar alarm in his own expression, his mouth tight, his lips compressed, his eyes sunk in the shadows thrown out by the lamps.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘You take everything so seriously, Bryan. Why don’t you see the amusing side?’

‘Has everything an amusing side?’ he asked.

‘If this evening hasn’t one then I don’t know what has.’

Despite her continuing to clasp his hand she glanced about her, stooping at one point, releasing his hand, and introducing herself to someone who had failed to recognize her, reclaiming Bryan’s hand only when the figure, a man accompanied by a woman, disappeared through a pair of doors at the opposite end of the bar.

They entered the auditorium: seats, enclosed on either side by red-walled boxes, rose to the recesses of the coloured dome; gold-embellished curtains, tasselled, and drawn in symmetrical folds, hung across the stage.

Sinking down, she loosened her coat and, glancing about her, her face more brightly lit than ever, said, ‘We forgot to buy a programme.’

‘Shall I get you one?’ he said.

She opened her bag. ‘I seem to have forgotten everything. What about a box of chocolates?’ She produced a pound note and called, ‘Excuse me,’ to the people in the row as he made his way to the aisle.

From the rear of the theatre he watched her face: one eye was visible as she turned her head and, with a child-like gesture, looked up at the dome, at the rows of seats, and at the lamp-lit, curtained recesses of the red-walled boxes.

Having bought the programme and a box of chocolates, he paused at the end of the row to gaze at her again: her look traversed the curtains, the dome, the other figures seated beside her: the light glowed, beneath her hat, on the fringes of her hair.

‘There you are,’ she said, her face turned up. Taking the programme and glancing down at it she added, ‘I’ve heard of her. She was here years ago when I came with Harold.’

The lights faded; the curtains parted: a knock came at a door. A figure entered: Mrs Corrigan reached down and took his hand.

‘Am I mad?’ he thought. ‘Can’t I experience anything unless, first of all, it comes through her?’

He was conscious of her laughter, of her involvement with the actors on the stage, with their passing to and fro from doors to windows and back to doors, from chairs to tables and back to chairs, her head drawn back and slightly raised, her mouth open, her eyebrows lowered, her eyes gleaming.

When the lights went up it was not her, however, of whom he was conscious but a figure wearing a bottle-green dress of knitted wool.

‘This is a surprise,’ Miss Lightowler said, leaning down in the seat beside him.

‘This is Miss Lightowler,’ Bryan said, recovering from his surprise more quickly than Mrs Corrigan. ‘This is Mrs Corrigan, my aunt,’ he added.

Miss Lightowler leant across; Mrs Corrigan shook hands.

‘Miss Lightowler teaches art,’ Bryan said. He added, ‘She helped me cast the figure.’

‘I hope you defended Bryan,’ Mrs Corrigan said.

‘I defended the figure,’ Miss Lightowler said. ‘Bryan I defended by imputation.’

‘After all, we’re not living in the Middle Ages,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘If Peterson’s has been led to assume that it is then it’s our duty to disabuse them. How is Doctor Beckerman?’ she added.

‘Recovering.’

Miss Lightowler glanced down at Bryan.

‘Do you come here often?’ Bryan asked.

Miss Lightowler laughed; she shook her head. ‘I work here, Bryan.’

‘What as?’

She gestured at the curtains.

‘I do the costumes.’

‘Bryan never told me,’ Mrs Corrigan said.

‘It’s not as grand as it sounds. Most of the shows are on tour and I touch up the scenery and do repairs. It’s why I’m here this evening. This show has just arrived.’

Bryan turned in his seat to examine her more closely; her hair, instead of being drawn back with some severity and fastened in a pony-tail, was combed down smoothly on either side.

‘Perhaps,’ she added, ‘you’d like, afterwards, to come backstage and meet the cast?’

‘I’d like that,’ Mrs Corrigan said.

‘I’ll collect you after the Anthem,’ Miss Lightowler said, and disappeared up the gangway.

‘What a charming woman,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘She certainly stood up to the school over the fuss about your statue.’

Something of the intensity of Bryan’s feelings evaporated in the second half of the evening; the prospect of sharing Mrs Corrigan was not something that he welcomed: ‘She is not here to be admired by other people,’ he thought, for, if Mrs Corrigan had enjoyed the first half of the evening, she enjoyed the second half more – breaking into applause, her applause expanding into laughter, her laughter accompanied, in turn, by indecipherable moans and cries only, a moment later, for her laughter, followed by her applause, to spring out once again.

