David Storey - Saville

‘No,’ he said.

‘You don’t feel out of place?’

‘No.’ He shook his head.

‘It’s a damn good school.’

‘Nay, get on,’ his mother said. ‘It’s as good as he deserves and nothing less.’

‘Aye, I suppose you’re right,’ his father said.

He set off down the yard.

‘Good luck tomorrow, if I don’t see you before I leave,’ he said.

Colin stood in the yard and watched him go. He went up to his room a little later. He sat on the bed, pronouncing vowels, learning the list of words the master had set.

His mother came up at the end of an hour.

‘Nay, love, you ought to be getting in. It’s after your bed-time, you know, already.’

‘I haven’t learnt them all,’ he said.

‘Well, you’ve done as long as you should,’ she said.

‘I still haven’t learnt them, though,’ he said.

‘Well, I’ll write them a note saying you’ve learnt them long enough,’ she said.

He got ready for bed. He could see Batty and Stringer playing in the field outside. Before he got into bed he went back down.

‘You needn’t write a note,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell him myself.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll write him one. You’ve done the work, after all,’ his mother said.

‘I’ll tell him myself,’ he said. ‘You needn’t bother.’

She watched him go. He could hear her from his bedroom moving round the kitchen; he heard Steven stirring in his bed through the wall. Finally the doors were bolted, the windows shut: the sound of his mother’s feet came slowly from the stairs.

She went into Steven’s room. He heard her creak the bed as she tucked in his blanket; she opened the door of his room.

He waited; a moment later the door was closed.

The sun hadn’t set; daylight came in beneath the curtain. He fell asleep with Batty’s and Stringer’s voices still ringing in his head.

A narrow footpath wound behind the backs of several large, brick-built houses, coming out finally at the edge of a field. Other fields, hedged, swept up to a low horizon of trees and houses.

In the centre of the principal field stood a cricket pitch marked off behind a barrier of rope. A brick-built pavilion adjoined the opening of the path on to the field itself, beside it a smaller one, painted green and built of wood. It was in the second, slightly decaying structure, the base of its woodwork beginning to rot, that boys of his own age were already changing.

The two dimly lit rooms inside were crowded; at one point he found his clothes removed from a peg and finally he folded them up inside his satchel and, waiting until the others had gone, hung that on a peg already occupied inside the door.

The youngest boys had been called over to a pitch at the farthest side of the field. Two masters were standing there, one of them Platt, short and squat, and one he hadn’t seen before. He too was a small man, and slightly built; he had thin grey hair which, with a slow, hesitant gesture, he would fold across his head. His eyes were dark and moist; he nodded at the boys, checking their names with a list in his hand.

Groups of boys ran up and down on the remaining pitches; names were being called and whistles blown while, on the largest pitch of all, with tall, broad-based goal-posts painted in the school colours of dark blue and gold, boys the size of men had begun a game.

‘What boys have played rugby union before?’ Platt had said. He blew a whistle. ‘Will you pay attention’, he shouted, ‘to what’s being said.’

Colin jumped up and down. His boots were worn over at the outer edges; the football shirt itself was far too large. He’d rolled up the sleeves and tucked the bottom of the shirt between his legs. He could feel it flap out behind him when he ran.

‘Those who’ve played rugby union’, the second master said, ‘can stand over here.’

He formed a group around him beneath the posts.

‘What boys have played rugby league, then?’ Platt said.

One or two boys put up their hands.

‘We don’t want any rugby league players here.’ He gave a laugh. ‘We’ll reserve judgment on those who have played the game,’ he added.

He glanced around.

‘There are three sports played in this area at this time of the year,’ Platt said. ‘One is soccer, a game which, in my opinion, might, with profit, have been reserved for girls; one is rugby league, which is played very largely by people for money; and the third is rugby union, a fair and equitable game, played at our oldest universities as well as by all our major public schools. It is a game conceived by and therefore, quite naturally, played by gentlemen, and gentlemanly shall be the conduct of those who play the game under Mr Hepworth’s and my supervision.’ He gestured to the slight figure standing beneath the posts. ‘We wish to choose a team, of course. One to represent the school at Junior level. All of you present will have an opportunity to compete for places, bearing in mind, particularly those who have played under the professional code, that gentlemanly conduct and playing to the rules at all times are the qualities both Mr Hepworth and I are looking for. Fisticuffs, bad temper and inconsiderate running with the ball – characteristic, I might tell you, of the professional code – are not required at King Edward’s. I can tell you that for nothing.’ He gazed round at the jerseyed figures for several seconds. ‘Now, then: names . When I call them out you’ll line up here.’

Several boys were later dismissed. They went off slowly, kicking their heels, some indifferent, calling later from the pavilion as they dashed out from a shower.

By the end of the afternoon only half the boys were left. Colin ran up and down. He had never played the game before. The first time the ball came to him he passed it on, wildly, to a boy much larger than himself.

‘You, you there. Haven’t you ever passed a ball, boy?’ Platt had said.

He took the oval ball and held it by his chest.

‘Laces in the direction you want the ball to go. Ball vertical. Now: have a try yourself.’

He passed the ball.

Platt shook his head.

‘Stand on the side for a bit,’ he said.

He stood with several other boys, waiting to be dismissed. Groups from the other pitches were already drifting off. The older boys alone were running up and down.

‘You. You there, boy,’ Platt had called.

He ran back on the pitch.

‘Do you know how to form a scrum, boy?’ Platt had said.

He put his head down and linked his arm to the boy beside him. They put their heads between the hips of the boys in front. He saw the ball tossed into the mass of players, and saw it go out between his legs.

The game went on. The ball came loose between his feet. He picked it up and began to run.

He ran round one boy then, with a sickening crunch, ran into several others.

He fell between their legs, saw feet kicking round his head, released the ball and rolled away.

‘Well played, boy. That’s the method,’ Platt had said.

He ran with the ball again; he pulled another boy down. He felt a dull pleasure as the game progressed. He did nothing to draw attention to himself.

Names were read out at the end of the match. ‘Nichols, Beresford, Jones, Saville.’ He completed the list. ‘Those not read out will report to Mr Hodges at the Spion Kop field next games afternoon,’ Platt said.

The two masters walked away. One or two boys walked with them. Others drifted over to the senior pitch. Names were mentioned and players pointed out. ‘Swallow. Tranter. Smith Major. Cornforth.’ The ground shook as the players pounded past. Weals were left in the grass at each of the tackles.