David Storey - Saville

‘Do you want to go off, then?’ Colin said.

‘They won’t let you,’ Hopkins said. ‘In any case,’ he added, darkening, ‘we’ve got to win.’

Colin ran aimlessly towards the ball; he ran so slowly that the ball, continuously, moved away. There was a pointlessness to sport which he’d never sensed before: a plodding after things which, even if they should occur, were over in a second.

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

Rooks rose slowly from the trees; wheeling, they climbed then, as the game ended, descended once again.

‘Three cheers for Edward’s. Hip, hip.’

‘Hooray.’

‘Hip, hip.’

‘Hooray.’

‘Hip, hip.’

‘Three cheers for St Benedict’s,’ Harrison said.

The sound faded as they crossed the field.

‘I shan’t consider you for the next match, Saville.’

Platt, his hands still in his pockets, walked beside him; but for the fact that he’d heard the voice he would have doubted that he’d even spoken.

‘Yes.’

‘Foul play is something I particularly take objection to. It lets down the individual, but more important, it lets down the school.’

‘Yes.’

‘It’ll be a long time before I forget today.’

‘Yes.’

He waited; already the other players had gone ahead.

Platt, as if nothing had occurred, had turned aside. He called out cheerily to the referee.

Colin took off his boots; his feet were sore. He walked on slowly to where the steam already rose from the pavilion doors.

He sat alone on the bus on the journey back.

Stafford sat at the back with Harrison and Hopkins, singing; most of the players had gathered round, gazing backwards, kneeling on the seats.

Platt sat at the front beside the driver; occasionally he glanced round and smiled.

The sun had set. The bus ran on in virtual darkness. Colin caught a brief glimpse of trees outside, of hills silhouetted against a lightless sky. In the window opposite he saw his face, the bulk of the seat behind, the pallid shape, the dark shadow beneath his eyes, his hair, uncombed, still wet from the showers.

‘Not singing?’ Stafford said. He slumped down beside him in the seat.

‘No.’

‘Come and sit at the back.’

‘No thanks.’

‘I’m not keen on sitting there, either. I suppose you have to on a thing like this.’

‘A good game today, Stafford,’ Platt said, calling from the scat in front.

‘I think it went our way, sir,’ Stafford said.

Platt had smiled, nodded; he turned his head.

‘I better get back, then,’ Stafford said.

‘Okay,’ he said.

The figure beside him rose, pulling on the seat in front, then turning to the aisle.

‘See you.’

‘See you,’ Colin said.

The singing continued; it had scarcely faded when they reached the town.

His parents were in bed when he got back home.

‘Wherever have you been till this time?’ his mother said.

‘Playing,’ he said. ‘It was farther than I thought.’

‘I’ve been down to the bus stop twice.’

‘We went on a coach.’

‘If you went in a coach couldn’t you get back before this time, then?’

He turned to the stairs.

‘And don’t wake Richard when you get undressed.’

Moments later, however, after he’d reached his room, he heard the familiar wail from beyond the wall.

‘God Almighty, isn’t there any peace for anyone?’ his father said, calling, from the darkness of their room.

‘In decimals everything is measured in tenths, whereas in this country we have the privilege of measuring everything in twelfths, boy,’ Hodges said.

He leant his arm against the desk.

‘What instances are there of the use of tenths in the monetary system, Saville?’ he added.

‘A ten shilling note.’ He shook his head.

‘Do I hear a suffix to that remark?’ he said.

‘Sir,’ he said.

‘A ten shilling note, then. Anything else?’

‘A ten pound note.’

‘A ten pound note.’

‘Twenty shillings in the pound,’ he said.

‘Walker: have you any examples you’re eager to give?’

Small, light-haired, with a bright red nose, Walker, after a moment’s hesitation, had shaken his head.

‘No further examples forthcoming, then?’

Walker, once again, had shaken his head.

‘What about the use of twelfths, then, Walker?’ Hodges said.

‘Twelve pennies in a shilling sir,’ he said.

‘Twelve pennies in a shilling. Brilliant. Anything else?’

‘No, sir,’ Walker said.

‘What about half-pennies, Walker?’ Hodges said.

‘Twenty-four half-pennies in the shilling, sir,’ Walker said.

‘Brilliant, Walker. Anything else?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Are you quite sure, Walker?’ Hodges said.

‘Forty-eight farthings in a shilling, sir,’ he said.

‘Walker, I can see, is coming out, very slowly, from his habitual coma,’ Hodges said. ‘What are you doing, Walker?’

‘I’m coming out from my habitual coma,’ Walker said.

‘And what word do we use to distinguish our system from the so-called metric system, Saville?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. He shook his head.

‘Did I not hear the suffix once again?’ he said.

‘Sir,’ he said.

‘Saville doesn’t know. Does anyone else? Walker, I suppose, this is far above your head?’

‘What sir?’ Walker said.

‘What do we call the system that uses twelfths instead of tenths?’ he said.

‘The Imperial system,’ someone said.

‘Why Imperial, Walker?’ Hodges said.

‘Has it something to do with the king, sir?’ Walker said.

‘It might. Indeed, it might very easily, Walker,’ Hodges said.

He looked around.

‘It comes, need I mention it to a class steeped already in the subject, from the Latin what?’

He paused.

‘From imperialis. From imperialis. Meaning?’

‘To do with kings, sir,’ someone said.

‘Not to do with kings precisely. To do with authority, Stephens. Command .’

He took off his glass and wiped them on his gown.

‘Imperium: command, dominion. In other words, a system that, in this instance, has to do with empire.’

‘Yes, sir,’Walker said.

‘Certain unfortunate nations may use the decimal system because they have nothing better to fall back on, Stephens.’

Stephens had nodded his head.

‘Whereas we, in this country, and in those lands that constitute our empire, and our dominions, Stephens, use a measure which, for better or worse, is peculiar to ourselves. Peculiar, that is, to an imperial nation. Imperialis, imperium. To a nation which is used to authority, to dominion, Stephens. How many pennies in a pound?’

Stephens paused; he raised his hand. Then, finally, he lowered it and shook his head.

He was a pale, thin-featured boy; he sat immediately in front of Colin. His hair was thin and long, hanging in greasy strands across his narrow head. His back was bowed by some malformation. His legs were swollen round the knees as if in some peculiar way the upper and the lower parts had been bracketed together by artificial means.

‘Two hundred and forty.’ Colin whispered behind his hand to the back of Stephens’s head.

‘What was that, Saville?’ Hodges said.

Stephens’s head had begun to tremble.

‘Were you telling him the answer, Saville?’ Hodges said.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Will you stand up, Saville?’

The class had turned.

‘Your name is Saville, I take it?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘I haven’t been deceived into assuming it was Saville, with or without a double l, when all the time it was really Stephens?’

‘No,’ he said.