David Storey - Saville

‘Two-thirds.’

‘Miss, Miss !’ one or two had said.

‘Two-thirds.’

Her large eyes moved slowly along one side of the room, across the back, then returned along the opposite side until they came to rest on Stephens.

His eyes, fixed on hers, huge, startled, were suddenly lowered.

‘Stephens.’

‘Point…’ Stephens said, his hand still raised, almost pinned there, as if fastened to the wall itself.

‘Nought point, Stephens,’ she said, and paused.

‘Nought point,’ Stephens said, then added, ‘Six.’

‘Six.’ She glanced around, briefly; her gaze, finally, came back to Stephens. ‘Any advance on six?’

‘Miss, Miss !’ several of the boys had said.

‘Two-thirds expressed as a decimal, is what?’

She waited.

‘Walker?’

Walker’s hand, judiciously, had been lowered to a less conspicuous place behind his desk; nevertheless, his red nose, if nothing else, had caught Miss Woodson’s attention.

‘I don’t know, Miss,’ he said and shook his head.

‘Walker doesn’t know. I wonder,’ she added, ‘if the same is true…’, she paused, ‘of everyone else.’

‘Miss, Miss!’ nearly all the boys had said.

‘Saville.’

‘Nought point six, six’, he said, ‘recurring.’

‘Now, then,’ she said. ‘I hope we all heard that.’ The thick-framed glasses were slowly lowered. ‘Walker?’

‘Nought point six, six recurring,’ Walker said.

The arms were lowered.

‘And what would one -third be, expressed as a decimal, Walker?’

‘Point three, three recurring,’ Walker said.

‘And if I asked you to give me two-thirds of one pound, Walker, how much would you give me?’

‘Two-thirds, Miss?’ he said. His eyes expanded; the redness around his nose had deepened. A sudden agitated movement took place beneath his desk.

‘Two-thirds, Walker,’ Miss Woodson said.

‘Two-thirds of one pound would be…’ Walker said, his fingers entwined, working frantically together. ‘Two-thirds…’

‘Stephens.’

‘Yes, Miss?’

‘Don’t “Yes, Miss” me. Two-thirds of one pound, Stephens, in shillings and pence.’

Stephens’s head had begun to shake; a look of terror lit his features; even his hair had begun to tremble, his habitual stoop suddenly pronounced as if he intended to hide beneath the desk.

‘Miss, Miss,’ two or three boys had said.

Again, with a communal, self-protective gesture, nearly every hand in the class was raised.

‘Two-thirds of one pound, Stephens.’

Stephens’s eyes wandered slowly from Miss Woodson’s gaze to the door behind; from there they drifted helplessly across the wall until, half-way down the side of the class they came to the low, rectangular-shaped window which looked out to the basement wall of the drive. All that was visible, beyond the wire-netting shielding the window, was the ancient, eroded stonework of the wall itself.

‘Twelve shillings, roughly, Miss,’ he said.

‘Twelve shillings roughly, Stephens,’ Miss Woodson said. Her lips slid back; two rows of large, uneven teeth were suddenly revealed. ‘If twelve shillings represent two-thirds of a pound, what does the remainder represent?’ she said.

‘Miss, Miss,’ several boys had said.

‘Eight shillings, Miss Woodson,’ Stephens said.

His lips, too, had begun to tremble. Tears welled up around his eyes.

‘Represents, Stephens. Represents. If twelve shillings represents two-thirds, what does the remainder represent?’

‘One-third, Miss.’

‘And one-third, by your reckoning, is equivalent to eight shillings, Stephens. And that being so, what would three-thirds represent?’

‘Miss I’ several boys had said.

‘Twenty-four shillings,’ Stephens said.

‘And how many shillings are there in one pound, Stephens?’

‘Twenty shillings, Miss,’ he said.

‘How many shillings and pence are represented by two-thirds of a pound, then, Walker?’

‘Me, Miss?’ Walker said.

‘Don’t “Me, Miss?” me, Walker. Am I talking to the wall?’ she said. ‘Out with an answer before I thrash you.’

She got up slowly from the desk; she came down the aisle between the desks, gazing towards the window at the end of the room; it opened out directly to the field; a small, black dog crossed between the brick-built shelters.

‘I don’t know, Miss,’ Walker said.

‘Out to the front, Walker,’ Miss Woodson said.

Walker got up; his head held slightly to one side, he stepped carefully between Miss Woodson and his desk.

‘Stand facing the blackboard, Walker,’ Miss Woodson said.

He stood with his hands behind him, his legs astride.

‘Pick up the piece of chalk before you.’

Walker picked up the chalk from a wooden tray beneath the board.

‘Write down one pound on the blackboard, Walker.’

Walker wrote one pound, reaching over.

‘Now divide one pound, Walker,’ Miss Woodson said, ‘by three. Do it clearly. We all want to see your ignorance,’ she added.

‘Three into one won’t go, Miss,’ Walker said. He stood with his hand half-poised, the stick of white chalk clenched tightly in it.

‘Oh, dear. And what shall we do now, then, Walker?’ Miss Woodson said.

She’d taken up a position at the back of the room, gazing down to Walker and the blackboard at the opposite end.

‘Change it into shillings, Miss Woodson,’ Walker said.

‘Let’s see the machinations of your brilliant logic, Walker. Twenty shillings divided into three,’ she said.

‘Threes into twenty go six,’ Walker said. ‘With two left over.’

‘Two what, Walker? Legs, arms, feet?’

‘Shillings, Miss.’

‘And what do we divide those by, Walker?’ Miss Woodson said.

‘Change them into pence and divide by three, Miss,’ Walker said.

‘And the answer, according to this mathematical genius, then, is what?’

‘Eightpence, Miss.’

‘So, one-third of one pound is how much, Walker?’

‘Six shillings and eightpence, Miss Woodson,’ Walker said.

‘Go back to your desk, genius,’ Miss Woodson said.

She came slowly down the room again.

‘I want to see no hand down when I ask you this. Two-thirds of one pound is what, then, class?’

Everyone’s hand except Stephens went quickly up.

‘Two-thirds of one pound is what, then, Stephens?’

He was writing quickly, with his finger, on the top of the desk.

‘Are you washing that desk, Stephens?’ Miss Woodson said. ‘Or endeavouring in some way to improve its surface?’

‘No, Miss,’ Stephens said and shook his head.

Several boys had quickly laughed.

‘I shan’t give you another second, Stephens. Two-thirds of one pound: answer quick.’

‘Sixteen shillings and eightpence, Miss.’

Miss Woodson took off her glasses. With a sudden, uncharacteristic violence, she struck the desk with the flat of her hand. ‘What was that answer, Stephens?’ she said, gazing now into Stephens’s eyes.

The dark-haired boy had shaken his head. It was as if the two figures were preoccupied in some private conversation, stooped together, Stephens bowed, Miss Woodson bending, scarcely inches now between them.

‘Two-thirds of one pound is what, then, Stephens?’

‘I don’t know, Miss,’ Stephens said and once again he shook his head. His voice had faded off into a moan; he buried his head between his hands, banging it down against the desk.

For a moment Miss Woodson gazed down on to Stephens’s hair; then, with something of a groan herself, an ecstatic, choking wail, she slowly straightened.

‘What boy in this room does not know what two-thirds of one pound is?’ she said.