EIGHTEEN

His room looked out to the yard: it was here, on the Monday, as he was about to leave for school, that he met his father; he saw him walking out towards the fields and called, waving, seeing the hesitation in his father’s step as if, for that instant, his father couldn’t understand who, in the dark raincoat and the blue-beaded cap, was calling.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘Didn’t you get my letter?’

‘Which one?’

‘I posted it Friday.’

‘It mu’n have come this morning,’ his father said. ‘Afore I left.’

‘I’m staying here this week,’ he said.

His father glanced at the house.

‘How’s Mr Spencer?’

‘All right.’

‘I heard about his wife.’ He gestured to the sheds. ‘I thought I’d go in later and say I wa’ sorry.’

‘I’m off to school,’ Bryan said.

‘I might see you tonight, in that case,’ his father said.

Bryan watched him walk off but only when he called did his father wave, turning, and walked on more quickly towards the fields.

Bryan stayed at the farm for the next five days. He avoided meeting his father whenever he could, and, if he happened to glimpse him, he refrained, for some reason, from calling out, reluctant to remind his father either of his own position in the house, or of his father’s subservience to Mr Spencer.

The greater part of his time Mr Spencer spent in town, returning home each evening relaxed, slumping in a chair where he smiled and talked about his work, or the weather or, more interestedly, inquired about Bryan’s school: ‘These statues we hear about,’ listening with a sidelong look, dazed, as he might to a voice from another room.

Mrs Corrigan came on two occasions, both time, travelling by a local train which by-passed the town, circuiting it to the south and, after several stops at intervening villages, called at the tiny Feltham station.

It was approached by a lane which ran below the surrounding fields and, but for a distant glimpse of Feltham Castle and its ruined walls, was enclosed by hedges, like the bed of a stream. He came here one evening, when he had nothing else to do, and leant againt the wall of the tiny, brick-built booking-hall and watched the rails and the occasional train that thundered through.

It was here, on both her visits, that he saw Mrs Corrigan into her carriage; in the walk from the farm to the station they spoke very little: only the sight of the slate roof and the soot-flecked brickwork prompted her to ask about the school and he, in turn, to inquire about the actor. ‘The show has moved on to another town,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why you bring it up.’ The gaslight of the station, set on a slight embankment, glowed above a distant hedge.

‘How do I know,’ he said, ‘you won’t be seeing him again?’

‘How could I possibly see him again?’

‘You could write to him,’ he said.

She walked with her hand in his; or, rather, since he resisted, with his hand in hers.

‘I’ve had no contact with him. Nor have I tried to get in touch,’ she said.

‘Does Mr Corrigan know?’ he asked.

‘What occurs between Mr Corrigan and me is not your concern,’ Mrs Corrigan said.

She walked along more quickly, drawing him with her. Yet with only a gas lamp to illuminate the lane, half-way along its length, she wasn’t sure of her step and stumbled, clutching his hand, drawing him to her: yet, having regained her balance, she thrust him away.

At the station, as they waited, she added, ‘I don’t understand why Mr Spencer invited you to stay at a time like this. He’s keeping his grief to himself. It’s self-defeating. He needs all the help he can get.’

‘He wants me there as a distraction,’ Bryan said. ‘He can’t bear to be alone in the house with Margaret, and can’t stand the friends she has from school. I’m the next best thing to a dog. Like I am at Chevet. Something that can be called on or ignored, whenever anyone chooses.’

‘Your life at Chevet hasn’t been like that at all,’ she said. And, after pacing up and down the deserted platform, she asked, ‘Is there any reason why I shouldn’t be attracted by another man? Do you want me to be absorbed in you entirely?’

Her expression was hidden by the brim of her hat and the shadows flung out by the station lamp.

The train appeared.

‘Last week was more than I could stand,’ Bryan said.

‘Was it any different for me?’ she asked.

‘It was all your doing,’ Bryan said.

She climbed into the carriage.

‘You don’t know what my feelings are,’ she said.

A whistle blew.

Her last words were lost as the train moved off.

All Bryan caught was the sound of his name.

On the Wednesday morning Mrs Spencer was buried; Bryan drove with the Corrigans in the car behind the one in which Margaret and her father were sitting: he could see the suited figure of the farmer sitting upright, stiff-necked, the straight-backed figure of his daughter beside him, her gaze, like her father’s fixed to the front.

At Feltham Church the coffin was lifted out, taken inside, brought out again, and buried in a clay-lined pit.

Bryan and Margaret, after a lunch at the Castle Inn, departed for school.

