David Storey - Saville

They’d walked about the town, gone to the pictures, where they’d sat rigidly apart, and finally, before catching their respective buses, had walked down to the Chantry Bridge where, leaning against the parapet, they’d watched the dull brown river. He’d taken her hand as they walked; and then, at the bridge, he stood with his arm around her, loosely, uncertain, gazing down at the water without speaking.

Finally he’d turned to her and clumsily kissed her cheek. A moment later she turned to him and he kissed her on the mouth, slowly, still uncertain. Then, not wanting to kiss her again, or have his uncertainty revealed, he turned back to the river.

‘Shall I see you again?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she said, and added, ‘If you like.’

‘I could see you at the week-end.’

‘All right,’ she said, smiling, as if he were making of this more of a decision than he might.

They walked back to the stop. Her bus came. She climbed inside: he saw her stooping beneath the light, waving, then taking her seat as the vehicle moved away.

He saw her most week-ends. There was a casualness about their encounters. At their third meeting she’d asked him if he’d like to meet her parents. ‘They’d like to meet you,’ she added, ‘if you didn’t mind. They keep wondering where I’m off to.’

‘Don’t you tell them you’re going with me?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she said, surprised. ‘That’s why they’d like you to come.’

He arranged to go to the house the following week.

The light was fading when he arrived. The garden, which he’d glimpsed only once before, from the gate, was broader than he had imagined. The house was set on a slight rise to one side of the original village: beyond it, dipping down to the valley, were the brick houses of the council estates, whilst on the other side, higher up the slope, were the older structures of stone and grey-coloured slate. The house itself was built of brick, with small casement windows and, on the first floor, imitation timber and plaster work. There was an air of spaciousness about it, the front garden, the central feature of which was a sloping lawn, surrounded by thick beds of flowers. Roses, now fading, grew on trellises set against the walls of the house, overhanging the green-painted porch, and along timber-framed walks on either side. The tall stone walls of the older part of the village cut off the edges of the garden beyond.

Before he’d reached the front door it was pulled open and Margaret appeared. She wore a light, greenish dress, her hair, as usual, fastened in a ribbon.

‘You made it, then.’

‘I haven’t come too early?’ he said.

‘Dad’s just come in from surgery.’

She took his raincoat, which was folded on his arm, and he stepped inside the hall. It was broad and wood-panelled, and ran through to a door at the back of the house. A room opened off on either side, and stairs ran up to the floor above.

She showed him into a lighted room, the door of which was already open. A light-haired woman with a fresh-coloured face was sitting at a table, sewing. She removed a pair of spectacles, putting down the sewing and coming round the table to shake his hand. ‘So this is Colin: I’m so glad you could come,’ she said glancing shyly at his face. ‘Margaret’s father will be down in a minute,’ turning aside then to indicate a chair.

A fire burnt in a square, metal stove set out from the wall. He sat down in a leather-backed chair beside it.

‘Would you like a cup of tea or anything?’ Mrs Dorman said.

‘Oh, we’re going out in a few minutes,’ Margaret said.

‘Colin might want a cup of tea. He’s come a long way,’ the mother said. ‘Don’t rush him out before he’s arrived.’

‘Do you want a cup of tea, then?’ Margaret said.

‘I don’t mind,’ he said, looking at the mother.

‘Now you put the kettle on, Margaret,’ Mrs Dorman said. ‘And make it for all four of us. I’m sure your father will want one in any case,’ she added.

Margaret glanced across at him, shook her head, turned her gaze upwards, then went quickly to the door.

‘You live quite a long way away, Colin,’ Mrs Dorman said. She came over to the fire herself, sitting in a settee directly opposite. She was a small, neat-featured woman, with greyish eyes: it was from her that Margaret took much of her appearance.

‘Saxton,’ he said, describing the village.

‘You’re starting at college.’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Will you live in a hostel, then, or at home?’

‘In a hostel,’ he said. ‘I think they prefer it.’

‘It does young people good to get away from home for a while; after a certain age, I think,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Does you father work in the village, or does he have a job outside?’ she said.

‘He works in the village.’

‘Ah, yes,’ she said.

‘He works down the mine.’

‘Oh, then we have something in common,’ she said. ‘My husband’s father worked in a mine. Though that’s some years ago now,’ she added.

Margaret came back in. She stood by the table, her hands clenched loosely before her.

‘Honestly, you’re not grilling him?’ she said.

‘I’m afraid Margaret’s very much on edge with you coming, Colin,’ Mrs Dorman said.

‘I’m not on edge at all,’ Margaret said, sitting at the table and beginning, slowly, to pick at the sewing.

‘And where are you going tonight?’ the mother said.

‘I thought we might walk round. Or we could go to the pictures. We’ve got one down the road,’ she added directly to Colin.

‘Make sure it’s not too late,’ Mrs Dorman said.

‘Honestly, now who’s on edge?’ her daughter said.

The door opened a few moments later and the father came in. He was a tall, soldierly man, from whom Margaret evidently got much of her height. He had, like the mother, a red-cheeked face, the eyebrows bushy, beneath them light-blue eyes. His hair was auburn, almost reddish, and brushed down in a fringe across his brow. His skin gleamed, as if he had just washed.

‘Oh, there you are, Colin,’ he said, as if they’d met already, and crossed the room with outstretched hand. ‘I thought I might have missed you. I’m never quite sure, you see, what time I’ll finish,’ turning to his wife and then Margaret and adding, ‘Any tea going, is there? Or am I too late for that?’

‘You’re never too late for tea in this house,’ Margaret said, going to the door. ‘I won’t be a minute. I’ll bring it in.’

‘Sit down, son. Make yourself at home,’ the father said, waving Colin back to the chair from which he’d just risen. He sat down at the table, taking out a pipe. ‘You don’t mind if I smoke?’ he added.

‘No,’ he said.

‘Not smoke yourself?’ The father laughed.

‘No,’ he said.

‘Wise man. Save yourself thousands.’ He glanced at his wife. ‘You don’t mind if I smoke, my dear?’

‘Not if Colin doesn’t mind,’ she said.

Margaret came in with a wooden tray. She set it on the table, sorting out the cups, pouring one for her father and saying, ‘One for you, I suppose, since you’ve just been working.’

‘Oh, give Colin his first, since he’s your guest,’ the father said, blowing out a cloud of smoke. ‘I come last in any reckoning in this household,’ he added directly to Colin, winking slowly over the top of his pipe.

‘In that case, Colin shall have it,’ Margaret said, coming over to him and handing the cup to him with scarcely a glance.

‘Oh, don’t look at me,’ the mother said, as if some look had passed between the father and her. ‘She’s very much a madam at times. I suppose you’ll find that out in due course,’ she added to Colin.