Standing to the sound of the Anthem, the applause faded, the music trickling on in distant corners to be replaced, once the recorded sound was over, by a burst of conversation.

‘That was good,’ Mrs Corrigan said as Miss Lightowler appeared in the gangway. ‘I haven’t enjoyed an evening more. I can’t tell you how much we’ve enjoyed it.’

She turned to Bryan.

‘It wasn’t bad,’ he said for the noise around them made it difficult for him to hear Mrs Corrigan’s voice – as difficult to hear it, or Miss Lightowler’s, as it was to suppress his instinct to get out of the building and take her away from it for good.

‘We can cut through here,’ Miss Lightowler said, directing Bryan to a door marked ‘Private’. ‘Lead the way,’ she added.

A narrow passage opened on to a faintly illuminated area adjacent to the stage; a flight of stone steps led up to a landing: doors opened off on either side.

Knocking on one of the doors Miss Lightowler pushed it open, put her head inside, withdrew it, and said, ‘He won’t be a minute,’ when a voice called, ‘Come in, Di. Come in, sweet dove,’ at which she opened the door wider and indicated that Bryan and Mrs Corrigan might go in before her. ‘Bring her in,’ came the voice again and Bryan entered to find a figure in a dressing-gown standing in front of a mirror: reaching past him to clasp Mrs Corrigan’s hand, he called, ‘Bring in a chair, Di,’ as Miss Lightowler said, behind Mrs Corrigan’s shoulder, ‘Mrs Corrigan, may I introduce Felix Pemberton. Felix, this is Bryan.’

‘Bryan,’ the figure said, glancing at Bryan. ‘Mrs Corrigan,’ he added, glancing at Mrs Corrigan. ‘Come inside. We’ll get a chair if Di can fetch one.’

Two further chairs were handed in the door and the sound of several voices came from the corridor outside: names were called, doors banged, laughter burst out in an adjoining room.

‘We’ve enjoyed it so much.’ Mrs Corrigan sat down.

‘I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before.’ The actor clasped her hand more firmly. ‘Your mother is a beautiful woman,’ he added to Bryan.

‘Bryan isn’t my son.’ Mrs Corrigan flushed.

‘Too old. I can see that,’ the actor said. ‘You’d never have a son his age.’

‘We’ve so enjoyed the show.’ Mrs Corrigan flushed more deeply. Conscious of her hand being clasped, she sat upright in the chair.

‘So rare for anyone to come round and say so,’ the actor said. ‘Particularly someone so attractive.’ He joined his one free hand to the other and secured Mrs Corrigan’s between the two. ‘I’ve been to this town so often I thought I’d met everyone worth meeting. All this time and I never knew.’

‘We come so rarely to the theatre.’ Mrs Corrigan smiled at Bryan.

He observed the actor’s knees, and the black curled hair on the front of his legs, and observed, too, the make-up which had not been completely removed from around the eyes and about which he appeared to be indifferent: he had a fleshy face and square-shaped hands.

‘More the loser that you haven’t been more often.’ The man released one hand to indicate the mirror.

‘The dialogue was charming.’ Mrs Corrigan endeavoured to remove her hand from such close proximity to the actor’s knees.

‘Oh, the dialogue,’ the actor said. ‘Superb.’

‘And the acting.’

The actor shook his head. Reclaiming Mrs Corrigan’s hand, he glanced once more to the mirror.

‘Wonderful.’

‘The set was so attractive.’

‘We have Di to thank for that,’ the actor said.

‘Are you coming to the Nelson, Felix?’ a voice called from the corridor outside.

‘I shan’t be a minute,’ the actor replied, raising his head, listening to a receding burst of voices, a clattering of feet down a flight of steps, then adding, ‘Perhaps you’d come over, Mrs Corrigan? We can’t let this opportunity go without offering you a drink.’

‘I’ll take them over, Felix,’ Miss Lightowler said.

‘Unless Mrs Corrigan doesn’t mind if I dress,’ the actor said.

Mrs Corrigan rose quickly, her knees, as a consequence, catching the back of the actor’s hand.