In the evening, when Bryan got back, the farmer talked not about the funeral, nor about his wife, nor about the Corrigans, not even about his life, but, curiously, about Bryan’s father. ‘He’s a funny man,’ he said. ‘He can’t say no to a pint, which doesn’t go against a man in my book,’ he raised his finger, ‘necessarily, but it went against his. I’ve seen him leave the Three Bells i’ the evening and many a time I’ve wondered if I’d see him back and Mary has said, “Shouldn’t you gev him a lift?” and I’ve said, “Gi’e him a lift and he’ll want it every neet.”’ The farmer laughed, leaning back from the table; he’d laughed, too, at the Castle Inn, and he laughed in much the same way now, and added, ‘he’s been late for work a time or two. I ne’er tipped a wink. I’ve watched him set off along that road, and thought, “He’ll be lucky if he gets home toneet,” and taken my cap off when he’s turned up next morning. “How’s thy do it, Arthur?” I’ve asked, and he’s said, “Do what, Mr Spencer?” bright as a penny, and never blinked an eye though I’ve known that he’s known that I’ve known he wa’ tippled the night afore. Remember the day thy pedalled here? He spent two months o’ lunchtimes on that bike, sanding it down and painting it i’ yon shed. If he’d worked as hard for me as he worked for hissen we wouldn’t be sitting here at present.’

Each time that he verged, in these reminiscences, on mentioning his wife, his gaze would turn to Margaret and, seeing an acknowledgement in her half-attentive face, he’d glance away and add, ‘He wa’re a good man. There wa’re alus summat behind him you could never put a finger on,’ leaning back, only, at the last moment, to draw himself forward, thrusting his arms at the table.

At the weekend he went back home to Stainforth; Alan was in the house, reading the morning paper, sitting in a chair with his legs across the arm: he looked up in surprise and said, ‘Kicked you out for good, or come back on a visit?’

‘I’ve come back for the weekend.’ He could see his last letter to his parents on the mantelpiece behind the clock, the torn lip of the envelope and the formality of the address, with the folded edge of the paper protruding from inside.

‘My mother’s out. My dad’s at work.’ Still his brother’s look persisted. ‘My mother was saying you were at the funeral.’ The newspaper dropped from his brother’s hand.

‘I went with the Corrigans,’ Bryan said.

In an adjoining chair was a carrier bag: as Bryan lifted it down he saw it contained a rolled-up towel, his brother’s boxing-boots and a packet of what looked like sandwiches, together with a flask.

‘Are you fighting?’

‘A little ’un.’ His brother laughed.

‘A little fight, or a little opponent?’

‘Both.’ He laughed again, straightening his body across the chair. ‘Did they have a beano after the funeral?’

‘They had a meal.’

‘Wheer?’

‘At the Castle Inn.’

Having set down his case and removed his brother’s bag, Bryan sat down, facing the fire which, from the freshness of the coal, had just been lit.

‘The Corrigans went?’

‘That’s right.’

‘How is she?’

‘All right.’

‘She wrote my mother a letter.’

‘What about?’

‘Putting her in the picture.’

Bryan’s gaze went back to the clock.

‘It’s in her handbag, if you want to see it.’

‘No, thanks.’

‘She talks glowingly of you and says what a pillar of support you’ve been.’

The room was cold; he wondered why, in the circumstances, he’d troubled to come back: far better, he realized, to have gone to Chevet.

‘I slept in your bed last night,’ his brother said.

‘Why?’

‘I thought I’d have a change. You can sleep in mine, if you want,’ he added.

Bryan got up from the chair; he picked up his case and went to the stairs: he heard his brother poke the fire and, a few moments later, as he sat on his unmade bed and wondered which one of the two he ought to sleep in, his brother came in and stood in the door.

In the corner of the room, on the cupboard-top construction which marked the rising of the stairwell, was the first box of paints given him by Mrs Corrigan: something in the faded texture of the lid reminded him of the slightness of her build, of her querulous eyes, and in this featureless room – as austere in its own way as the one he had slept in at the Spencers’ – the feeling that he didn’t belong anywhere intensified.

‘How’s Spencer now his wife is dead?’

‘I don’t think he’s thought about it,’ Bryan said.

‘Did you see her?’

‘When?’

‘Afore she died.’

‘No,’ he said.

‘Did you see her after?’

His brother gripped the board at the end of the bed.

‘No.’

It was the tiny suitcase that absorbed his attention, absurd in its reproduction of the details of a larger case – the handle, the catches, the rectangular proportions, the sewing along the edge: a present from Mrs Corrigan at the beginning of his stay at Chevet.

‘My mother wa’re upset.’

‘Why?’

‘She used to know her.’

‘When?’

‘When my dad first worked theer. Mrs Spencer came to see her and give her some advice.’

The sneck sounded on the door below and he heard his mother’s step in the scullery, the setting down of a basket, a sigh, then a slow movement to the hall as she hung up her coat. ‘Alan?’ came her voice from the stairs.

‘We’re up here, Mother,’ Alan called.

‘Is Bryan back?’

‘He’s up here,’ he called again, still leaning to the bed.

‘Is he coming down?’

He got up from the bed. His suitcase he stood on his brother’s bed.

