David Storey - Saville

‘You can get up from the table if you like,’ his mother said.

‘Aye, we mu’n give you a hand with the washing-up, Mother,’ his father said.

‘Nay, I’d much prefer to do it on my own,’ she said, and added, ‘You could take Neville into the front room, Colin, if you like.’

‘Aye. I’ve lit a fire in theer,’ his father said.

Colin glanced at Stafford; having got up from the table he seemed uncertain where to turn; he’d grasped his chair as if to remove it from the table but, after glancing round, could see no other place to set it.

‘We’ll clear up in here,’ his father added. ‘It’s not the visitor’s job, tha knows, isn’t that.’

They went through to the other room. Despite the fire the air was cold. There was a smell of dampness in the room. Stafford glanced out to the street at the front.

‘I suppose, really,’ he said, ‘I ought to go. It’ll take me an hour to cycle back.’

He held the curtain, stooping to the glass, then, releasing the curtain, glanced round quickly at the room itself. Because of the curtains and the size of the window, and with no outer door to supplement the light, it was darker than the kitchen.

‘Where’s this place your mother mentioned?’

‘It’s not far away,’ he said. ‘It’s where those two hang out. The two that stopped us in the road.’

‘I don’t mind meeting them again.’ Stafford raised his head, gazing across, his eyes quite bright. ‘Shall we go down on the bike, or walk?’ he added.

‘We could walk down. There’s nowhere’, he added, ‘to leave the bike.’

He called out to his mother in the kitchen.

‘Don’t leave it too late for Neville getting back,’ she said, coming into the passage as he opened the door.

The cloud had thinned since the afternoon; a desultory light shone through the gaps. In the Dell the gas-works chimney was filtering out a stream of smoke, the cylinder of the storage tank sunk down, within its metal supports, almost to the ground.

Stafford had fashioned a stick from the hedge; he whipped it at the grass and the weeds at the side of the road, glancing round, his gestures those of someone who’d been to the place already: he was scarcely interested in where they were going.

The path wound off between the brick-built pens: it faded out amongst the swampland the other side.

Colin led the way between the reeds; on the site of the disused colliery figures were running to and fro between the trees, a dog barking, and from the direction of the road itself came the sound of a car engine as it started at the hill.

Birds flew off from the shrubs; the smell of the mud from the brackish pools replaced the smell of gas. Stafford walked along with a half-expectant air, startled, gazing at the banks of reeds, at the strange pools that opened out intermittently on either side. He grew self-absorbed, his shoulders hunched, Colin waiting for him at each of the difficult stretches. Finally, at the edge of the clearing, its chimney smoking, appeared Batty’s hut.

Stringer was standing at the door, his gun raised, aiming it vaguely in their direction.

‘I heard you, Tongey. Don’t come closer, then,’ he said.

‘Is that one of them, Colin?’ Stafford said.

‘It’s the one I hit on the nose,’ he said.

A smear of blood could be seen on Stringer’s face.

‘Is he likely to fire it?’ Stafford said.

Something ripped through the leaves above their heads.

Immediately, stooping, Stringer snapped the gun; he fumbled with the barrel, loaded it, straightened, then raised it quickly in their direction. He fired again.

‘We better get under cover,’ Stafford said.

He’d half-raised his arm to cover his face.

Stringer, re-loading the gun, had backed inside the hut. The shutters on the window closed. A moment later an arm reached out and the door, at the end of a piece of string, was pulled quickly to.

Stafford stood at the edge of the clearing uncertain whether to cross.

‘Is Lolly there, then?’ Colin called.

‘There’s a lot of us in here, Tongey,’ Stringer said. His voice came faintly from inside the door.

Colin crossed over to the wall of the hut. The gun, from inside the window, was fired again.

He waited for a moment in the shelter of the door; Stafford, across the clearing, was waving his arm.

‘Are you in there, Lolly?’ Colin said.

‘We’re all in here, Tongey,’ Stringer said.

He could hear the table being moved against the door; a chain began to rattle the other side. When he pressed against the door it yielded.

‘If you come in, Tongey,’ Stringer said, ‘I’ll fire.’

‘We only want to look,’ he said.

‘I mu’n fire if you come any farther,’ Stringer said.

Colin opened the door and glanced inside. The stove was lit. A candle burnt against the wall.

Stringer stood with his head stooped to the barrel of the gun.

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Tonge,’ he said.

‘We only want to look,’ he said again, and added, ‘Lolly isn’t here. I thought he was.’

‘He’s coming. He’ll be coming any time. He’s bringing their kid down with him,’ Stringer said.

‘I should put the gun down,’ he said, and stepped inside.

He stood with his back to Stringer and felt the stove.

‘If Lolly’s coming,’ he said, ‘I’ll wait.’

He went to the door and waved to Stafford.

‘You can come in,’ he said. ‘It’s only Stringer.’

Stafford crossed slowly from the trees and looked inside.

‘I say, what a super place.’ He glanced at Stringer then quickly at the hut. ‘Is this where you cook stuff, then?’ He bent to the stove.

‘Lolly’ll be on to you,’ Stringer said. ‘If I let you go thy mu’n have a chance.’

Stafford, having examined the stove, glanced uneasily at the table behind the door, at the wooden chairs and cupboard, and finally once more at Stringer.

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

‘I don’t mind,’ Stafford said. He looked round him at the hut again.

‘He’s fetching their kid down, is Lolly,’ Stringer said.

He moved towards the door.

‘Let’s have a go with your gun, then,’ Stafford said.

‘You mu’n have a go: but it’ll be me who’s firing it,’ Stringer said. He raised it slowly to Stafford’s head.

Stafford stooped to the stove; he felt it with his hand.

‘You want to put more wood on,’ Colin said.

‘You mu’n not touch that wood, then,’ Stringer said.

Stafford lifted up a piece; he lifted the lid of the stove and dropped it in.

‘Tha mu’n not touch it,’ Stringer said.

Stafford crossed over to the cupboard door; it was secured by a lock and a metal bar: he pulled back the shutter on the window, gazing out.

‘I could bring a gun as well,’ he said. He gestured at Stringer. ‘It’s newer than that.’

‘Tha mu’n not come here again, then,’ Stringer said and turned quickly at a sound outside.

Batty was standing at the door; he had the stick in his hand that he’d had before.

‘Here, quick, Lolly, fetch thy kid, then,’ Stringer said. ‘Tongey’s here and that mate of his.’

Batty gazed in for a moment, then stepped inside.

‘Who gave you permission to come in here?’ He glanced at Colin and then, less certainly, at Stafford.

‘He forced his way in, Loll,’ Stringer said.

Colin sat down on one of the chairs.

‘We just came in to have a look,’ he said.

‘Tha mu’n have a look and go, then,’ Batty said.

He stood by the stove himself now, gazing round.

‘Tha mu’n go. Go on. Or I’ll chuck you out.’

Stafford went to the door; he passed Stringer, stooped to the doorway slightly, and stepped outside.