David Storey - Saville

‘Which ones do you move for?’ Batty said.

He examined Colin for a moment with narrowed eyes.

‘Chemistry,’ he said.

‘It’s a big place, then.’

‘I suppose it is.’

‘I suppose they have cleaners in, an’ all, at night.’

‘They come as we’re leaving,’ Colin said.

‘I bet they have some cleaning up.’

‘I suppose they have,’ he said. ‘Though we put the chairs up’, he added, ‘before we leave.’

‘Up wheer?’

‘On top of the desks.’

Batty looked up from the corner of his eye.

‘Wheer dost t’headmaster keep all his books and equipment, then?’

‘In the stock-room,’ he said.

‘Wheer’s that, then?’

‘Next to the secretary’s office.’

‘I suppose thy’s been in a time or two. Getting new books, tha knows, and things.’

‘No,’ he said.

Batty looked away, then said, ‘If thy has two afternoons up on yon playing field laking footer I suppose there’s nobody left,’ and added, ‘In the school, I mean.’

‘There might be one or two.’

‘Oh, aye?’

‘Thy knows what Lolly’s after, dost ’a?’ Stringer said.

‘Tha mu’n shut thy mouth afore I put summat in it,’ Batty said.

He turned to the hut.

‘What’s thy young ’un cooking, then?’

They went inside.

‘Thy knows what Batty Industries are, then, do you?’ Stringer said.

Batty took the pan from Steven and looked inside.

‘Biggest industrial combine in Saxton,’ Stringer said.

‘And thy’ll have t’biggest thick ear in Saxton if thy doesn’t shut it up, then,’ Batty said.

‘Bloody field-marshal, tha knows, is Loll.’

Batty stirred the pan; he’d taken out his knife, unfolding the blade.

‘Their two kids are up in court this week.’

‘I’ve telled thee,’ Batty said. He waved the knife.

Steven, laughing, put up his hand.

‘Work afternoons down t’pit and half the neet, then, somewhere else.’

Batty leapt across; Stringer, already, had sprung aside.

Steven, still laughing, ran over to the door; Stringer was running off across the swamp.

‘I mu’n cop him one day,’ Batty said. He cleaned the blade of the knife against his sleeve. ‘And when I do he mu’n get the feel of this.’

He went back to the pan.

‘I better be getting Steven home,’ he said.

‘Aren’t you having some of this, then?’ Batty said.

‘I better be getting him back,’ he said.

‘Can’t I have some, Colin?’ Steven said.

There were beans in the pan, and bits of bread.

‘It’s past your bed-time now,’ he said.

‘Thy have some afore thy leaves, then,’ Batty said.

He set the pan down.

‘Sithee, thy can have first taste.’

He held out the beans on the tip of the knife.

‘Theer, then, young ’un. Dost fancy that?’

It was over an hour later before they reached the road. His father was coming down the slope from the village, pushing his bike, looking over the hedge towards the pens.

‘There you are. I’ve been looking for you, you know, for hours.’ He mounted the bike. ‘I’m going to be late for work,’ he added. ‘Go on. Get off. You mu’n tell your mother where a f’und you.’

He watched his father cycle off; to walk more quickly he set Steven on his back. He was still carrying him when they reached the house.

‘What do you call this?’ his mother said. ‘Your father’s out looking for you. He’ll be late for work.’

‘We saw him. Down by the sewage pens,’ he said.

‘You’ve not been playing there?’ she said.

She’d been stooping to the fire where she’d been baking bread: the loaves, rising, were standing in the hearth.

‘You’ve never had Steven there?’ she said.

Before he could answer she had struck his head.

‘Get those clothes off before you come in here. Just look at them,’ she said.

She took Steven to the sink in the corner and washed his legs; she washed his hands and arms, and then his face.

Upstairs, a moment later, the baby cried.

‘Just look at his neck: he must have been soaking in the stuff,’ she said. ‘Just smell his clothes.’ She held them to his face. ‘And yours.’

He went to bed; he lay listening to his mother as she took Richard from his cot. He and Steven now slept together; already, despite his crying, his younger brother had fallen asleep.

He turned in the bed; he held his hand against his cheek: the skin still throbbed. With the smell of sewage around him he fell asleep.

‘Back up. Back up, School,’ Platt had said.

He stood on the touch-line, his collar up, a scarf wound round his neck, his hands thrust down, heavily, into his overcoat pockets.

‘Back up, School! Feet! Feet!’

Snow lay in odd patches round the edges of the pitch.

Colin took the ball; he ran against a line of figures: his arm swung out.

The whistle blew. He went on running: his collar was caught and then his arm; his legs were swept away. He fell down; snow was crushed up against his cheek.

The whistle blew again.

‘Free kick against King Edward’s,’ the referee had said.

He pointed Colin out.

‘If you use your fist again I’m afraid I’ll have to send you off,’ he said.

Platt, red-faced, was standing still.

The players fell back. The kick was taken.

‘Just watch how you play, Saville,’ Harrison said. His face, too, was turning red.

He could scarcely feel his fingers; the cold had numbed his feet. He ran for the ball, felt it bounce away and got down, stooping, ready for the scrum.

Stafford took the ball; he kicked: it soared down the field and floated into touch.

‘Well kicked, Stafford,’ Platt had called.

Stafford did a great deal of kicking now. It was more positive than passing and had none of the disadvantages of trying to run: his clothes at the end of a match were almost as clean as when he began. He folded back his hair and with a slight raising of his shoulders jogged after the ball.

At the edge of the field stood a stone pavilion: white-painted windows echoed the whiteness of the snow that had collected in odd ridges around the eaves and ornamental chimneys.

Beyond, in the faint haze, lay a line of wooded hills; snow-covered fields ran up to silhouetted copses. The sky overhead was clear; a frost had fallen.

‘Harder, Edward’s! Harder!’ Platt had called.

Before the match, arriving early in a coach, they’d been shown around the school: dormitories with rows of beds; studies, with casement windows, shelves of books and fires; a library, a gymnasium with a gleaming, spotless floor; a tennis court indoors; a science room from whose tall windows they’d gazed out, briefly, to the distant line of hills and woods.

Trees overlooked the school; they screened the pitch so that as the sun descended vague shadows, like ribs, spread out across the grass.

Steam rose from the scrum, the boys’ breath rose in clouds as they waited for the ball then ran, slow-limbed, as Stafford casually kicked it into touch. There was an air of desolation about the place: Platt’s voice echoed now and the referee’s whistle or the calling of the boys lingered on, faintly, beneath the trees.

‘On, School! On, School!’ Platt had said.

They ran to and fro.

The field darkened.

‘Just look at my fingers. I think they’re swelling,’ Hopkins said. ‘They’ll hardly move.’

A large boy, with broad features, he was the one Colin got down with in the scrum. Though smaller than Harrison, he had much the same build, lumbering, almost careless. His knees were reddened with cold. His teeth chattered as they leant down. He gave a whimper: blood ran down from his cheek and round his mouth.