David Storey - Saville

Later, as they were leaving the house, the mother had come to the door.

‘You’re not going without a coat?’ she called into the darkness.

‘It’s so hot,’ Margaret said. ‘And we’re not going far.’

‘Won’t you take a cardigan?’ the mother said, stepping back inside the hall and re-appearing with one a moment later. The father too appeared, stepping down to the path, pulling on a hat and carrying a small black case.

‘Have a good time. Take care,’ he called, waving and turning along the path at the side of the house. A moment later came the sound of a car, and lights appeared at the end of the garden.

Margaret went back, taking the cardigan. When they reached the gate she put her arm in his.

‘Well, that wasn’t so bad, I hope,’ she said.

‘No.’ He shook his head.

‘Let’s go for a walk. I’d love some fresh air,’ she added.

She drew on the cardigan as they walked, returning her arm to his.

The road, which led past the estate and the stone houses, came out on a ridge overlooking the valley: lights were strewn out in vague clusters below. A breeze was blowing. From somewhere farther up the valley, where the faint outline of the hills began, came the soft, exhausted panting of an engine.

‘There’s a golf-course here,’ she said. ‘We could walk on that.’

They searched in the darkness to find the path. A gate opened out on to an area of darkness, vaguely shrouded by trees and the slope of a hill.

As they reached the nearest tree she paused.

‘I’m glad you came,’ she said. ‘I think they quite liked you. It’s the first time I’ve brought anyone home, you see.’

He put his arm about her.

‘I’ll come up to your home if you like,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he said, and added, ‘It’s a little bit different.’

‘In what way?’

‘A bit poorer,’ he said.

‘What does that matter?’ she said.

‘Well, not at all,’ he said, and shook his head.

The path led across the golf-course and came out by the river. The outline of a dyke was visible against the comparative lightness of the sky. They lay down in the grass.

‘I’ve never been down here before,’ she said.

‘Never?’

‘Not that I can remember. Though we’ve only lived in the house about seven years.’

‘Where were you before that?’ he said.

‘Oh, all over the place. Though I think we’ve settled now,’ she added.

They lay side by side.

He started to name the stars above their heads. Part of the sky was blotted out by the shape of a tree.

‘Have you written any more poems?’ she said.

Something about his poetry he’d mentioned in a letter.

‘Off and on,’ he said.

‘Would you ever show me some?’

‘I don’t know. It may not be any good,’ he said.

‘I could see if I liked it. And even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t ever say so.’ She laughed.

‘In that case, I don’t think I shall.’

‘Honestly, I’ll tell you what I think,’ she said.

They got up after a while. Briefly, before they’d risen, he’d caught her hand. Then, as they started walking, he took it again. They walked in silence. When they reached the road again she added, ‘Shall I come into town and see you off? I can easily get a bus back.’

‘I’d prefer to leave you here,’ he said.

‘Why?’ she said and laughed again.

‘It completes things, I suppose,’ he said. ‘In any case, your mother’ll think you’ve been out long enough.’

‘Oh, what does that matter?’ she said.

‘It matters quite a lot,’ he said.

‘Honestly, I didn’t think you were like that at all,’ she said.

They stood at the gate. A car came past and turned up a drive at the side of the house. He could see the hatted figure of her father silhouetted behind the wheel, then the lights faded off beyond a wall.

‘Shall I see you next week?’ he said.

‘If you don’t think my mother will mind,’ she said.

As before, when he’d left her, he kissed her clumsily on the mouth. She held to him a moment, uncertain, then, when he released her, she added, ‘We could meet after lunch. And take a picnic. We could go off somewhere, you know. Outside the town.’

‘Yes, all right,’ he said. He stated a time.

‘You bring something, too,’ she said.

She stayed at the gate, waving, faintly illuminated by a lamp in the road outside. When he reached the corner he stepped under a lamp himself, waved, and went on towards the stop.

They walked in the woodland to the south. A stream ran through a tiny valley and ended in a lake. Rhododendron bushes enclosed the lake on one side; on the other willow trees overhung the water and giant beech trees ran up the slope behind. At the head of the valley the stream wandered through small clearings in the wood.

They walked on towards the open land beyond. A large plain stretched out below them: to their left stood a sharp ridge where the edge of the wood began. Its summit was covered in trees and its lower slope with shrubs. They sat down and opened the two bags.

For a while they ate in silence.

Then, almost idly, she talked about the school. She was starting again the following week.

‘Most of the girls don’t care what they do,’ she said. ‘I mean, when they leave. Whether they go on to something else or not. If it’s not teaching, then it’s nursing. There doesn’t seem to be much else.’ She ran her hand against the grass, leaning back in the shade of a bush. ‘All they’re really concerned about is getting married.’

‘I suppose that’s got its benefits,’ he said.

‘Has it?’ The grey eyes had darkened. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why not?’

‘There should be more to a woman’s life than getting married.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘But what?’

‘Any amount of things. She should be a woman herself, before she even thinks of it.’

‘But what can a woman do?’ he said, lying on his stomach and looking up.

‘Why not be a doctor?’

‘Do you want to be that?’

‘I might. I might do languages. I haven’t decided.’

‘But surely you’ll have to decide by this week,’ he said and laughed.

‘Don’t you take me seriously?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of course I do.’

‘Yet it’s really patronizing, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t think so.’

She waited.

‘But what can a woman do?’ he said. ‘There’ve been no great women in so many areas of life that it can’t simply be explained by a lack of opportunity. Think of the life of leisure so many women led, with time to paint, to play music, to write, to think, to contemplate any number of things. But nothing extraordinary has ever come out of it.’

‘Because nothing extraordinary was ever expected to come out of it,’ she said. ‘You talk like Marion and Audrey. All they think of is a woman’s role. Men, men and more men, which in the end comes down to Hopkins or Stafford. It’s pathetic.’

‘Is that why you came out with me?’ he said.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Because I insist on being one thing, it doesn’t mean I’ve to deny being another.’

He laughed again. A bird had come down from a near-by tree and after some hesitation hopped on to the grass. It pecked at the crumbs.

‘I think you are complacent,’ she said. ‘And I thought you might have been something different.’

‘But no,’ he said gravely. ‘I’d like to understand.’

‘Well, would you like to be a woman?’ she said.

‘No,’ he said. ‘But that’s not a fair question. I know I never shall.’

‘Yet so many women I know would like to be men. And it’s purely frustration. Not because they want to deny themselves as women, but because they’re always treated as women.’