David Storey - Saville

He examined his watch. He removed it from his waistcoat beneath his gown, placed it on the desk in front of him, then opened the register once again. He replaced his glasses.

‘Now, then, boys,’ he said. ‘Begin.’

Several additional desks were brought in later. Piles of books were carried in. Paper parcels were opened and exercise books, brightly coloured, revealed inside. Several of the boys were moved around: ‘You, that big lump, I think I’ll have you sitting here by me. I can keep an eye on you if we both move closer, the mountain cometh to Mahomet.’ Finally they had all been given desks.

Colin sat near the back. A hot-water pipe ran along the wall immediately below his elbow; through a hole in the floor came a smell of cooking. He was too low down to see out of the window.

Books were given out. Most of them were old and battered. At one point a bell rang and they lined up by the desks and were marched out to the corridor; columns of boys were moving down the tunnel-like interior towards a pair of glass-panelled doors at the opposite end. Older boys directed them to follow.

They came out in a hall. It was taller than the classroom, its ceiling vaulted. A large mullioned window almost as broad as the room occupied the wall at one end. Immediately beneath it stood a wooden stage, with a lectern, a tall, narrow desk, and several chairs. The body of the hall was full of benches; at the rear a spiral staircase ran up to a narrow gallery in the centre of which stood an organ, its pipes set up on the wall on either side. Benches too had been arranged here and were already full of boys.

Hodges appeared on the platform; several other gowned figures filtered through the hall. Their own class had been set at the front: rows of boys were sitting on the floor. The chairs on the stage were slowly filled. Finally, the hall itself grew quiet, an odd voice called out, intoning a name. Then, to Colin’s right, a figure appeared in a mortar-board and gown: the face beneath was sharp and thin, the mouth broad, thin-lipped, the eyes narrow. Without any expression it moved down the hall and mounted the platform. After a quick look round, the mortar-board was taken off and slotted in a shelf beneath the desk.

‘Morning, school,’ the figure said.

A murmur of acknowledgment came from the hall behind. The room was packed. The heat rose with the dust through the beams of light which came in diagonally through the mullioned window.

‘That’s Trudger.’ He heard the whisper to one side, saw other heads turn, then immediately above him a hymn was announced. From the platform, beyond the headmaster’s figure, Hodges gazed down in their direction.

The hymn was sung: the boys sat down. A tall boy wearing a blazer stepped up to the platform, mounted the lectern, and read the Bible. His legs trembled as he read, his voice faltering finally when he closed the book.

‘Let us pray,’ the headmaster said.

Hodges continued to gaze round even while the prayers were said; his face, if anything, had begun to darken, glowing red against the whiteness of his clerical collar.

The other masters were of a similar age; there were three women, also wearing gowns, their handbags set on the floor beside their feet.

Finally, when the prayers were over, the boys sat down.

‘I’d like to welcome all the new boys at the beginning of our school year,’ the figure at the desk had said. ‘I’m sure they’ll grow familiar with the routine of the school by the end of the day. If they have any inquiries they can ask the master in charge of their form. And, of course, I welcome back the rest of the school.’ He took out his mortar-board from the desk and with a slight acknowledgment of the figures behind stepped down from the platform.

The masters and the mistresses on the platform, having stood up for the headmaster leaving, slowly filtered out of the door on the opposite side.

They went back to the classroom.

Hodges came in. He strode to the desk, sat down and waited until the last shuffle in the room had died.

‘Someone in this class’, he said, ‘prays to the Almighty with his eyes wide open.’

He waited.

‘They also pray with their hands stuck in their pockets.’

He put on his glasses, and set his watch in front of him again.

‘On future occasions, at morning assembly, I shall keep a watchful eye on the praying habits of this evidently dissolute class and woe betide anyone who doesn’t show the respect appropriate to such occasions. Eyes closed, hands together, and mind fixed resolutely on the true essentials: heaven, redemption, and the alternative prospect of a long sojourn in hell.’

He waited. He looked around.

‘Now, then. I’ll give you your time-table for the week.’

A small, rectangular notebook was given out to each of the class; it was like a diary. ‘Record Book’ was printed in black on the cover and inside were pages divided into columns for the days of the week.

‘This is the most important document you’re likely to possess,’ the master said. ‘Keep it with you at all times. On suitable occasions, in addition to your time-table, certain masters will inscribe commendations or, conversely – though in this class I’m sure it won’t apply – reprimands in the spaces given over to their respective lessons. At the end of each term the total of good records – or, conversely, bad records – will be added up. Those with a certain number of the former will be invited to visit Mr Walker in his study, those with a certain number of the latter will also be invited to visit Mr Walker in his study – but with quite a different purpose in mind, quite a different purpose. Those in the latter category will be invited to make the acquaintance of, if I may use the phrase, a certain piece of vegetation – known affectionately in these environs, though not by those with whom it comes into the closest contact, as “Whacker”. “Whacker”, I might add, takes a very stern view of boys who mount up records of a reprehensible nature, a very stern view, I might add, indeed.’ He paused, adjusted his glasses, glanced round, then, getting up from the desk, turned to the blackboard and began to write down the time-table for the boys to copy.

More books, later, were given out. At one point, referring to the register, Hodges had said, ‘Saville? Who is Saville?’

Colin stood up.

‘Your name is Saville, boy?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Heads at the front of the class had quickly turned.

‘Is that with one “l”, boy, or two?’

‘Two l’s, sir,’ he said.

‘Two l’s. There are two l’s in your name, not one l?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Several of the boys had laughed.

‘Why is that I have one l in the register?’ he said.

‘I don’t know, sir.’ Colin shook his head.

‘There’s one l on your certificate, boy.’ He held up the certificate still on his desk.

‘It’s always been two l’s, sir,’ he said.

‘Come here, boy,’ Hodges said.

He got out from the desk. The room was silent. His feet echoed as he walked down the room to the master’s desk.

‘Is that one l, or two?’ the master said. He pointed a narrow finger at his father’s signature. It was something Colin had noticed occasionally in the past, that his father signed his name differently on different occasions, sometimes with two l’s, sometimes with one.

‘One, sir.’

‘One, sir.’ The master gazed at him over the top of his glasses. ‘You’ll admit I’m not mistaken, then?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Very well, Saville double l, go back to your desk.’

The class had laughed. He walked back to his place.

‘Now, then, Saville double l, either your father can’t spell his name correctly,’ – laughter – ‘or I have entered it incorrectly on my list.’ He examined the register once again. ‘“Father’s occupation.”’ He wrote something down on a piece of paper. ‘Now “colliery worker” means that he works at a coal-mine. Is that correct?’