‘Where is the Nelson?’ she asked.

‘Di can show you. She spends more time in there than I do. We have an arrangement with the landlord. Mention my name,’ he added to Miss Lightowler. ‘I’ll be over in a jiffy.’

Mrs Corrigan followed Bryan out, the dressing-gowned figure appearing at the door, smiling, glancing out, and calling, ‘Don’t let her go. Entertain her. Don’t let her escape,’ raising his hand in Mrs Corrigan’s direction before she followed Bryan to the flight of steps.

‘Do we have to go?’ he said.

‘I said we would.’ Mrs Corrigan spoke with her hand on his shoulder.

‘We don’t have to,’ Bryan said. ‘You weren’t given a chance to refuse.’

‘Oh, Felix won’t be long,’ Miss Lightowler said, as if the inconvenience to the actor were Bryan’s concern. ‘He’s such good company, too,’ she added.

A passage and a further flight of stairs brought them out at the side of the theatre.

Directly opposite stood the side-door to the Nelson, already open.

‘It needn’t take long,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘It’s only politeness not to refuse,’ pausing, however, on the step and gazing inside.

‘Are you sure we ought to go in?’ Bryan said. ‘I’ve been here before. I know what it’s like.’

‘When have you been here before?’ Mrs Corrigan said.

‘With a friend from school.’

Her hand was clasped to his arm.

‘Lead the way, Bryan,’ Miss Lightowler called from the yard behind.

‘Who are all these people?’ Mrs Corrigan said, gazing about her at the crowded kitchen: a smell of cooking came from the room.

‘They’re the actors.’ He indicated a group of figures around the central table.

‘Two sherries and a lemonade, Reggie,’ Miss Lightowler called as the face of the landlord appeared at the bar-room door.

Glasses were set down from a metal tray. Mrs Corrigan was introduced.

From the table came a shout as the actor appeared at the top of the stairs.

Dressed in a check-patterned overcoat with pouch-like pockets and a fur-trimmed collar, with a tasselled white scarf and a trilby hat, flush-faced, dark-eyed, he surveyed the room before, with a wave, he slowly descended.

‘Here you are. Not gone away. What can I get you?’ he asked Mrs Corrigan after shaking the hand of someone at the table, embracing a seated figure and receiving a kiss, and coming across the room to take Mrs Corrigan’s hand between his own.

‘We already have one,’ Mrs Corrigan said, indicating her own drink on the corner of the table, adjacent to which she had been found a chair.

Bryan sat beside her.

‘Another, landlord. Another for Mrs Corrigan.’ The actor waved to the perspiring figure of Mr Brierley. ‘Good evening, Mrs Brierley.’ He waved simultaneously to a figure by the fire.

‘We shall have to go shortly,’ Mrs Corrigan said.

‘Nonsense.’

‘My husband is coming to collect us.’

‘I’m sure he’ll wait.’

The pinkness which had characterized Mrs Corrigan’s cheeks while they were in the actor’s dressing-room had given way to a sudden pallor: the sallowness of her cheeks added to the impression that she no longer knew what she ought to do, as confused by the bustle, the screams and the bursts of laughter that came from the room as she was by the manner of the actor himself.

‘We shall have to go,’ she said again.

‘Say you’re delayed.’ He laid his hand on her shoulder, whispered in her ear, withdrew his head to examine her expression, and added, ‘You never told me your name.’

‘Mrs Corrigan.’

‘Your first name.’

‘Fay,’ Mrs Corrigan said.

‘Fay.’

Bryan waited: he made an attempt to take her hand but found it obstructed and contented himself with sitting as close to her as her preoccupation with the actor might allow.

Another glass of sherry was brought; a glass of a similarly coloured liquid was set in the actor’s hand: a glass of lemonade was set on the table by Bryan.

‘Is it always so busy?’ Mrs Corrigan asked.

‘Reggie’s is a popular place,’ the actor said. ‘And more popular still to have someone here who is a cut above the rest. Not that they,’ he continued, with a wave of his hand to indicate the crowded kitchen, ‘aren’t of the very highest.’

Across the room Bryan could see Miss Lightowler in her bright-green dress sitting on the knee of somone by the fire.

By the fire itself the shawled figure of the elderly Mrs Brierley rocked to and fro, the dark eyes periodically raised to examine the figures around her.

