David Storey - Saville

She was a small, stoutish woman, her face inflamed from the heat of the fire. On some evenings, when they were working overtime, she’d come to the field with tea and scones, bringing the tea in a metal jug, already sweetened and mixed with milk. Now she came across with a large round cake.

‘I’ve baked this for you, love. Just something to remember us by.’

‘He lives on fresh air, this lad,’ the farmer said. ‘Just look at his muscles. He’s grown a foot with us at least.’

The cake was slipped into a paper bag. He put it in his own bag, along with the wage.

‘And he’s kept a guard on them prisoners an’ all,’ the farmer added.

‘Has he?’ The farmer’s wife came to the door to see him off.

‘He’s been a right good officer,’ the farmer called, half-hidden in the shadow of the kitchen.

From the footbridge he glanced back at the farm: the farmer himself had appeared at the door.

‘If thy ever wants a job you must come back here again,’ and still stood there, waving, when he reached the road.

‘How much did they pay you?’ Stafford said.

He told him about the farm, and then the prisoners.

‘I don’t do much work during the holidays,’ Stafford said. He added, ‘I was over there, you know, for the day. I know the Thorntons. They live in that house beyond the trees.’

He walked beside him, his canvas bag hitched up beneath his arm. He whistled for a moment between his teeth.

‘Are you playing football this term?’ Colin asked him.

‘I’ve been injured this week.’ Stafford shook his head. ‘I’ll probably come in later. It hasn’t been arranged.’

When they reached the turning to the station, Stafford had added, ‘I’ll come down to the bus stop, if you like. I’ll be catching the later train tonight.’

They walked through the narrow alley and into the town-centre. Crowds of boys were moving down from the direction of the school, joined by groups of uniformed schoolgirls.

Stafford had called across at one point; two girls, on the opposite side of the street, had waved. One girl had called out, pointing back in the direction of the station.

Stafford smiled and shook his head.

‘Look at that,’ he said. He indicated a shop window, catching Colin’s arm. ‘What do you think?’

A wooden plaque of the school’s coat-of-arms was set in the centre of the window, beside it a tray of coloured scarves.

‘Some of those look pretty nifty.’ Stafford leaned to the window, gazing in, his head against the glass.

He moved to the door, holding it open.

An elderly shopkeeper inside had already looked up; he appeared to recognize Stafford for he came out quickly from behind the counter.

‘And what can I do for you?’ he said as Colin followed Stafford in.

‘We’d like to look at the scarves,’ Stafford said. ‘The ones in the window.’ And when the shopkeeper brought them over, sliding the glass panel at the back of the window and lifting them out, Stafford had added, ‘Not the school’s, Mr Wainwright: those civilian ones,’ laughing then at his own expression.

‘The civilian ones,’ the shopkeeper said, beginning to smile himself.

They were made of silk; he spread them on the counter.

‘And have you got your coupons, sir?’ he said.

‘Do you need coupons for one of these, then?’ Stafford said.

‘I’m afraid so.’ The shopkeeper shook his head.

‘What have you got without coupons?’ Stafford said.

‘Well, any number of things,’ the shopkeeper said. ‘Tie-clips, for instance. Do you fancy those? I take it’, he added, ‘it’s for a present.’

‘Yes,’ Stafford said, and glanced across.

A tray of tie-pins was laid before him.

‘What do you think to that one?’ Stafford said.

He picked it out.

It was a silver-coloured tie-pin shaped like a feather. Its image, Colin saw, was that of a quill. A tiny nib was fashioned one end.

‘Do you like it?’

‘Yes,’ he said, impatient now to get to the stop.

‘I’ll take that one, Wainwright,’ Stafford said and from his inside pocket drew out a wallet.

‘That’s rather an expensive one,’ the shopkeeper said.

‘I thought it might be,’ Stafford said.

He laid out the money.

‘Could you wrap it up?’ he said. ‘Decently, I mean. In a sort of box.’

Outside the shop Stafford glanced at his watch and added, ‘Are we late for your bus? What time does it leave?’

‘If I hurry,’ he said.

‘We’ll run for it in that case,’ Stafford said.

They ran through the centre; at one point, for a while, they ran on the road, Stafford dodging the traffic and keeping abreast.

‘Keep running: I’ll keep up,’ he said.

The bus was waiting when they reached the stop.

Stafford stood beside Colin as the queue climbed on.

Then, close to the door, he said, ‘Here you are, then. I hope you can use it.’

He thrust the parcel into Colin’s hand.

‘Go on. Take it. You’ll never get on.’

And when he hesitated he thrust it to his hand again.

‘See you tomorrow,’ Stafford called, already moving off along the pavement.

He saw Stafford’s head, its fair hair conspicuous amongst the crowd, moving swiftly up the hill, back towards the city centre: he watched a moment longer then, as the crowd moved on, the fair-haired figure disappeared.

He opened the parcel when he got back home.

‘That’s beautiful. Wherever did you get that?’ his mother said.

‘It was a present,’ he said, and added, ‘From a friend at school.’

‘It isn’t your birthday yet,’ she said.

‘I know,’ he said. He shook his head.

‘Do they give presents to you, then, like that?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I suppose they do.’

‘Have you bought him one, in that case, then?’ she said.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I suppose I shall.’

‘Well, love,’ she’d added, ‘make sure you do.’

He didn’t see Stafford at school the following day; he went to his classroom at the afternoon bell: everyone had left. He walked down to the station: there was no sign of Stafford on the platform.

On the Monday he only saw Stafford briefly, from a distance, leaving the field at the end of break; he didn’t run after him or call across. The next time they met was on the Tuesday afternoon: Stafford was coming out of the pavilion, already changed. He waved across, calling, and trotted casually across the field.

He never mentioned the present again. Colin scarcely wore it; he clipped it on to his tie occasionally on Sundays; he went to the Crusaders now in the afternoon, still with Bletchley, and less frequently with Reagan, who, since his failure in the exam, had been often ill.

Bletchley wore a suit on Sundays; over the previous year he had worn his school uniform to church but as it faded it had been replaced by a suit of dark-grey cloth with long trousers and a double-breasted jacket. Both he and Bletchley as well as Reagan were in the same Crusader group; a banner with the device of a fish was clipped to the end of their pew. The vicar took the service: small, portly, with thick-lensed glasses, he spoke with his head inclined towards the ceiling, waiting for each word to echo before he called the next: ‘I… I – shall… shall – wait… wait – here… here – for… for – si… si – lence… lence .’ He sang loudly, standing by the pulpit, sometimes disappearing behind the varnished pews to the organ, where, through an angled mirror, he could watch the groups below.

With no Mr Morrison to talk to Bletchley would frequently fall asleep; he would prop his arm on the end of the pew, immediately beneath the banner, and with his head against his hand, his face shielded, he would assume an attitude of rapt attention; in the shadows of the church, and beneath the extended shield of his hand, it was impossible to tell that he wasn’t listening; even when the vicar called for the answer to some question he would put up his hand, slowly, instinctively, half-dazed, having to be roused, cautiously, if he was asked specifically to answer.