David Storey - Saville

‘Look at your brother. Who do you think he looks like, then?’

She held the baby down; a red, tightly wrinkled face gazed up from inside the shawl.

He looked at the face, then shook his head.

‘Dost think he looks like me?’ his father said. His face was flushed; he leant back, glancing at Mr Shaw, and laughed. ‘Or dost think he looks like the postman, then?’

‘Nay, whatever will he think?’ Mrs Shaw had said. A bottle and several empty glasses stood by an empty plate.

‘Nay, round here,’ his father said, ‘you mu’n never tell.’ Mrs Shaw had laughed again.

‘Get on with you, Harry,’ Mrs Shaw had said. She turned to the baby and stroked its head.

‘He’s been a damn good brother has Colin,’ Mr Shaw had said. ‘He’s looked to that lad like a father would.’

‘Is there anything in for tea?’ he said.

‘Tea, sithee. And thy’s only just got home,’ Mr Shaw had said.

He laughed again.

‘Well, here’s to t’third ’un,’ his father said. He emptied the glass. ‘Another mouth to feed,’ he added.

‘Aye. Thy better be going careful, Harry.’ Mr Shaw had laughed again. ‘Thy’ll be needing a new house as well as a pram.’

‘Nay, this is t’last, as far as I’m concerned,’ his father said. ‘There mu’n be no more, then, after this.’ He smacked his lips then laughed again. ‘Sithee, it’s not every day we’ve summat to celebrate,’ he added.

‘Thy mu’n find summat afore long, though, Harry,’ Mr Shaw had said.

They laughed again.

‘There’s two lads ready for food if I’m not mistaken,’ Mrs Shaw had said. ‘And one of em’s not just come home for the first time either.’ She stroked the baby’s face again. ‘Nay, but he’s like you, Ellen,’ she added.

‘Let’s hope, though, he grows up to look like me,’ his father said.

Colin went to the door.

‘Mind the blackout,’ Mr Shaw had said.

The light went out: his mother came to the door, stooping, the baby in her arms, looking for the step.

‘Two down, then, love,’ Mrs Shaw had said.

They crossed the yard; he could hear his father, still standing in the kitchen.

‘Nay, I can’t leave here wi’ one or two drops still left,’ he said.

Mr Shaw had laughed.

Steven’s voice had called. His father’s voice echoed from the yard.

‘Put the light on, love,’ his mother said. ‘Never mind the door,’ she added.

She came in, the baby held upright, its head against her arm.

‘There, now. There, then, love,’ she said.

She laid it on a chair.

‘Can you get me a nappy?’ she said, her back towards him now. ‘You’ll find it in the cupboard.’

He opened the cupboard door beside the fire. He took out the nappy.

The baby, behind him, had begun to cry.

‘He’s just had his feed. So he can’t be hungry yet,’ she said.

Its legs were thrust out in tiny spasms. Its hands, fisted, waved to and fro before its face.

‘Well, then. I’ll just take him up for a bit,’ she said.

She went to the stairs; he could hear her a moment later in the bedroom at the front.

The kitchen door had opened. His father came in.

‘Sithee, has she taken him up? Has she taken him up to bed for cheers?’ he said.

He took off his jacket. His face was flushed, his collar undone.

‘There, then. Did’st see thy brother, then?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘What did I tell you, lad? She’s come home in the end.’

His father went to the fire, swaying, then loosened his tie.

‘By go, old Shaw had a bottle, then.’ He belched, slowly, then held his chest. ‘I mu’n get off to bed. I haven’t had a sleep, tha knows, today. I mu’n be off again at five. Thy’ll know that, then, o’ course,’ he added. ‘Thy’s been here long enough, then, an’t ’a?’

He sat down in a chair; his eyes were closed. Steven came in; he held another biscuit.

‘Is my mother here?’ he said.

His mother came down. Like his father, her face too was flushed.

‘He might sleep for an hour,’ she said. ‘Though all that noise, I think, has wakened him for good.’

She looked over to the table.

‘What are you doing, then, love?’ she said.

‘My homework,’ he said. He bent to the book.

‘Nay, can’t you give it a miss for once?’ she said.

‘No,’ he said. He shook his head.

‘He’s worked like a Trojan, has Colin,’ his father said. ‘He’s looked after this house as good as a woman. He’s had it cleaned a time or two, floors polished, pots washed. And lit that fire for when I come back in,’ he added.

His head sank over, slowly; a few moments later he began to snore.

‘See, then: your father’s drunk too much,’ his mother said. ‘He always lets it go to his head,’ she added.

‘I’ll go in the other room to work,’ he said.

He picked up the book.

‘Will you, love? That’s good of you. I wouldn’t want to disturb him,’ his mother said. ‘And I’ll get your tea ready for you’, she called after him, ‘in a couple of minutes.’

He went in the other room and drew the curtains. The room was cold. A fire hadn’t been lit in the room for several weeks.

He put on the light and began to read; through the wall, intermittently, came his mother’s voice and then, more rhythmically, his father’s snores.

‘How far can you bend it?’ Batty said.

He was holding the branch against his chest. In his other hand he held the gun.

‘Pull it right back, then fasten it with the string.’

Colin fastened off the branch, then cut the remnant of string with Batty’s knife.

From farther back, near the hut, came Steven’s shout.

‘Thy wants to leave him at home, thy young ’un,’ Batty said. ‘He mu’n give it away, where we have the hut.’

Batty had grown much taller in recent months; his figure had narrowed, the legs drawn out, the thin, red-thatched head set on top of a limb-like neck. He was taller now than any of his brothers; even his father looked up to him whenever they spoke, and his mother’s head came scarcely to his chest.

Now, having set the branch, they went back to the hut: it was Stringer, he discovered, who was playing with Steven. He was riding him up and down, upright, on his back. Steven clutched at the twigs as they passed above his head, startled, wide-eyed, uncertain of Stringer’s mood. Frequently, even when Colin was there, they would set his brother to some ill-considered task, urging him to climb a dangerous tree, to mend the fragile roof, to walk along a sunken path with brackish pools on either side, to wade into a part of the swamp where they hadn’t been before, Steven sinking to his knees before they hauled him out. There was an imperturbability about his brother which nothing disturbed.

‘Here, Stringer,’ Batty called. ‘We’ve set another.’

‘Tha mu’n catch us coming through if tha sets any more, then, Lolly,’ Stringer said.

He lifted Steven from his shoulders and set him down; blue-eyed, his face flushed, Steven ran off inside the hut.

‘What mu’n thy do theer, then, Tongey?’ Batty said.

‘Do wheer, then, Lolly?’ Stringer said.

‘At Tongey’s school, then,’ Batty said.

Stringer took his gun which Batty had borrowed.

‘We mu’n go theer one day. We mu’n wave to him’, Stringer said, ‘between the bars.’

Stringer laughed. He sighted the gun. He sat down on an upturned box beside the wooden door.

From inside the hut came the sound of Steven poking the fire.

‘Dost sit in a room, then,’ Batty said, ‘or dost thy have to move around?’

‘For some lessons we move. Though most of them’, Colin said, ‘we stay where we are.’