David Storey - Saville

‘We wouldn’t let you walk with us, then, would we?’ one of the girls had said.

‘Not somebody who knows Berenice Hartley ,’ another girl had said.

They wandered on.

Stafford, smoothing down his hair, had let them past.

‘They’re a load of scrubbers. I don’t think much of those,’ he said. He began to whistle, his hands in his pockets, looking round idly and kicking the grass.

‘Are there any shops open in the village? We could get a bite to eat. I’m feeling pretty ravenous,’ he said.

‘We could go back’, Colin said, ‘and get some tea.’

‘I don’t want to put your people out. I mean, they’ve enough to do, I suppose,’ he said.

‘They’re expecting you to stay, in any case,’ he said.

‘I suppose we could go back,’ he said. He looked up the hill; figures were drifting down from the direction of the church: odd groups of girls in brightly coloured coats and boys who, walking behind them, climbed along the walls.

Bletchley was walking along with Reagan in the middle of the road; whereas Bletchley was broad and fat, fitting with some difficulty into his long-trousered suit, Reagan, tall and thin, appeared scarcely to inhabit his clothes at all, his dark, long-trousered suit exaggerating the extraordinary movements of his gangly body.

‘I shouldn’t let Mr Trubshaw see you,’ Bletchley said, referring to the vicar. ‘He asked where you were this afternoon and I told him you were sick.’ He glanced uneasily at Stafford.

Reagan was wearing a bright red tie; he had a long brass tie-pin clipped to it, beneath which hung a thin, brass-coloured chain. His eyes were large and staring, his long thin features, since he had grown much taller, more pronounced, the massive swelling of his head at the back disguised now by longish hair which he allowed to hang down towards his collar. He fingered his tie nervously as he glanced at Stafford.

Colin introduced him; Bletchley nodded. ‘Weren’t you at the scholarship exams?’ he said.

‘Which ones were those?’ Stafford said.

‘The ones where you sit for the scholarship,’ Bletchley said.

‘I can remember going to something of that sort,’ Stafford said.

‘Which school are you at, then?’ Bletchley said.

‘Oh, I don’t go to school very often,’ Stafford said. He stood with his hands in his pockets, looking round. He glanced at Reagan. ‘Which school do you go to, then?’ he added.

‘He goes to St Dominic’s,’ Bletchley said. ‘You have to pay fees. He didn’t pass the scholarship,’ he added.

‘Oh, those are the best schools,’ Stafford said. ‘I wish I’d gone there now myself.’

Bletchley’s neck reddened.

Mr Morrison walked past, with the woman with the red eyes who played the piano. Bletchley touched his school cap and gave a smile as he gestured at Colin. ‘He’ll tell Trubshaw and you’ll catch it, I suppose,’ he said. He called out to two girls passing in the road. ‘Where’s your boy-friends today?’ he shouted.

‘What’s it to do with you, then, Belch?’ they said.

Bletchley laughed; he pulled down at the peak of his cap and glanced at Stafford.

Reagan, nervously, had begun to kick his feet against the road.

‘You’ll be late for your violin class,’ Bletchley said.

‘I don’t have it on Sunday afternoons, now,’ Reagan said.

‘Mic plays the violin. He’s a virtuoso,’ Bletchley said. He laughed again, slowly, still watching Stafford. ‘You should hear him play. It’s like a cat being cut in two.’

‘Who do you have lessons with?’ Stafford said.

‘I go to somebody in town. You won’t have heard of them, I reckon,’ Reagan said. His face had darkened. Faint white marks, like smears of paint, showed at his temples.

Bletchley’s neck had begun to swell; the red flush spread slowly upwards towards his cheeks.

‘Not Mr Prendergast?’ Stafford said.

‘Do you know him?’ Reagan said.

‘I go there twice a week myself.’

‘Honestly? Not the violin?’ he said.

‘I do the piano,’ Stafford said.

‘Honestly,’ Reagan said, gazing at Stafford in admiration.

‘I did violin about two years ago. I go on Wednesdays and Fridays, after school.’

‘I go Tuesdays,’ Reagan said.

‘I had piano lessons, and violin lessons, but I go to elocution now, though,’ Bletchley said. ‘“The rain in Spain stays mainly on the plain.” “Tea for two is good for you.” “How soon will you be finished with your spoon?”’

He quoted the phrases carefully to Stafford.

‘Weren’t we going to your place?’ Stafford said, looking up at Colin. He glanced down sharply then towards the village.

‘We’re going in the Park,’ Bletchley said, indicating Reagan. He glanced over once again at Stafford. ‘Why don’t you come? There are one or two tarts I know from school.’

‘We’ve just been down,’ Stafford said. He turned towards the hill. ‘Are you coming?’ he added to Colin.

Bletchley turned to the Park, holding Reagan’s arm as if afraid for a moment that Reagan might be inclined to follow.

‘See you, Tarzan,’ he said.

‘They look like Laurel and Hardy,’ Stafford said. ‘Just look at them,’ he added, glancing back.

The two figures, the one inflated like a large balloon, the other tall and willowy, like some misshapen stick, were moving slowly along the path towards the slope leading to the recreation ground. Bletchley was already calling out, waving to a line of girls who, as they passed, had all glanced back, their laughter floating up across the hill.

‘Belcher,’ he could hear them calling out, the sound echoing a moment later beneath the trees. Perhaps they’d called to Bletchley a second time; though still holding to Reagan’s arm he appeared for a moment as if he might run across, the girls screaming then and moving off. They ran separately across the grass, coming together slowly, laughing, some distance down the hill.

‘A village Romeo,’ Stafford said and for the first time that afternoon laughed, lightly, without any intention of provoking Colin.

There was no sign of Batty or Stringer at the foot of the hill; the miners were sitting in rows outside the pub, crouching in the gutter and along the walls, calling out suddenly to Stafford as he passed, attracted by the fairness of his hair, and the strange freshness of his manner.

‘Dost fancy yon, then, Jack?’ they said. ‘Wheerst tha come from, lad? Ar’t’a sure he’s not a lass?’

The laughter from the crouched rows and the odd, isolated figures standing in the road followed them down towards the house.

‘What’s the matter with them?’ Stafford said. ‘Haven’t they seen somebody dressed decently before?’

‘They’re always like that’, he said, ‘with strangers. Suspicious of anything or anyone they haven’t seen before.’

‘I’m surprised anyone comes here, in any case,’ Stafford said. ‘I mean, the place hasn’t got many attractions at the best of times,’ he added.

‘I never knew you played the piano,’ Colin said.

‘Oh, I don’t do it much. Sometimes I skip the lessons as a matter of fact. Prendergast, who takes me, doesn’t mind. If he makes a fuss I’ll be taken away, and he’d lose whatever fees he gets.’

He began whistling slowly to himself, walking along with his hands in his pockets, kicking at the kerb.

‘You ought to come to our place,’ he said, as they reached the house. ‘We could have some fun. It’s different to this.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, not much different, I suppose,’ he added.

The table was already laid when they went into the kitchen. Walking along the backs Stafford had glanced with the same intentness as before into the open doors and windows; now, standing in the door of the house itself, he appeared dismayed by the sight of the table, as if the identity of the room itself had changed, or he’d come into the wrong room entirely; then, seeing Saville sitting in a chair beside the fire, the Sunday paper open awkwardly on his knee, he stepped inside, ducking his head slightly then smoothing down his hair.