‘Most of the time, Fay,’ the actor said, ‘we feel forgotten.’

‘I’m sure you must have many distractions,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘So often on the move.’

The actor lowered his head. ‘But so seldom someone we can really talk to.’

He glanced at Bryan.

‘Is this a nephew?’

‘A friend.’

‘Perhaps he’d like to step outside to see if Mr Corrigan is waiting.’

‘No, thanks,’ Bryan said.

‘Why not?’

‘I’ve no desire to,’ Bryan said.

‘Would half-a-crown induce you?’ The actor felt in his pocket.

‘No, thanks,’ Bryan said. To Mrs Corrigan he added, ‘We ought to be going. I’m not sure I’m keen on this place at all.’

‘Come another evening, Fay,’ the actor said.

‘I’ve seen the show already,’ Mrs Corrigan said.

‘A second time you’ll see more in it.’

‘I doubt if I’ve another evening free,’ Mrs Corrigan said.

She began to rise.

‘Come to a matinée.’

‘I shall have to think about it.’

‘You’re not deserting me, Fay?’ the actor asked. ‘I can’t stand broken promises,’ he added.

‘I haven’t promised anything,’ Mrs Corrigan said.

Her arm was taken as she turned to the door, the actor moving with her. ‘Promise at least you’ll try,’ he said, drawing her to him. ‘The matinée would give us an opportunity to meet before the evening performance.’

‘I’ll see,’ Mrs Corrigan said.

‘There’s a great deal in this town I’ve never seen before,’ the actor said, allowing her to precede him and, finally, as they reached the door, he added, ‘I’m at the Buckingham Hotel.’

Bryan followed Mrs Corrigan out to the yard; behind him Miss Lightowler was swinging her legs on the knee of the seated figure, waving her arm and, to Bryan’s surprise, blowing a kiss.

‘Until tomorrow,’ the actor said.

‘Tomorrow?’ Mrs Corrigan glanced round at Bryan.

‘At the Buckingham. Any time can get me.’ Without any further pronouncement the actor turned, stepped briskly to the door, waved, and disappeared inside.

‘That was a pressing individual,’ Mrs Corrigan said.

She took his hand.

‘Will you see him tomorrow?’ Bryan asked.

‘Until that man has gone I shan’t come to the Phoenix again,’ she said. Yet he could feel even now the tremoring in her arm, an agitation that hadn’t ceased by the time they’d found a taxi. ‘I suppose you admired his performance,’ she added.

‘Which one?’

She laughed.

‘The first of the two,’ she said, and laughed again.

‘I didn’t notice,’ he said.

‘He’s performed in London. Several times. And has appeared, I understand, in one or two films. There’s a profile in the programme.’ She opened her bag. ‘I must have dropped it.’

‘Good,’ he said.

‘It wouldn’t have been unusual,’ she said, ‘if you’d asked him for an autograph.’

‘No, thanks.’

‘I’m sure that’s what he wanted.’

‘I thought,’ Bryan said, ‘it was something else.’

‘It must be later than I thought.’ She flushed. ‘It’s a good job we didn’t ask Harold to meet us. We must have been at the Nelson longer’, she concluded, ‘than I imagined.’

‘It seemed long enough to me.’

‘You were very patient.’ She squeezed his hand.

‘There wasn’t a great deal I could do,’ he said.

‘As I say,’ she said, ‘he’s a pressing man.’

The house was in darkness when they arrived.

A light had been left on above the door: a glow flooded in from the drive outside.

He had never felt so glad to get back to the house itself, nor had he ever felt more conscious of its quietness.

‘Do you feel like supper?’

‘No, thanks,’ he said.

She went to the kitchen. He heard a kettle being filled and the gas turned on.

He went into the sitting-room; the fire burned brightly behind a metal guard.

‘Are you sure you don’t want anything?’ she called.

She appeared in the door, her coat unbuttoned.

‘No, thanks.’

‘You’re not sulking?’

‘No,’ he said.

‘I shan’t allow it.’

‘How would you stop me?’

‘Oh, I’d find a way,’ she said and, without glancing in his direction, returned to the kitchen.

He listened to the running of a tap and, finally, the kitchen door was closed; then came the sound of her going upstairs.

