David Storey - Saville

Margaret got into an empty carriage. She lowered the window, carefully removed her hat, laid it on the seat, then leant out, gazing along the platform.

‘That’s all we can do, then,’ she said. ‘See how it goes.’ She glanced at him, briefly, then looked down the platform the other way. Her thin, high-boned cheeks had flushed. A white patch showed at either temple.

Other doors were slammed; a porter came along, testing the handles.

‘I’ll see you next week-end, then,’ he said.

She leant to him quickly.

He kissed her mouth.

‘Take care,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a ring.’

A whistle had blown. The train lurched, shuddering; a harsh panting came from the front as the engine moved to the track.

The carriages glided out of the station. Margaret’s hand waved, and continued waving until the end of the platform and the signal box had passed.

Reagan was waiting by the bridge when he came out of the station; the smoke and the steam from the train was still visible down the track.

‘I thought I’d wait and walk up with you,’ he said, running his hand slowly across his hair then stooping to pick up the violin case between his feet.

They set off up the slope towards the village. The sun had sunk down behind the shoulder of the hill. Reagan walked with a long, loping stride, his head thrust back as if in some way, unconsciously, he were trying to restrain his body.

‘Where have you been this evening?’ Colin said.

‘Oh, rehearsing.’ Reagan named a neighbouring village. ‘They’re forming a dance band there. I thought I could play there midweek and in town at week-ends. I give a lesson there as well.’ He added, ‘As a matter of fact, actually this evening, I’ve been playing in a church.’

‘A church?’

Reagan changed the violin case to his other hand.

‘The vicar invited me. It’s the saint’s day, for the building I mean. There were three other people there. We made a quartet.’

They walked in silence for a while. The air was still. The voices of people in the distant fields came clearly to them: a voice calling a name, then a burst of laughter, then several people talking at once. Beyond it all, rising and falling, then finally growing more faint, came the persistent panting of the engine.

‘I hear you’ve failed your medical,’ Reagan said.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘ Flat feet.’

‘I failed too. Weak chest.’ He tapped it lightly with his hand. ‘And anaemia apparently. It’s probably just as well. It’s a terrible waste of time if you’ve got something you want to do.’

A car came down the road, and rattled on, accelerating, towards the station. It covered them for a moment in a cloud of dust.

Reagan brushed down his suit with his one free hand.

‘Are you getting married to your fiancée soon?’ he said.

‘We’re not engaged,’ he said.

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I thought you were. My mother mentioned something about it.’ He scratched his head.

‘She goes off to university in a couple of months. For three years.’

‘I say, that’s hard cheese,’ he said, affecting, momentarily, something of an accent.

The car, which had passed them on the hill, had turned and was now mounting back up the slope towards the village. As it drew abreast the horn was sounded and a moment later a head appeared.

‘Hello, old man,’ someone called, and, as the car pulled up, the head had turned, backwards. ‘Hello, there, Savvers.’

A moment later a figure in an officer’s uniform got out.

It wasn’t until it came close to him, its hands extended, that he recognized the sun-burnt features of Stafford half-hidden beneath the neb of the hat.

‘I’ll be going on, then,’ Reagan said after they’d shaken hands. ‘Leave you two to chin-wag about old times.’ His accent once again was heightened, and without waiting for an acknowledgment he set off up the road.

‘Jump in, for God’s sake,’ Stafford called. ‘I’ll drive you up.’ He added to Colin, ‘I’ve just called at your house. Your mother said you were on your way to the station. With old Maggie Dorman, after all this time.’

‘She’s just gone on the train,’ he said.

‘Don’t you see her home, then?’ Stafford said, holding the door of the car now and beckoning Reagan inside. He took his violin case from him and set it in the back. ‘In the front, old man. I hate people sitting behind.’

They sat abreast, squashed up against the gears, and coasted slowly towards the village.

‘I was just passing through,’ Stafford said. ‘And thought I’d call. I haven’t seen you for how long is it?’ not waiting for an answer but blowing his horn vigorously at children playing between the first of the houses.

‘Two years,’ Colin said. ‘At least.’

‘How’s old Prendergast?’ Stafford said, turning to Reagan.

‘He’s still alive. He hands me on some of his pupils,’ Reagan said. ‘We have an understanding in that respect. I do violin and he does piano.’

‘Poor old Prenny,’ Stafford said. He added, ‘Do you mean to say Maggie’s gone off on that train alone?’ He accelerated quickly now along the street. ‘What say to nipping into town and meeting her at the station? We could get there, if we hurry before the train arrives.’

‘I wouldn’t put you to all that trouble,’ he said.

‘No trouble to me, old man,’ he said. ‘Did you hear that Marion’s gone off nursing? Not available except during bank holidays and that.’

Reagan was dropped off at the corner of the street. He ducked his head to the window after taking out his violin from the seat behind.

‘That’s been very kind of you to give me the lift,’ he said as if the purpose of Stafford’s visit to the village had been this alone. ‘I’ll see you some time. If you’re ever near the Assembly Rooms on Saturday drop in for a dance.’ He nodded quickly and stepped back as the car shot forward, Stafford calling, ‘See you, Mic, old man. Look out.’

They turned out of the village and past the colliery, the car roaring, Stafford leaning casually back, whistling lightly between his teeth, his eyes scarcely visible beneath the brim of the hat.

‘How long have you been in the army?’ Colin said.

‘A year, old man. I thought I’d get it over with. I go up to Oxford a year from now. Get it all cleared up before I go.’ He glanced across, spinning the wheel wildly when, a moment later, he glanced back at the road.

They turned along the road towards the town.

‘Your old lady said you’d got exemption. That was a stroke of luck,’ he said. ‘I tried it, you know, but it didn’t work. Got a doctor’s note about a dicky heart. Couldn’t find anything when it came to the medical.’

‘Is there something the matter with your heart?’ he said.

‘I shouldn’t think so, old man.’ He whistled once more between his teeth. ‘I thought I might try it and give it a whirl.’

Every vehicle that came into sight on the same side of the road Stafford overtook: within a matter of minutes they were passing through the town. The sun had set. Its light still hung above the valley. When they turned into the station yard a row of gas lamps were being lit beneath the canopy above the station entrance. Stafford, leaving the engine running, ran off quickly up the steps, re-appearing moments later as Colin too got out and calling, ‘It’s all right, old man. We’ve got ten minutes. I told you we’d make it with time to spare.’

He leant in the car, turned off the engine, put his hat on the seat behind, then, running his hand across his fair, almost blondish hair, looked round freshly at the yard.

‘My God: do you remember coming here? That day we went to the flicks with Marion and Audrey?’ From somewhere, perhaps the rear of the car itself, he produced a small baton. As they moved to the steps he set it neatly beneath his arm, clenching his gloved hands behind his back.