David Storey - Saville

It was a pose, her militancy, a belief at times she couldn’t maintain: at other moments, if he referred to it, she would say, ‘Oh, don’t go on about it, Colin. I have enough to last a lifetime,’ sucking her finger if they were alone, the knuckle of her forefinger, clenching it between her teeth.

On other occasions her brother would be at home. He’d been away to college and was doing his military service: he’d recently passed a selection board and was now an officer cadet, standing to attention in front of the fire, wearing his uniform with its white flash against the collar, beaming down at Margaret if any of her arguments exploded inside the house. ‘And what’s this? What’s this? She was a terrible tyrant when she was a girl. Before, that is, she became a woman. Turned on the waterworks the first sign of trouble. And didn’t the boys who played with her get it in the neck? Many a hiding I’ve had because Margaret flooded at the appropriate moment. If you think you’ve seen a woman cry you’ve seen nothing’, he would add, ‘until you’ve seen our Mag.’

Her brother was a short, compact figure, not unlike the mother. He would stand beside his sister as if her height and slimness were somehow a reproach to his more robust proportions. ‘Oh, fine and dainty,’ he would say savagely to some conclusive argument of hers, taken up, for the sake of peace, by her mother. ‘Oh, fine and dainty: two women in the house,’ stepping briskly to the door from where, a moment later, would come his final remark: ‘It’s the wrong sex they’ve scheduled for conscription, you’ve got my word on that.’

Her father, if he were present, took no part in the arguments. He would sit reading a journal or a newspaper, smoking his pipe, pumping clouds of smoke into the room until Margaret would call out in exasperation, wafting away with either hand, ‘Do you have to smoke that beastly stuff? What if women poured out all that filth?’

‘Women pour out the equivalent in words,’ her brother would say, invariably defeated by his younger sister. ‘Smoke is infinitely preferable if one has a choice,’ taking out a pipe himself and puffing it vigorously in her direction.

One week-end Margaret came home to meet his parents. He’d arranged to meet her at the bus, but whether deliberately or otherwise she came earlier and knocked at the front door before he’d set off. His mother, mystified, had gone to answer it. He heard Margaret’s voice, then, inside the passage: ‘I have got the right house? I’m afraid I got here sooner than I thought.’

His mother came into the kitchen holding a bunch of flowers.

‘Look what Margaret’s brought,’ she said, flushed, holding them out.

Colin got up. He’d been about to put on his shoes, and stood there for a moment in his stockinged feet. His two brothers, who’d been roughly prepared for the occasion, got up from the floor where they were playing.

‘See here, Ellen,’ his father’s voice came from the stairs, ‘have you got a shirt?’

Still holding the flowers, perhaps as a signal, his mother went through to the passage.

‘Harry? Margaret’s here. You’ll find your shirt in one of the drawers,’ her voice followed by a significant pause then, as if some further message had been passed between them, his father answered, ‘All right, then. One of the drawers,’ his feet sounding on the floor above their heads.

‘I got here sooner than I thought,’ Margaret said again, looking across then, and adding, ‘Are these your brothers?’

‘This is Steve,’ he said, indicating the taller of the two. ‘And this is Richard.’

‘Hello, Steven,’ she said. ‘Hello, Richard.’

‘Hello, Miss,’ Steven said, confused.

‘Oh, you needn’t call me anything,’ she said, laughing. ‘Unless you want to call me Margaret.’

His mother came in and started looking for a glass. In the end she found a jug, filled it with water, and put the flowers in that.

‘You’ve met Colin’s brothers, then,’ she said, as if this were a privilege which, but for her acquaintanceship with Colin, Margaret might easily have been denied, calling to Steven then to clear a chair. ‘Make room, then, love, for Margaret to sit down.’

Colin sat down himself. He pulled on his shoes. Margaret was wearing a light-coloured coat which she’d already taken off as she came in the door and now laid on a chair at the back of the room. She sat by the fire, which was heavily stoked.

His father came in a moment later, his face red and freshly shaved; his collar was opened and he wore no tie. He advanced shyly into the room, shaking Margaret’s hand as she was introduced, ducking his head, then saying, ‘I’ve lost my tie. I wonder if it’s down here, Ellen,’ his mother drawing the tie out finally from the chair where Margaret was sitting. ‘He leaves everything where he drops it,’ she said, flushing deeper, then adding, ‘Harry, for goodness’ sake, put your tie on outside the room.’

‘Nay, you don’t mind me putting my tie on, do you, Margaret?’ his father said, glancing directly at her then ducking his head to the fractured glass above the sink. Yet the darkness scarcely left his face, an uncertainty at having someone like this inside the room.

‘Would you like some tea, love?’ his mother said. ‘I was going to get a proper tea ready a little later,’ standing with her hands clasped, gazing at Margaret through her glasses, the lenses of which, reflecting the light, obscured her expression.

‘Oh, I’d love a cup of tea,’ Margaret said and added, ‘I’ll get it, if you like,’ going to the kettle at the sink where, startled, his father stood back from straightening his tie. She ran the tap, looked round for a stove, saw none, and went directly to the fire. She set the kettle against the flames.

‘We’re having a gas stove put in shortly,’ his mother said, more alarmed by this gesture than by anything that had occurred inside that room for some considerable time, standing by the fire, anxious now to re-set the kettle.

‘Do you do all your cooking on the fire, Mrs Saville?’ Margaret said.

‘I have done, till now. And that’s how many years, then, Harry?’ his mother said.

‘Oh we’ve been here some time,’ his father said, refusing to count, gazing in amazement at the bright figure of the girl.

‘Twenty years it must be, over,’ his mother added. She glanced at Colin: he had half-risen from his chair at the incident with the kettle, but now sat back with a resigned air, moving his feet for his brothers who, distracted by Margaret’s arrival, had begun to play once again on the floor.

‘Aye. Nearly a quarter of a century,’ his father said. ‘It seems just like yesterday when we first arrived. We hadn’t got much, I can tell you that. We lived down the street, you know. They knocked it down a few year after and built another row.’

‘Oh, we haven’t done so bad,’ his mother said, sitting down at the table as if to distract his father. ‘There’s plenty worse off, I can tell you that.’

‘Oh, plenty,’ his father said.

‘And where do you live, Margaret?’ his mother added. ‘In town, or out of it?’

‘Just on its edge, Mrs Saville,’ Margaret said, glancing at Colin.

‘I suppose in the outskirts, yes,’ he said.

‘And you’re at the High School?’ his father said.

‘Yes,’ she said, and added, ‘For what it’s worth.’

‘Oh, it’s worth quite a lot,’ his father said. ‘Without an education where could you go,’ he added, ‘and what could you do? You’ve come to the right person to tell you that.’

‘Oh, now, Harry,’ his mother said. ‘You’ve done quite well. You know you have.’