His mother – a sign of her displeasure, since she didn’t wait to greet him at the foot of the stairs – had gone through to the living-room and was sitting in the chair he’d been sitting in himself, his brother’s carrier bag beside it.

‘How’s Mr Spencer?’

‘He keeps himself busy.’ He sat down in the chair in which his brother had been reclining.

‘And Margaret?’

‘I don’t think they’ve got used to it yet. At one time Margaret called out, “Mother,” looking up from the table when she wanted to know where something was.’

‘She once did me a very good turn. I shan’t forget. She was very good to me. She gave me advice I’ve never forgotten.’

Later, when his father came back and had eaten his dinner, Alan and he left for the boxing – inviting Bryan to come but not disappointed when he refused, his father pulling on his coat in the door and calling, ‘You’ll still be here tonight?’ his feet clipping on the path outside, his figure visible beyond the hedge as, fastening the buttons of his overcoat, he hurried after Alan.

Bryan went for a walk in the afternoon; he walked to the phone box at the foot of Spinney Moor Avenue and rang up the Corrigans’, getting Mrs Meredith first: then came the sound of Mrs Corrigan’s footsteps crossing the hall, and her voice inquired, ‘Is anything the matter?’

‘I was calling you,’ he said.

‘What about?’

‘Does there have to be a reason?’

‘Where are you calling from?’ she asked.

‘From Stainforth.’

‘Is your mother ill?’

‘I’ve missed you,’ he said.

‘I’m glad to hear it, Bryan,’ she said.

‘I’ll have to put another coin in,’ he said, and heard the gasp of impatience, then, as the clicking subsided, he added, ‘What are you doing this evening?’

‘Mr Corrigan and I are giving a dinner.’

‘Who for?’

‘One or two old friends. We’ve both been feeling low this week.’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow night,’ he said.

‘That’s the arrangement, Bryan,’ she said.

‘How many are coming?’ he asked, gazing out of the telephone box at the bleakness of the house opposite.

‘Quite a few,’ she said, and added, ‘Twelve.’

‘Anyone I know?’

‘Not really. One or two faces from the Fraser.’

‘Will you be entertaining tomorrow night?’

‘Tomorrow night I shall be in bed. I shan’t see you until the following morning. Providing you’re not staying at Feltham.’

There was the sound of Mrs Meredith calling.

‘I shall have to go,’ she said. ‘Thank you for ringing.’

The telephone was replaced the other end.

His mother was coming downstairs when he reached the house; she had washed her face and her cheeks were shining: pulling down the sleeves of her dress, she stooped to the fire, poked it, then called, ‘Can you get some coal?’ She felt the kettle, reassured herself it held some water, and set it against the flames. ‘I’ve just had a sleep,’ she added.

He made her some tea; she appeared content he should move about her, her back propped against a cushion, examining the fire, taking the tea, concluding, after she’d drunk it, ‘It’s so peaceful, Bryan, when everyone’s out.’

The fire crackled, the ashes fell, the flames burned fiercely in tiny jets.

‘Shall I close the curtains?’ he asked.

‘It’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘Mrs Corrigan wrote in her letter the house seemed emptier than ever without you.’ When he didn’t reply, she added, ‘She wanted us to feel how valuable you are.’

She flicked down her skirt.

‘Certainly when your father and I got married I never dreamt we’d have a son out there.’

‘I don’t want to be content with what I’ve got,’ he said. ‘I want to create something which, without me, could never have existed.’ He watched her look and, beyond her silhouetted head and shoulders, in the darkened window, he watched his firelit figure.

‘What does Mrs Corrigan think?’ his mother asked.

‘I haven’t mentioned it.’

‘People can’t be exceptional,’ his mother said, ‘unless it’s in their natures.’

‘What about Alan? He’s trying to be special,’ Bryan said.

‘That won’t last. If he isn’t beaten senseless he’ll grow too old to fight. How can that be special?’

‘If we give in before we start there doesn’t seem to be any purpose in doing anything,’ he said.

‘You can choose a profession. That’s what Peterson’s is for.’

He moved over to the fire and saw his shadow, projected by the flames, rising and falling across the wall.

‘There’s no limit to what I can do,’ he thought, watching the expansion of his shadow on the wall behind. ‘That’s why the Corrigans are so important.’

It wasn’t the feeling he wished to express and, glancing down at her, he asked, ‘Don’t you want me to be something special?’

‘The only thing I want,’ his mother said, ‘is for you not to have to live like we do.’

‘Alan is no different from her,’ he thought. ‘It’s only a temporary flickering which will die down the moment his energy subsides.’

Yet later, when his father came back – opening the front door without a sound – he stood in the threshold of the room and, with an exuberance Bryan had scarcely seen before, he called, ‘He’s beaten him, Sarah!’ stepping into the room and pressing on the light to reveal, in its sudden glare, the smiling, red-cheeked figure of his older brother.