David Storey - Saville

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Yes, what ?’

‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

‘Now there are any number of people who might legitimately say they work at a coal -mine. The manager of a coal -mine might say he works at a coal -mine.’

He waited for an answer.

‘Yes,’ he said, then added, ‘Sir.’

‘I take it, of course, he’s no such thing.’

Colin waited, unsure of what to add.

‘He’s not the manager, Saville?’

‘No.’ He shook his head.

‘No, what?’

‘No, sir,’ he said.

‘He’s not the deputy-manager, either, I imagine.’

‘No,’ he said.

‘Does he work on top or, as they have it, underneath?’

‘Underneath.’

‘Does he superintend the men down there, or does he actually hew the coal itself?’

‘He hews the coal,’ he said.

‘’E’ ews the coal.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The class had laughed.

‘In other words, Saville, he’s a miner?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then why couldn’t he put that on the form?’

He bowed his head and wrote in the register for several seconds.

‘Well, Saville double l, have you got an answer?’

‘No, sir.’ He shook his head.

‘What’s the meaning of those words written on your jacket?’

He glanced down at the badge.

‘I take it you’re aware there are words written on your jacket?’

At first he wasn’t sure what the master meant.

‘Beneath that rather decorative emblem, placed symbolically above your heart, are written three words. I assume you’ve read them?’

‘Yes,’ he said. He bowed his head.

‘And I suppose’, the master added, ‘you’re familiar with their meaning?’

He didn’t answer.

‘Are you familiar with them, or are you not?’

‘No,’ he said.

‘Am I to assume you don’t know what your school motto means, then, boy?’

He didn’t answer.

‘Do you think they’re there for decoration?’

‘No.’ He shook his head.

The master paused.

‘Where do you come from, Saville?’

‘Saxton, sir,’ he said.

‘And Saxton, I take it, is located somewhere in these regions?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘How old are you, Saville?’

‘Ten, sir.’

‘And are you able to read?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘In that case, would you mind reading those three words out?’

He couldn’t see them clearly: he twisted his head.

‘Labour ips voluptas,’ he said.

‘Good God, man, do you realize what you’re saying?’

He gave up offering any answer: he saw Hodge’s face now through a sudden haze.

‘Labor, Labor, Labor,’ Hodges said. ‘Ips e , Ips e , Ips e ,’ he added. He gestured round. ‘Wolupt ass , Wolupt ass , boy.’ He groaned. ‘Sit down, Saville. I believe I’m ill.’

He took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow.

‘“Labor Ipse Voluptas”,’ he said. ‘Does anyone know what the phrase might mean?’

Several hands went up.

‘Yes, boy? Yes, boy?’ He waited. ‘Don’t give me the wrong answer, boy. If you’re not sure of your answer better confess to it, like Saville. Well, then, boy?’

‘Work is pleasure, sir,’ a boy had said.

‘Work is pleasure. Correct, Correct.’ He wiped his brow again. ‘Work is pleasure, Saville. Have you got that? Have you heard?’

‘Yes, sir.’ He stood up at his desk.

‘Work is pleasure, Saville, which to revert to our original point, is a concise and unambiguous statement.’

‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

‘Whereas “colliery-worker”, as the definition of someone’s occupation, is not an unambiguous statement, Saville. I’d say, as a definition, it might cover, quite easily, a multitude of sins.’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Whereas miner, and, in particular, coal -miner, as a description of someone’s occupation, is unlikely to cause misapprehension on anyone’s part. If someone tells me he is a coal -miner I am immediately aware of the sort of job he does, even if’, he added, wiping his brow again, ‘I am not aware of the actual way he goes about it. Does he work with a pick, for instance, or has he got a machine?’

He waited.

‘Does he use a pick, then, Saville?’

‘Yes, sir,’ he said, and added, ‘sometimes.’

‘I see.’ He gazed across at him for several seconds. ‘I think we have the seeds of a rebel in the class.’ He paused. ‘I sense a certain degree of rebelliousness in Saville’s nature, a resistance to instruction.’ He paused again. ‘I shall keep my eye on Saville. And on one or two other people whose behaviour over the past two hours has not escaped my notice.’ He glanced round. ‘Sit down, Saville. I shall look forward to hearing your answers to our arithmetical test, as well as to your no doubt individual hymnal contribution.’

More books were given out. Names and subject-matter and the class were inscribed on the covers. The bell sounded once again.

‘The bell is for my benefit, not yours,’ Hodges said as several heads turned round. ‘You’ve fifteen minutes’ break, to be spent in the field behind the school and not, I might remind you, on the steps. No one stays inside. Milk, for those who take it, will be found in the cloisters beneath the school. When you’ve drunk it, straight into the field.’

They were dismissed in rows.

The cloisters comprised a row of filled-in arches facing on to the field at the back of the school. The central arch stood open: it was here the milk was stacked. Crowds of boys milled round in the yard outside. Inside, within the darkness of the building, he made out several doors and the flickering, intermittent glow of boilers.

‘So you got here after all, then,’ someone said.

He turned from the crates and saw a fair-haired figure leaning up against the cloister wall drinking from a bottle.

‘What form are you in, then?’ Stafford said.

‘Three A.’

‘Three Upper.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Across the corridor from you.’

Stafford smiled.

‘How do you like it, then?’ he added.

‘All right.’

‘You passed your exam all right?’

He nodded.

‘I failed.’

‘How did you get here, then?’ he said.

‘Paying fees.’ Stafford shrugged. But for the blazer he looked no different. A silver-coloured pen was clipped to his pocket.

‘What’s the difference between Three A and Three Upper?’ he said.

‘I think we do Greek, as well as Latin,’ Stafford said. ‘You just do Latin.’ He smiled again. ‘Finished your milk? We can go into the field,’ he added.

They walked up and down.

‘Have they ducked you in the toilets?’ Stafford said.

‘No.’ He shook his head.

‘I don’t believe they do. It’s one of the things they tell you, but it never happens. I know three people who started here last year and all three of them say it never happens.’

Groups of boys ran past. One took hold of him a moment, spun him round, shouted to someone behind, then, still shouting, ran quickly on. Air-raid shelters, like low, windowless houses, lined one side of the field. Metal railings, set on a low brick wall, cut off the end of the field from a road beyond. To one side of the field stood a yellow brick house.

‘That’s where Trudger lives. And one or two boarders,’ Stafford said. Its large window looked down directly to the field. ‘He’s not supposed to be keen on teaching,’ Stafford added.

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know. They say when he canes anybody he begins to cry.’

Colin looked at the house. He could see a figure standing at a window, but from this distance it was impossible to see whether it was a man or a woman.