David Storey - Saville

He fell asleep, saw, vaguely, his mother lying in a bed, unfamiliar, her face round and curiously shining, like glass; then found himself riding his father’s bike, flying across the hedges and walls that blocked his path.

It was Mrs Shaw’s movements on the stairs that finally woke him and he immediately sat up, listening for any sounds next door.

When he went down Mrs Shaw was lighting the fire.

She was kneeling by the grate and looked up, her long face half-hidden by her shoulder.

‘Well, then, we’ll soon have this lit and breakfast on,’ she said.

‘Has my dad come back?’ he asked her.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t think so. Would you like me to take you to school?’

‘No,’ he said, and shook his head

He went out into the garden. It was still early, the sun scarcely risen: long shadows ran out from the edge of the terrace.

He played in Mrs Shaw’s garden, emptied the bucket of ashes and filled it up with coal, looking back at his house, at the window of his bedroom. He looked over at the shelter, at the weed-covered vegetables: it looked more abandoned and neglected now than ever, something he had left behind a long time ago.

He climbed over the fence eventually and knocked on the back door. He tried the handle then went to the window and looked inside. The curtains were still drawn as his father had left them.

He walked down through the other yards, past kitchen windows where other women were lighting fires and cooking breakfast, and round into the street the other side. He walked down to the corner; he looked down the lane that led out towards the fields and along which his father normally returned.

He sat down finally and waited, saw the newspaper boy go by, then the milkman with his horse and trap.

‘Now, then, lad,’ he said. ‘You’re up early. Any news from your dad?’

He shook his head.

As the milkman neared the other end of the street Mrs Shaw came to the door and called him.

‘I wondered where you were,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t find you in the yard.’

She watched him, waiting, while he washed his hands.

He saw his father as he was setting off for school. He was pushing his bike along the lane that led into the village. His head was bowed so that only the top of his cap was visible, and he was pushing the bike as if he had walked a long way, his short legs thrust out behind him, his arms straight and stiff.

He had to call out and run to him before he looked up.

‘I’m just off to school,’ he said.

‘Aye,’ his father said. ‘I was hoping to catch you. How have you been?’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I’m all right.’

His father’s eyes were red, the lashes coated with black, his cheeks drawn in as if he had nipped them inside. ‘I called in to see your mother on my way from work.’

‘Is she all right?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Champion.’ He stared at him a minute longer. ‘You better get off to school.’

He stooped down then, as if reminded, and kissed his cheek.

‘Will I see you tonight?’ he said.

‘Aye, well,’ he said. ‘You’ll be all right with Mrs Shaw. I might have to go off to the hospital again when I’ve had a bath.’

‘Can I come with you?’

‘Nay, what’ll they think at school? Any road, they won’t let you take children.’ He looked away, across the fields, the way he’d come. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be all right at school.’

‘Can’t I come to the door?’

‘Nay, they won’t let you past the gate, you see.’

He put his foot on the pedal and began to push the bike along.

‘Now, you be a good lad,’ he added.

At school the teacher sat him by her desk, giving him special tasks. He got out the paper, gave out the books, collected the pencils and rulers. In the playground he stood by the fence, gazing out over the colliery to the rows of chimneys beyond. At tea-time he ran all the way home but his father had already left.

His mother was away for six weeks. In the end he decided she wasn’t coming back and at night, in bed, he tried to invent a life for himself with Mrs Shaw. One day he offered to clean her brasses and she sat by him at the table, anxiously watching each one, taking it from him when he had finished and polishing it a little harder herself. He dug Mr Shaw’s garden and planted some seeds, gazing over at his own garden, at the house now almost always silent, his father at the hospital nearly all the time. At school the other children told him his mother was dying and once an older boy told him she was dead, watching his expression, stooping down to look into his eyes.

When, finally, they went to fetch his mother he felt frozen all over. It was as if everything had been numbed. He sat with his hands clenched on his knees, staring out of the bus window, past his father’s shoulder. He couldn’t remember what his mother looked like, or what kind of person she was.

He had on his suit, and before they had left his father had washed him. He had tidied the house, pushing most of the rubbish into piles, setting a chair in front of it. He had put on his own suit and his cheeks were bright red where he had shaved.

‘Ah, we’ll be all right now, when we have her back,’ he said.

Colin nodded, gazing at the fields. In one some pit ponies had been let out to graze, their heads still blinkered against the light. ‘See, now,’ his father said. ‘They’ve been let up on holiday,’ turning in his seat to watch them pass.

At the hospital he waited in a small lodge at the gates. Wooden chairs were set against a wall and behind a glass shutter in the wall a man in uniform sat reading a newspaper, occasionally looking out into the drive.

He didn’t see his mother come down the drive. A door at the end of the room opened and she appeared wearing her coat, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shining, almost shy, as if she had been away on holiday. In her arms she carried a bundle wrapped up in a white shawl.

‘Oh, now,’ she said, ‘and how are you, Colin?’ turning to his father who put down the case he was carrying.

She stooped down then and said, ‘Now then, love. Have you missed me?’

He nodded his head and as she leant against him he began to cry.

‘Now then, I’m coming home. We’ll be all right.’

‘Yes,’ he said, hiding his face against her arm.

‘Are you having a taxi?’ the man in the uniform said. He had come out from behind the glass partition and stood with his newspaper in his hand by the door.

‘Aye,’ his father said. ‘Ring us a taxi, will you?’

He was smiling, almost laughing, nodding his head as he gazed at the man.

‘Here, now,’ his mother said. ‘Have a look at him if you like.’

‘Yes,’ he said, and looked down at a tiny face sticking out at one end of the bundle.

It was sleeping, its eyes closed, a tiny fist clenched by its cheek, the thumb nail showing, almost white.

‘What shall we call him?’ his mother said

‘I don’t know.’ He shook his head, gazing at the face.

‘We’ve thought of Steven. But you choose one. We’ll think of one when we get home.’

When the taxi came his mother’s case was put into the boot and the driver held the rear door for her to climb in with the baby. Colin sat beside her and his father got in front with the driver.

‘Where to?’ the driver said.

‘The bus stop,’ his father said.

‘Nay,’ the driver said. ‘That’s less than two hundred yards.’

‘I can’t afford any more,’ his father said. ‘It’s six miles to where we live.’

The driver looked up a moment, his eyes closed, and said, ‘I can do that for ten bob.’

‘Ten bob,’ his father said. ‘Do you know how many hours I work for that?’