David Storey - Saville

‘You’ve seen all we have to see, then?’ his father said, folding the paper and standing up. ‘There mu’n not be much around here, I suppose,’ he added.

‘We went to the Park, Mr Saville,’ Stafford said, sinking into the chair opposite his father, and mentioning the Park now as if it were a place of some significance.

‘Aye, well: it’s a bit of a dump, is yon,’ his father said. He put the paper down. ‘There’s not much to see up there, tha knows. Though there’s one or two nice walks around the village.’

‘Don’t let him take you down to the Dell, at least,’ his mother said. ‘That’s been his favourite haunt these last few years.’

‘Where’s that, then?’ Stafford asked him, looking up.

‘Down by the sewage works,’ his father said.

‘And the gas-works,’ his mother added.

‘Thy hasn’t to breathe too deeply when thy passes there.’ His father laughed.

The baby, attracted by Stafford’s presence, had pulled itself up against a chair. Stafford put out his hands.

‘Sithee, yon’s too shy for ought, unless it’s asking to be fed,’ his father said. ‘We’ve just stuffed him up to keep him quiet.’

‘Now, you know that’s not true, not true at all,’ his mother said.

She was opening a tin of fruit on the draining-board beside the sink; glancing at Stafford she brought it over in a bowl to the table, standing there a moment uncertain whether, before the meal, she ought to serve it out.

‘Do you like fruit, then, Neville?’ she said, hesitating slightly as she mentioned Stafford’s name.

‘Any amount of it, Mrs Saville,’ Stafford said, turning in the chair.

‘It’s tinned fruit,’ she said, still holding to the bowl.

‘Tinned fruit all the better,’ Stafford said, turning once more to face the baby.

‘We alus have tinned fruit, tha knows, on Sundays,’ his father said, then added, ‘Well, some Sundays, tha knows, when visitors are here.’

The baby got down from the chair and crawled across the floor; it stood up finally by the door, which Stafford had left open, and began to stumble out.

‘And where’s thy off to?’ his father said, his movements stiff now, his voice uncertain. Something about Stafford’s presence had affected him immensely; he seemed uncertain where to put himself, picking up the baby, then putting it down, closing the door behind him, then standing once more beside the table, straightening the plates and spoons, and pulling out a chair.

A kettle was simmering on the fire.

‘Well, I think it’s ready,’ his mother said.

They sat at the table. His mother served the fruit. No one was sure whether to eat it first, or the bread and jam which stood – the thinly buttered slices on one plate, the jam in a bowl beside it – in the centre of the table. Finally they took their lead from Stafford, who started on the fruit, his mother offering him a slice of bread and asking him if he’d like to eat it with it.

‘That’s very kind. Thank you,’ Stafford said, evidently unused to eating tinned fruit and bread together.

‘When we have a meal in this house we have one. Don’t you worry,’ his father said.

Steven came in. His face was marked with grease, his knees were cut.

‘Wherever have you been? And on Sunday, Steven,’ his mother said.

She got up from the table and took him to the sink. There was a moment’s pause at the table; his father, with a loud sucking noise, began to drink his tea.

The tap ran in the sink; Steven’s face was bent towards it; his hands were scrubbed, his knees were washed. Red-faced from stooping, his mother led him to the table.

‘Start on your fruit,’ she said when Steven reached across to take the jam.

‘Why have we got it in a bowl?’ he said. ‘What’s happened to the jar?’

‘We don’t always have it in a jar,’ his mother said, glancing uneasily at Stafford.

‘I’ve never seen it in a bowl afore, then,’ Steven said.

‘ Before , not a fore,’ his mother said.

Steven had already finished his fruit; he looked expectantly around the table.

‘Can I take your dish, then, Neville?’ his mother said.

She got up from her place, leaning across to take Stafford’s bowl. Her own fruit, as yet, she’d scarcely touched.

‘Shall I pour your tea out now?’ she added.

Stafford held out his cup; his father watched with an air of concern, nodding his head, half-smiling, encouraging Stafford now to take something else.

‘How about some jam?’ he said.

‘I’d love some jam, Mr Saville,’ Stafford said.

When the fruit was finished, and the bread had been consumed, the plates were removed and a plate of jam tarts and a sandwich roll were placed on the table.

‘By go, where’ve we been saving this, then?’ his father said.

‘Now don’t go embarrassing us, Father,’ his mother said. ‘Neville’ll think we don’t always have this,’ she added.

‘We don’t!’ his father said, and laughed, crumbs spraying from his mouth. ‘By go,’ he said, stooping to the table. ‘Thy mu’n come every week at this rate, Nev.’

The plates were handed round; his mother, red-faced, stooped to the table, short-sightedly, and cut the roll into even slices.

Stafford ate a piece; he ate a tart.

‘Have one more,’ his mother had said, offering him the plate. There was one tart for each person, and one piece of roll.

‘I’ll never get home if I have any more, Mrs Saville,’ Stafford said. ‘That’s the best tea I’ve had, you know, for a very long time. We don’t often have it, you see, at home.’

‘Not have tea?’ his mother said as if she suspected some deprivation now in Stafford’s background.

‘We usually have dinner, you see, at about seven o’clock. And if I have a big tea I don’t have the appetite at seven,’ Stafford said.

‘Oh. Dinner. I see,’ his mother said. She looked away. ‘Won’t you get into trouble, then? Eating all this at this time, then?’

‘Oh, we have dinner later on Sundays,’ Stafford said. ‘We usually have visitors in the evening and nobody likes to eat until after eight.’

‘Oh, you should be all right, then,’ his mother said, distantly, as if this absolved her of all blame for Stafford’s condition.

‘Well, if nobody wants it, I’ll have the extra tart,’ his father said.

‘Well, it was my tart, actually,’ his mother said.

‘Oh, I didn’t know that, my dear,’ his father said.

‘I didn’t mind, if Neville would have liked another,’ his mother said.

‘No, no, you go ahead, love,’ his father said. ‘It’s yours by right.’ He looked fiercely at Steven, who had shown signs of laying claims on it himself.

His mother ate it in silence. The baby, fastened to a chair by a scarf, having spent most of the meal consuming a biscuit, began to moan quietly, making signs that it wanted a drink.

Colin leaned across and held the handleless cup it drank from against its lips; it bit against the edge, swallowing, its arms waving to and fro on either side.

‘Well, that was a meal to be proud of,’ his father said, sighing now and finishing his tea. ‘I don’t care who they are, or where they come from, they couldn’t have a better tea than that, tha knows.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ his mother said. ‘If it wasn’t for rationing it might be better.’

‘Rationing or no rationing,’ his father said. ‘You couldn’t make much improvement, I’m telling you.’ He got out a cigarette and struck a match.

‘You don’t mind if Mr Saville smokes?’ his mother said.

‘No. No. That’ll all right, Mrs Saville,’ Stafford said. His father, hastily, had blown out his match.