David Storey - Saville

‘Fancy,’ his father said when the man had gone, ‘who’d have thought it: to come so far from where we began.’

One week-end Bletchley came home. Colin called at his house. ‘Oh, come in,’ his mother said brightly when she opened the door. ‘He’s in the front room.’

Ian was now huge: his neck had thickened; a heavy jowl concealed his chin; his waist was scarcely concealed by a reddish waistcoat. He was sitting in his shirt-sleeves when Colin came in but quickly stood up and pulled on a jacket. He’d been watching television and didn’t turn it off. He appeared to be in no good humour, as if he resented being home.

‘I’ll leave you two together,’ Mrs Bletchley said, closing the door with a smile at Colin.

Bletchley almost filled the room; he indicated the only other chair to Colin and they sat down together, Bletchley’s gaze turned resentfully to the television screen. ‘How have you been?’ he said, watching the picture. ‘I hear your brother’s signed up for the City.’

He described his present teaching; he was, as a supernumerary, being moved on from school to school.

‘Don’t you fancy getting anything steady?’ Bletchley said. ‘Not that there’s much scope in any case in teaching.’ He took out a pipe and quickly lit it. ‘I’m on a management course at present. That’s why I’m home. No work but lectures for the next three weeks. After that I start in the office. I’ll have a department of my own inside three years: after that, the sky’s the limit.’

‘I’ll be leaving soon,’ he said.

‘Where to?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ll go abroad.’

‘Teaching?’

‘Whatever comes to hand.’

Bletchley said nothing for a while: clearly, he’d cast him off in his mind. As if prompted by this thought, he said finally, ‘What happened to Reagan?’

‘He was working in a cinema, the last I heard.’

‘His mother died. Did he tell you that?’

‘No,’ he said.

‘My mother got a message from the hospital.’

‘Poor old Michael,’ he said.

‘Oh, I don’t know. I reckon he’ll be better off without. Do you remember that violin? And going to Sunday School? It seems funny to think of it.’ Bletchley gazed out at the street as he might at an unknown town. There was nothing to connect him with the place at all.

Mrs Bletchley brought in some tea.

‘Are you two going out?’ she said.

‘Where to?’ Bletchley said.

‘Oh, anywhere. Anywhere young men are likely to go,’ she said.

She set down the tea on a tiny table; the room was even cleaner than Mrs Shaw’s had been.

‘There’s nowhere to go to,’ Ian said. ‘Not round here.’ He turned, with renewed discontent, towards the television.

‘Well,’ Mrs Bletchley said, handing Colin the tea, ‘I’ll leave the two of you to it, then.’

‘It’s a terrible place. I don’t know why they go on living here,’ Bletchley said. Through the wall Colin could hear Richard’s voice calling to his mother: he wondered how much of their life had been heard through the wall, and what impression it had made on Bletchley. ‘I tell them to move, but they never do. Do you remember that Sheila you used to go with? She has seven children. Seven .’ He picked up his cup blindly, still gazing at the screen.

He was still gazing at it an hour later when Colin got up to leave. ‘Oh, are you going?’ Bletchley said, standing up himself and thrusting out his hand. ‘Where did you say you were going?’

‘Abroad,’ he said, grasping the podgy hand.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’ve no idea.’ Bletchley gazed at him blindly, nodding his head.

‘It doesn’t sound very promising.’

‘No,’ he said.

‘What happened to that Stafford?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I never heard.’

‘Give my regards to your mother, in case I don’t see her before I leave,’ he said.

He’d already turned back to the screen before he’d reached the door.

‘How is your mother?’ Mrs Bletchley said and as he reached the door she added, ‘I’m sorry you’re not going out. I get so worried about Ian at times.’

‘Why?’ he said.

‘He’s progressing so well, but he ought to be married.’

‘Oh, he’s bound to be married soon,’ he said.

‘Do you think so? He never goes out with girls .’

‘Who does he go out with?’ he said.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘he drinks quite a lot, on top of which he studies. His work, too,’ she added, ‘is very demanding. His boss thinks he’ll be in charge of the works when he retires. And that, Ian’s told us, is in less than ten years!’ She gestured back to the kitchen where Mr Bletchley sat reading a paper. ‘We sit here at times and think of when you and Ian were boys and wonder how all these incredible things have happened. You’ll be leaving soon yourself.’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Well,’ she said, gazing at him. ‘Give my love to your mother.’

One evening he was coming down the street and a figure came out of a ginnel at the end of the terrace and called his name, speculatively, as if unsure he’d identified him correctly.

At first he thought it was Reagan; then, in the light, he recognized the red hair.

‘Hi, Tongey,’ Batty said. ‘How ya’ keeping?’

‘All right,’ he said, and added, ‘What’re you doing down here?’

‘I came to see Stringer. I’ve just discovered he’s left.’ He gazed about him aimlessly, almost like Bletchley might have done, at the empty street.

‘They left two or three years ago,’ he said, and added, ‘Where have you been?’

‘I’ve been in the nick.’

‘What for?’

‘For nicking.’ Batty looked at him with a great deal of irritation; his tall figure was stooped, his head turned from the light.

‘Come and have a drink,’ Colin said.

‘Where?’ Batty said.

‘Wherever you like.’

They walked back together towards the centre of the village.

‘You can’t lend us any money?’ Batty said.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘How much do you want?’

‘How much have you got?’

‘Two or three pounds.’

‘Do you have a cheque book?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

Batty said nothing for a while. When they reached the public house at the centre of the village he went quickly ahead as if anxious to get inside: once in he went directly to a table.

Colin went to the bar and ordered the drinks, calling back to Batty to find out what he wanted.

‘Whisky,’ Batty said, and added, ‘A double,’ looking round slowly at the bar then shielding his face.

When he carried the drinks over he said, ‘How much would you like?’

‘As much as you want.’

‘How much have you got already?’

‘To tell you the truth,’ Batty said, avoiding looking at him directly, ‘I’m skint. I came out today. I’ve got the clothes on my back and nothing else.’

‘What were you had up for stealing?’ he said.

‘You name it,’ Batty said, emptying the glass at a single swallow.

Colin bought him another: the extraordinary pallor of Batty’s face was relieved by bright red patches on either cheek.

‘Stringer was my last bet.’

‘I can let you have ten pounds,’ he said.

Batty glanced away. ‘Well, it’s better than nothing, I reckon,’ he said.

When he’d written the cheque Batty examined it before putting it away.

‘I could change this, you know, and make it a hundred.’

‘Why don’t you?’ he said.

‘Are you tempting me?’ he said.

‘It’s up to you. If you can get away with it I reckon it’s worth it. There’s not that in the account,’ he added.