He listened to the creaking of the floor as she moved from the bathroom to her bedroom.

‘Can you bolt the front door before you come up?’ she called, waiting for an answer.

He got up from the fire, damped it down, went to the front door, drew the bolt, looked back at the sitting-room fire, then went upstairs.

Her light was on.

He went into his own room and got undressed.

When he came out her light was off.

He went to her door and knocked.

‘Do you want me to come in?’ he asked.

‘I have a headache, with that awful drink.’

‘Shall I kiss you good night?’

‘I should leave it till the morning.’

‘It won’t be good night in the morning,’ he said.

‘You can kiss me good morning instead.’ Her voice was scarcely a murmur.

‘Good night,’ he said.

‘Good night,’ she said. ‘And thank you for the evening.’

‘Why should you thank me for it?’ he said.

‘Thank you especially for this evening.’ She turned on the bed.

‘Good night,’ he said again and, to show his displeasure, closed the door with a bang.

‘There you are,’ she said. ‘I didn’t see you.’ She straightened his collar and glanced off along the street. ‘I’d made an arrangement to meet a friend. I came in early, so I’ve only myself to blame if I have to wait.’

‘I’ll wait with you,’ Bryan said.

‘I’ve an appointment at the Fraser.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ Bryan said.

‘I’m perfectly capable of going to the Fraser without you escorting me.’ She laughed, glanced down, and straightened his cap.

‘You’ve welcomed it before,’ he said.

She glanced back the way he’d come. ‘Why are you out of school so early?’

‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘I’m late.’

She examined a watch on her wrist. ‘Is it as late as that?’

‘There’s that actor over there.’

‘Where?’

He pointed across the street; the figure was waiting on the opposite corner.

‘I can’t see without my glasses.’

He might, in different circumstances, have been entertained by her attempts to conceal her interest: her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright and her make-up, he thought, more garish than ever.

‘The one in the dark-brown overcoat two sizes too big, and the trilby hat pulled over his eyes.’

‘It doesn’t look like him at all.’

‘I’ll go across.’

‘I’d prefer you not to.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’d prefer you not to encourage him, Bryan.’ She took his arm. ‘You can walk me to the Fraser and leave me at the door.’

‘I’ll come up with you,’ Bryan said.

‘No, thank you.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’ll be all right as far as the door.’

They set off in the direction of the café.

‘I don’t suppose he’s got in touch,’ he said as she held his arm to cross the street.

‘I see no reason why he should,’ she said.

He glanced behind.

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to come up with you?’

‘You’d better get off home. I’ll see you this evening. I shan’t be late.’

She stepped inside the shop and mounted the stairs.

Bryan crossed to the opposite pavement. When the bus came he climbed upstairs and, as his feelings of misery increased, imagined, in the adjoining street, their two embracing figures.

He could hear a clock striking beyond the village when Mrs Corrigan came back.

He didn’t hear the front door open and assumed that, if she had returned by car, it had dropped her some distance from the house and she had walked to the gate, and up the drive, and let herself in without making a sound; it was only the creaking of the landing that disturbed him, and the clicking of her bedroom door.

A short while later he heard Mr Corrigan’s door, then the light tapping on Mrs Corrigan’s bedroom door, followed, after an interval, by his asking, ‘Fay? Are you all right?’

The murmur of her voice replied.

Bryan, getting out of bed, looked through his own open door and saw the chink of light beneath Mrs Corrigan’s. A corresponding chink went out as he watched beneath Mr Corrigan’s. After waiting several seconds, he tip-toed back to bed.

No sound of any sort came from the house.

The clock struck once more beyond the village; perhaps she was sitting up in bed or, more likely, having undressed, was sitting in front of her mirror.

Or, perhaps, he thought, she was kneeling by her bed, something she did each evening – he had gone into her room on several occasions, ostensibly, if he’d been up late, to say good night, only to find her by the bed, her hands clasped, her head stooped, not stirring until she had said, ‘Amen’ in an instructional voice, her eyes blinking – unmascaraed – and the pale face smiling before she inquired, ‘Is there anything you want?’

‘Bryan?’

Her voice came from the door; she was standing there, however, not coming in.

‘Are you out of bed?’

‘No,’ he said.

‘I thought I heard you moving.’

‘I was wondering if your light was out.’

‘I’m sorry if I woke you.’

