David Storey - Saville

His head erect, he appeared on the point of walking past him.

‘I’ve decided, Saville, to postpone any reference of your behaviour to Mr Walker. Since Mr Gannen is now acquainted with it, and since Mr Gannen, as you are probably aware, is the deputy-head, I shall leave the situation for the present precisely where it is; namely, that I and Mr Gannen have taken note of your insolent behaviour and any further expression of it will leave me with no alternative but to carry out my original intent. Have you understood that, Saville?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘You have my permission to go to your desk and collect your books for what I hope will be a singularly amicable lesson.’

‘Yes,’ he said.

Hodges swung away; his figure was caught up in those surging from the classrooms on either side.

He went back in the classroom and opened his desk.

‘What did he say to you?’ Stephens said.

‘Nothing, really,’ Colin said.

‘See here. Your school’s been broken into,’ his father said.

He folded the paper up and ran his finger across the lines.

‘Two hundred and forty pounds’ worth of stuff’s been stolen.’

He read the paper intently for a while.

‘They got in at the side through a broken window. They think it’s somebody local, then.’

‘They’ll break into anything, these days,’ his mother said. ‘No counting how much good they’re doing. Hospitals, churches: you see it all the time.’

‘There’s not many banks get broken into,’ his father said.

‘No. Don’t worry. They take trouble there.’

‘Can I go out now?’ Colin said.

‘Sithee, hast done all thy errands?’ his father said.

‘I think he has,’ his mother said.

‘What about his homework, then?’

‘I can do that tomorrow afternoon,’ he said.

‘Thy’s Sunday School tomorrow,’ his father said.

‘Nay, let him go,’ his mother said.

She was worn and faded; since the birth of Richard there’d been a greyness in her face. When they went out to the shops she would say, ‘You’ll have to take the basket, Colin. I can’t bear lifting anything now.’ On washdays she would wait for him to come home from school and they’d spend an evening together in the kitchen, he lifting the water to the metal tub, plying the peggy stick up and down, sliding the tub to the grate outside. Other times, white-faced, she’d be sitting at the fire, the clothes half-washed, or standing at the sink, round-shouldered, the water cold, trying to wash the clothes by hand.

‘Are you sure there’s nothing he can do?’ his father said.

‘Nay, he’s done enough for now,’ she said.

Colin went out to the backs; Steven, with one or two other children, was playing in the field.

‘Now don’t be late for your dinner,’ his mother said.

He went to the Dell. Smoke from the colliery hung close to the village.

It was beginning to rain. A stream of thick brown water ran along the beck; a cloud of black smoke drifted from the gasworks chimney. The metal container, full, loomed up mistily beyond the hedge.

The shed was locked. He loosened a panel and climbed inside; he lit a candle. Two black objects slid out beneath the door.

The stove was hot; he put on wood: flames licked up around the metal pipe.

There was a steady drumming, like fingers tapping, on the metal roof.

Then, from the direction of the sewage pens, came a low-pitched scream.

He picked up a stick.

A second scream sounded from the pens and then, moments later, he heard the sound of movements in the mud outside.

A key was turned in a lock, a chain removed; a metal bar was raised and the door pushed back.

Batty stood there, a box in his arms, gazing in.

‘I’ve never locked you in, then, have I, Col?’

‘I got in under the wall,’ he said.

‘What wall?’

Batty looked round him at the hut.

‘Nay, thy’s never, then.’ He put down the box. ‘Dost make a habit of breaking in?’

‘I’ll mend it for you, if you like,’ he said.

‘Nay, tha’ll never.’

Batty bent to the wood. He replaced the panel.

‘Thy mu’n stay if thy wants to, I suppose,’ he said.

Colin sat by the fire.

‘Tha mu’n stay and have some dinner.’

‘What dinner?’ Colin said.

‘I’ve got some grub.’ He gestured at the box.

‘I’ll have to get home for it,’ he said.

‘I’ve got some other stuff, an’ all.’ He gestured at the box again.

‘What sort of stuff?’

Batty opened the box. He took out a piece of newspaper, unwrapped it and showed him a piece of meat.

‘I wa’ going to save it, tha knows. Until to-neet. Stringer’s coming, and one or two more.’

He took out a bottle.

‘Gin,’ Batty said. ‘One drop o’ this and tha’s out like a leet.’

‘I’ll try and get down tonight,’ he said.

‘Tha can have a sup now, tha knows, if you like.’

He began to unscrew the bottle.

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

He went to the door. Batty, the bottle in his hand, had followed him out.

‘Sithee, then: here’s to it,’ Batty said.

He raised the bottle, drank briefly, and began to cough.

‘I’ll see you later,’ Colin said.

‘Tha’s not running off just ’cos I’ve come in, then?’ Batty said.

‘No,’ he said.

He set off through the drizzle; a steady pattering came from the swamp. Smoke from the hut’s fire hung in thin wreaths around the bushes. His feet were wet by the time he reached the road.

‘You’re back early. Dinner’s not for another hour,’ his mother said.

‘I thought I’d come back’, he said, ‘to help.’

‘Help. Two mysteries in one morning,’ his mother said.

‘Move up! Move up, boy,’ Gannen said.

Colin closed his eyes; he judged the curve of the track and ran more quickly. When he opened his eyes he found he was last: the remaining runners were strung out in a line ahead. Following Stafford’s example in the previous race he ran quickly enough at the finish to get fifth place. ‘Bad luck, Saville,’ Macready said. A tall, thin man with a gingerish moustache, he stood by the finish writing names. ‘If you’d come up sooner you’d have got a place. First four go through, you know, to Saturday’s final.’

He walked away; he could see Gannen making towards him across the field.

‘Saville.’ He waved his arm.

Colin turned towards him, making some display of the effort he’d made.

‘You’re a slacker, Saville. You could have come in easily second or third.’

‘I ran as fast as I could,’ he said.

‘You ran as fast as you wanted. You’re a slacker. You’ll come to no good. What other events are you entered in?’

‘The long-jump, sir,’ he said.

‘I’ll come and watch you in the long-jump, Saville. Do you understand that, boy?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Aren’t you in the relay, too?’

‘No.’ He shook his head.

‘You’ve got out of that as well, then, have you?’ He took out a book and wrote inside. ‘I’ve put you back in the relay, and if you don’t run as fast as you can you’ll feel the weight of my foot behind you. Do you understand that, Saville?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Two-thirty, Saturday.’

Colin walked over to the pavilion. Stafford, his canvas bag beneath his arm, was coming out.

‘What did Gannen want?’ he said.

‘He thought I didn’t run fast enough,’ he said.

‘What you’ve got to do is run as fast as you can,’ Stafford said, ‘but with a shorter stride. It’s surprising how slow it makes you go.’

He took out a comb and smoothed his hair.