David Storey - Saville

‘Don’t ever leave him on his own,’ his mother said. ‘If he’s any trouble, wait. He’s more important than any of them.’

Once he took Steven to the river; they went on bikes, taking it in turns to ride. Some of the children rode on the cross-bars, some on the seats; the others ran behind. It took them the whole of the afternoon to get there: they played on the metal coal-slip used to load the barges, and beyond, on the supports beneath a metal bridge. It was almost dark by the time they got home.

His mother was standing at the door.

‘Wherever have you been?’ she said.

He was carrying Steven, who was almost asleep. They were covered in coal dust from the metal shute.

‘Your father’s out looking for you. He’s been all over.’ She took his arm. ‘Is Steve all right?’

‘I’ve been carrying him,’ he told her.

‘Just look at him,’ she said. ‘Where on earth have you had him?’

When his father came back he took him upstairs.

‘Supposing Steven fell in?’ he said. ‘And you couldn’t get out.’

Colin felt the strap against his legs. The pain tugged at his stomach.

Afterwards he stayed upstairs. He heard Steven go to bed, his mother’s voice in the other room, then her steps outside the door. She paused. A moment later he heard her voice.

‘Are you all right?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘I hope you’ve learnt your lesson.’

‘Yes,’ he said.

She put her head round the door, peered in a moment, then closed it quietly and went on down the stairs.

In the summer the results of the examinations had been announced. It was three months since he’d sat them. He was standing at the back of the hall, in morning prayers, when he heard his name read out. It was the last to be announced. Bletchley’s name came first: he was going to a co-educational school in a near-by village. His own name was included in the list of boys being sent to a grammar school located in the city. When the successful candidates were let out early he ran off home, rushing in the door. There was no one in the kitchen. He could hear his mother in a room upstairs: she came out on the landing.

She stood there for a moment, looking down.

‘I’ve passed,’ he said. ‘I’m going to the grammar.’

‘Well,’ she said.

She started slowly down.

‘Is my dad in, then?’

‘He’s gone down to the shop. He won’t be a minute.’

‘Bletchley’s passed as well.’

‘Has he?’

‘He’s going to Melsham Manor.’

‘That’s a good school.’

‘Reagan hasn’t passed.’

‘Well,’ she said. ‘I’m not surprised.’

They waited for his father.

When she heard his step she stooped to the fireplace, setting on the kettle.

His father, his head bowed, rubbed his feet on the mat, looking up suddenly to see his mother.

‘What’s got into you?’ he said.

‘He’s heard the result,’ his mother said. ‘Of the examination.’

‘Nay, then.’ His father slowed. He gazed at him with a kind of anger, as if suddenly afraid he might be hurt.

‘I’ve passed,’ he said.

‘Have you? Have you?’

‘To the grammar.’

‘By God, then, lad.’

His face had flushed.

‘Sithee, are you sure?’ he said.

‘It was announced. Those who passed they’ve let out early.’

‘Sithee, I better sit down,’ his father said.

He rested in a chair, leaning to the table.

‘I knew you could do it. What did I tell you?’ he asked his mother.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We knew he could.’

‘It’ll mean a lot of expense,’ he said. ‘They wear a uniform,’ he added.

‘I suppose we’ll manage,’ she said, and laughed.

‘Aye. I suppose we will,’ he said. He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe it’s happened.’

Steven came in from playing in the yard. His mother picked him up.

‘And what’s your brother gone and done?’ she said.

‘Nowt but show’, his father added, ‘that he’s just about the brightest on this road.’

‘Wait till Steven gets started, then.’

‘Aye, we’ll have two of ’em,’ his father said.

‘If not a third,’ his mother said.

‘Aye.’

His father laughed for a moment, then clapped his hands.

‘Wait till I tell them at work,’ he added.

Colin went with his mother to the town to buy the clothes. He’d only been to the town on one or two occasions, most memorable for him when the bombing started. There were still signs of damage. But no bombs had fallen for over a year. They crossed the river and started up the hill the other side. The shop where the clothes for the school were sold stood opposite the cathedral, in the city centre. They gazed in the window at the uniform before they entered: it hung on the bright pink dummy of a boy with blue eyes and red lips and cheeks, a dark-blue cloth with a gold-coloured ribbon. The badge of the school, a coat-of-arms, was almost as large as the breast pocket of the blazer.

‘There, then: what do you think of that?’

A boy came out of the shop: he had on the cap; beneath his raincoat Colin glimpsed the blazer.

‘I suppose we better go in,’ his mother said.

It took them an hour for his mother to choose the clothes. Everything she bought was too large for him; the blazer itself, and the trousers, were particularly large.

‘He’ll need room to grow into them,’ she told the assistant.

‘On the other hand,’ the man had said, ticking off their name in a list of pupils, ‘by the time he fits them they may have worn out.’

‘Aren’t they good quality, then?’ his mother had said.

‘Oh, they’re good quality,’ the assistant said. ‘But boys will be boys,’ he added with a smile.

‘If they’re good quality he’ll look after them,’ she said.

Colin stood in front of a mirror in the gold-ribboned blazer. The man, after trying several sizes, finally put a large peaked cap on his head. Gold ribbing ran down from the button at the top. ‘His head’s not likely to grow,’ he said when his mother inquired if he might have a larger one.

The raincoat he brought came to below his knees. It reached almost to his ankles.

‘There’s a good three of four years’ growth there,’ the assistant said. He fastened the belt. It was large enough to encompass a figure twice his size. The tongue of the belt was fastened round his back.

‘Well, I think that should do him,’ his mother said, yet gazing at the next size on the peg.

‘Oh, I think that’s large enough for all eventualities,’ the man had said.

He totted up the bill.

‘Will that be a cheque or cash?’ he said.

‘Oh, cash,’ his mother said, and flushed.

Each of the notes she had folded into four; she lay them down on the counter one by one, and added, ‘I’ve got the change,’ rooting in the narrow purse and taking out the coins. She’d worked out the sum exactly at home, allowing even for the larger sizes.

‘Would you like to wear them, or shall I make a parcel?’ the assistant said. He was an elderly man with greying hair; he wore the kind of suit Colin had only seen Mr Reagan wear before.

‘If you could make a parcel,’ his mother said.

Colin put his old clothes on. His mother, after watching him put on his coat, pulled out his collar. She straightened his tie as they waited by the counter.

The man came back with the clothes in a parcel.

‘If there’s anything we can do in the future, Mrs Saville,’ he said, ‘you only have to ask.’ He smiled across the counter as he handed Colin the parcel and added, ‘I suppose you’ll carry it, young man,’ and as he held the door of the shop he said, ‘And good luck at the grammar.’