‘That’s all right.’

‘Good night.’

He lost her figure against the darkness then, from along the landing, came the clicking of her door.

The following morning, by the time he got up, she’d already left: her bedroom door was open and Mr Corrigan was downstairs, lighting the sitting-room fire.

He came out in a dressing-gown, carrying a bucket.

‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Sleep well?’

‘All right,’ he said, glancing to the kitchen as if he suspected Mrs Corrigan might well be there.

‘Fay’s out,’ Mr Corrigan said. He hurried on to the kitchen, unlocked the back door, and went out to the garden.

He didn’t go to school that day; nor did Mr Corrigan go to work: when Mrs Meredith came Mr Corrigan sent her home. ‘Mrs Corrigan’s out,’ he said. ‘Take the day off, Rose. It’s not often that Bryan and I have the chance of a chat,’ indicating that this was an arrangement that he and Bryan had come to together.

It was midday when Mrs Corrigan came back; as she hurried past, wiping her hand at her face, he could see from the smudged mascara, the smeared lipstick, the distortion of her mouth as she endeavoured to control her voice, that she’d been crying. ‘I shan’t be a minute,’ she called, running to the stairs. A weird cacophony of wails and cries expanded in the silence which followed the closing of her bedroom door.

‘Shall I go up to her?’ he asked.

Mr Corrigan shook his head. He was wearing an apron, one normally used by Mrs Meredith, and, shaking his head a second time, he returned to the kitchen, a pan in one hand, a cloth in the other, and called, ‘I’ll go up in a minute, Bryan.’

A quarter of an hour had elapsed, however, before Mr Corrigan finally went up, not knocking on Mrs Corrigan’s door but going directly in and closing it behind him.

Bryan waited in the sitting-room; after a while he went through to the kitchen: pans were on the gas; meat was roasting in the oven.

He washed up the cooking utensils and cleared the table.

He had never taken much regard of the Corrigans’ garden: the broad lawn, flanked by flower beds, led down to a summer-house; with nothing else to do he wandered down the path and looked inside.

Deck-chairs were folded against a wall.

He glanced back at the house: above the sitting-room, the hall and the kitchen windows were, respectively, the windows of the guest-room, the landing and of his own room, with the dormer window of the lumber-room, where he did his modelling, and occasionally his painting, above.

‘Bryan?’

Mr Corrigan had appeared at the kitchen door.

He came into the garden, pulling on his jacket.

‘Mrs Corrigan’s on the telephone.’

‘Who with?’

‘Her brother.’

For a moment he wondered who her brother was; only slowly did the thought occur: ‘The farm, the kitchen, the blue-eyed man.’

‘Mrs Spencer died this morning.’

Bryan glanced at the house.

‘Is that where she’s been?’

‘She’s only just heard.’

‘I thought she was upset before she came in.’

‘She was.’

He wondered what on earth Mrs Corrigan could say.

‘Why was she upset?’ he said, turning to the house.

‘I’ll drive her over to Feltham,’ Mr Corrigan said, not answering the question. ‘Lunch is cooking. Perhaps you’d keep an eye on it. I may leave her there,’ he added, ‘and come back myself. We could get something to eat, if you like, together.’

Mrs Corrigan came down a little later; she had re-done her make-up and changed her clothes.

‘Isn’t Bryan coming?’ she said, seeing him waiting behind in the hall.

‘I thought it better he didn’t,’ Mr Corrigan said, already on the steps outside.

‘He’ll have to come,’ she said. ‘There’s not much more I can say to Freddie.’

Mr Corrigan returned to the kitchen to turn off the gas.

Mrs Corrigan got into the back seat of the car and indicated that Bryan should get in the front, waiting for Mr Corrigan to lock the front door.

‘I hope you’ve not been troublesome,’ she said.

‘No,’ Bryan said.

‘That you’ve helped Mr Corrigan.’

‘I have.’ He didn’t glance back.

A light was burning in one of the ground-floor windows when they reached the farm; Mrs Corrigan tapped on the front door and, without waiting for an answer, went inside.

Upstairs, on the landing, there was the sound of footsteps then, from the kitchen, Margaret appeared.

‘There you are, Aunt,’ she said, turning her cheek to be kissed. ‘Hello, Bryan,’ she added, and led the way to the kitchen.

