David Storey - Saville

His two brothers were already waiting by the table, Steven uncertain where to put himself, while Richard, who had recently been crying, was wiping his face with a flannel. His mother, who was finishing the arranging of the table, looked up, smiling, as they entered. A few moments later his father appeared, smoking, from the yard outside. ‘So this is where we are,’ he said, clapping his hands and rubbing them as if some argument had taken place during their absence and he were now energetically trying to remove its atmosphere. ‘Did you get far round our beautiful village?’

‘Far enough, Mr Saville,’ Margaret said, her spirits reviving slightly at the sight of his father. ‘Is there anything I can do, Mrs Saville?’ she added.

‘It’s all ready, love,’ she said. ‘If you’d like to wash your hands, that is.’

‘Oh, we’d better wash our hands,’ his father said, going to the sink directly and rolling up his sleeves. He began to sing, cheerily, as he ran the tap.

Colin waited for Margaret to go before him. Then, when he’d washed his own hands and dried them, he held her chair and they sat down at the table. There were only four chairs, so the two younger boys stood at the side, gazing at the sandwiches, waiting impatiently while the plate was handed first to Margaret, then to their mother, their father then handing it to Colin. ‘No wolfing, now,’ his father said. ‘Eat slowly. Give good food’, he added, glancing pleasantly at Margaret, ‘time to digest.’

When the sandwiches were consumed and his mother had asked Margaret if she would like any more, the tinned fruit was brought over to the table. His mother served it out, stooping short-sightedly to the bowls, balancing the variety of fruits, lifting one cherry from one bowl, replacing it with a piece of pear, then asking Margaret, ‘Would you like some cream, love?’ which his father also brought over to the table, a small, round tin with two punctured holes. ‘Oh, do put it in a jug, Harry,’ she said.

‘Nay, it’s cream in a tin, and it’s cream in a jug,’ his father said. ‘So what’s the difference?’

‘Still, it looks better in a jug,’ she said severely, flushing, his father going to the cupboard and waiting patiently beside the upturned tin while its contents trickled out. ‘Or you could have the top of the milk. I’ve still got a bottle untouched,’ his mother said.

‘Oh, the cream will do fine, Mrs Saville,’ Margaret said, watching his father’s expression now with fascination and taking the jug from him finally with a smile.

When the last of the fruit had gone, and his two brothers had assiduously cleaned round their plates, Richard standing on tiptoe, his elbow raised, to finish off completely, slowly licking his spoon and looking over at Margaret as if she herself were responsible for the provision of all this food, a sponge cake was brought out from the cupboard in the wall.

‘And where has this been hiding?’ his father said. ‘We’ve had no news of this, then, have we?’ picking up a knife to cut it himself.

‘And if you had’, his mother said, glancing at Margaret, ‘there’d be none of it left for tea.’

‘That’s true. That’s perfectly correct,’ his father said, handing the first piece to Margaret on the blade of the knife, his mother adding, ‘Oh, now, can’t you pass it properly? You bring the plate to you, not pass it over.’

‘Oh, we never have much time for etiquette down a coal-mine,’ his father said, again to Margaret.

‘You’re not down a coal-mine now, though,’ his mother said. She added to Margaret, ‘Though at times, going by their manners, you’d begin to think they were.’

‘Aye, well,’ his father said, in a tone of self-pity. ‘Some of us aren’t as well trained as others. I suppose I’ve to show up my ignorance now and again. I’m sure Margaret will forgive me.’

‘It’s not a question of forgiving, it’s just a question of practicality and common sense,’ his mother said, flushing, her expression invisible behind her glasses.

‘Practicality: that’s another of those words,’ his father said. ‘You can’t sit down to a meal in this house without a dictionary ready,’ returning perhaps to some vestige of the argument they’d had while they were walking round the village.

‘Would you like some more tea, love?’ his mother said, holding out her hand for Margaret’s cup and drawing the episode firmly to a close.

There was a further argument later over the washing-up. ‘You sit down, love. I’ll do it,’ his mother had said when, the moment the meal was over, Margaret began to clear the table.

‘Oh, I can do something for my keep, Mrs Saville,’ Margaret said, taking a pile of plates to the sink. The moment she was there, seeing there was no hot-water tap, she filled the kettle and took it to the fire.

‘Oh, guests don’t have to do housework,’ his mother said cheerily, taking the kettle from her and setting it quickly in the flames herself.

‘Nay, we’ll all do it,’ his father said, removing his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. ‘I’m damned if I’m going to sit there and watch you wash up, Mother. Steve, go to the yard and fill the bucket,’ then running the tap noisily to rinse the plates.

‘Nay, love, I can do it when Margaret’s gone,’ his mother said fiercely. ‘There’s no reason to make such a fuss of it.’

‘Fuss? What fuss?’ his father said, glancing at Margaret. ‘We’re not going to sit over them mucky pots, now, are we? We’ll have us a clean room to sit in.’

‘Nay, you take Margaret through to the front room,’ his mother said to Colin. ‘Your father and I will do the pots.’

In the end they went through, sitting in silence in the tiny interior, gazing out to the street, the sounds of his parents’ voices coming through the wall, followed a little later by a wail from Steven.

Colin went through to the door.

‘You can let him go out and play: he doesn’t have to stay in for Margaret,’ he said.

‘Nay, love: they’re not going out when we have a guest,’ his mother said, his brother sitting sulkily by the door, Richard already back on the floor, playing beneath the table.

‘Oh, what a commotion. Why does she have to be a martyr to it all?’ Margaret said when he went back in the room. She stood by the window, her arms folded, gazing out. Bletchley, as if aware of the commotion, perhaps having even listened to the flood of voices through the wall, was cycling slowly up and down, in loose circles, in front of the house, his large red face intermittently turned towards the door, no doubt aware of Margaret behind the curtains and offering, so his expression and attitude seemed to say, his own presence and personality as a suitable alternative.

‘It’s just nerves,’ he said. ‘She wanted to make a good impression. You’re the first girl I’ve brought back to the house,’ he added. He waited. She didn’t turn from the window. ‘Her ambitions for the house are so much greater than the things she’s got to work with. She really sees this as a sitting-room.’ He gestured round at the dilapidated furniture and the piece of ill-fitting linoleum on the floor.

‘It’s so awful. It’s so sickening. It’s not that I don’t feel sorry for her,’ she said. ‘I do. But to be driven to live like this.’

‘Oh, she’ll begin to relax,’ he said, ‘when you’ve been here one or two times. She might even be glad for you to do the washing-up,’ he added.

‘And do you think that would be an improvement, a step in the right direction?’ she said, turning finally from the window.

‘It depends what you want to make of it,’ he said.

He was silent for a while. She returned her gaze to the street outside. Almost like a metronome, Bletchley appeared and disappeared, first in one direction then the other, beyond the window.