A fire burned in the tall, enamelled range: the dogs stirred, growling, then sank by the hearth.

Mrs Corrigan sat down at the table – on the same chair on which she had been sitting the first time Bryan had seen her. Her look contrasted strangely with that previous occasion; not only was the table itself not occupied by parcels and the rudiments of a farm tea, but her manner as well as her expression were those of an older woman: she struggled to contain her feelings and Margaret, examining her aunt’s dark eyes, ringed beneath by lack of sleep, the sallowness of her cheeks, her strangely puckered lower lip, asked, ‘Shall I get you a cup of tea?’

‘Is your father upstairs, Margaret?’ Mrs Corrigan asked.

The strange force that now controlled her, compelling her to latch on to one grief in order to distract herself from another, caused her to get up from the chair and, stepping past Mr Corrigan, she ascended the stairs.

They heard her voice call, ‘Freddie?’

‘Anything we can do to help?’ Mr Corrigan asked Margaret, who had turned to the sink where she was washing up.

‘No, thanks,’ Margaret said.

She stood for a moment with her back to the room, looking out to the yard: hens and geese moved to and fro amongst the ruts and, faintly, from the dairy, came the sound of sweeping.

Gas burned beneath a kettle.

Mr Corrigan sat down; he sat at the table, in the chair vacated by Mrs Corrigan: as Bryan picked up a tea-towel he called, ‘I can do that, Bryan. You do the washing,’ rising once again and taking off his jacket.

‘It’s finished, Uncle,’ Margaret said, glancing round.

‘In that case,’ he said, ‘I’ll make the tea,’ crossing to the cupboards on the wall and opening several before finding the cups and saucers.

Bryan wiped the pots; no sound, other than those of the kitchen, came from the house: the methodical ploughing of Margaret’s hands in the water, the clattering of the crockery as she laid each piece down, the clattering as Bryan picked each item up, the dripping of the water, the crackling of the fire, the odd sounds made by Mr Corrigan as, his jacket back on, he moved around the table, emphasized rather than distracted their attention from the absence of any sound from above their heads.

‘You didn’t have to come over,’ Margaret said.

‘I wanted to,’ he said.

‘What about school?’

‘I took the day off.’

‘There isn’t much washing-up to do, as a matter of fact. We haven’t had any breakfast.’ Having dried her hands she crossed the room, found the tea-caddy for Mr Corrigan and, having handed it to him, moved over to the door, glanced to the stairs, and said, ‘I’ll go up and see if Aunt Fay wants one.’

Her feet faded to the landing.

Mr Corrigan sat down.

‘This is a to-do.’ He glanced at Bryan. ‘So early on in life.’

‘I didn’t know she’d been seriously ill,’ Bryan said.

‘For a long time,’ Mr Corrigan said. ‘She said little to anyone about it because, I suspect, she thought it was fatal.’

‘Hasn’t she been to hospital?’

‘We thought whatever it was had been contained. Why,’ he added, ‘I was going to call this morning to see how she was. Then other things intervened.’

He glanced away.

From the stairs came the sound of the farmer’s voice; a moment later Mr Spencer stood in the door: he was in his shirt sleeves and his stocking feet.

‘Bryan.’ He came into the room as Mr Corrigan stood up. ‘We’ve summat in to eat. Gone lunch-time, has it?’

‘We’re not hungry, Freddie.’ Mr Corrigan shook his hand. ‘We’ve a pot of tea on, if that’s all right.’ He crossed to the kettle as it began to boil.

‘How’s thy faither?’ Mr Spencer said, aimlessly, to Bryan.

‘All right.’

‘Good worker.’ He glanced at Mr Corrigan. Having laid his hand on Bryan’s shoulder, still grasping it, tightly, he added, ‘Is Fay all right?’

‘Fay?’ Mr Corrigan placed the lid on the teapot and brought it to the table.

‘She’s looking under the weather.’ To Bryan, he added, ‘She wa’re alus emotional when she wa’re a lass. Up one minute, down the next. She lives for the present and has ne’er à thought for what comes after.’ He sat down at the table, his legs apart.

‘Shall I go up to her?’ Mr Corrigan said.

‘Margaret’s wi’ her. She mu’n be all right. She’s more common sense than Fay,’ he added.

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.