David Storey - Saville

Every hand was raised.

‘Two-thirds of one pound,’ she said again, almost chanting out the phrase.

‘Miss! Miss!’ nearly everyone had said.

‘Well, Walker?’

‘Thirteen shillings and fourpence, Miss,’ he said.

‘Thirteen and fourpence,’ Miss Woodson said. ‘And what decimal of a pound is that?’

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

‘And what decimal is six shillings and eightpence, then?’

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

‘What is it, now, class, all together?’

‘Nought point three, three recurring,’ the class had said.

‘And what fraction of a pound is nought point three, three recurring, then?’

‘One-third of a pound, Miss Woodson,’ the class had said.

She sank down in her chair again. Stephens, his head between his hands, moaned quietly against his desk, his back, misshapen, thrust up, reproachtully, towards the class.

‘Does anyone know of an opening as a kitchen maid?’ Miss Woodson said.

‘Left, left. Left,’ Carter said. ‘Left, boy. Left. Left. Right up then, boy, against your cheek. You’re leaving yourself wide open.’

He crossed over with his right into Colin’s face.

‘Higher, higher. Up against your chin, boy,’ Carter said.

Having raised his glove to his chin he felt an even harder blow against his ribs; though not much taller than himself, Carter appeared, suddenly, to have acquired a longer reach: he felt a left from Carter against his face, another right beneath his ribs, and the next moment his back was against the rope and the room, or that aspect of it which he could see from a horizontal position, was revolving slowly above his head.

‘On your feet, Saville,’ Carter said. ‘You’re not hurt yet.’

Cold water was splashed down on to the top of his head; other figures, farther off, were dancing up and down, white-vested, with the large, brown-coloured, bulbous gloves at the ends of their arms. The gym-master half-lifted him beneath the rope then called over another boy and ducked back into the ring.

He sat on a bench at the side of the ring and waited for his turn again.

Carter wore the red trousers of a track-suit; on top he wore a vest. He was a small, almost daintily featured man, with doll-like eyes and a tiny nose; his hair was long and brushed smoothly back across his head, the end flapping up each time he swung a blow.

He was boxing with one of the senior boys, his left hand held straight out.

‘Don’t wait when you come in, Thompson,’ Carter said. ‘Come in with your left and, if you’re going to do nothing else, step out. Don’t hang around to see what’s going to happen.’

He demonstrated Thompson’s move again.

‘Let’s have young Saville in again,’ he said. ‘He can show you how not to do it, if nothing else.’

Colin climbed in beneath the rope.

He kneaded each glove against his palm. The master, having called the senior boys across, wiped his neck and arms on a towel; he wiped his face and chest. Finally he hung the towel across the rope: it ran round, a single strand, along the tops of the padded posts.

‘Watch my counter, Saville. It might come up; it might go down – I might counter with my left if it comes to that. Don’t do what Thompson does: bang one in then hang around.’

Colin took up his guard. Carter crouched down; he raised his head each time he intended to throw an instructional blow, but now, his forehead furrowed, he gazed keenly at him across his gloves: it was like fighting an ape, or a grizzled monkey, the thin face thrust menacingly down.

Colin struck out with his left hand and moved away; he struck out with his left again, both times failing even to make contact with Carter’s bobbing head. Each time he put out his hand that tiny head had slipped away; he put out his right, missed, then once again, measuring the distance, put out the left: something of a smile crossed Carter’s face.

Colin moved forward; he had some vague notion of keeping so close that, no matter how quickly Carter moved, he could muffle the blow. From one corner of the ring he drove him to another; from there he drove him to the next; he threw his left out continuously now, feeling it at one point crack comfortably against the master’s face, saw, briefly, his look of consternation, then, his own head bowed, his right hand tucked up against his cheek, bore in with his shoulder, releasing his right as he came in close. With his left he banged at Carter’s head. He stepped back, measured the distance to the master’s chin, pulled back his right and felt, almost simultaneously, a sharp, needle-like pain in the middle of his chest. A flicker of colour shot across his eyes; for a moment he wasn’t aware of anything at all, a vague redness, then a blueness, and a moment later he was gazing up at the metal, rivet-studded beams that crossed the ceiling.

‘The first rule of boxing’, Carter said, ‘is never to lose your head.’

Voices echoed from across the gym; there was the familiar rattle of the punch-bag against a metal frame. One or two figures outside the ring were leaping up and down. Perhaps, after all, they thought he’d slipped.

He got slowly to his feet. He felt a towel thrust into his hand, smelt its odour of dust and sweat and, when he finally looked up, saw Carter in the ring with one of the senior boys, parrying blows, calling, then parrying again.

‘You can get changed, then, Saville,’ the master said, casually, calling across his shoulder almost at the same moment as he spoke to the other boy.

He hung the towel on the rope, crossed the gym, and went into the changing-room beyond. A single light, shielded by wire-netting, shone down on the dusty floor.

Carter came in as he finished changing. The towel now he’d hung around his neck, his jet-black hair brushed freshly back: it lay like a textureless lacquer across the top of his head.

‘There’s no point in trying to get one over on me,’ he said. ‘I’m here to teach. I’m not paid to be, and I’ve no intention of becoming, a punch-bag. Do I make my meaning clear?’

‘Yes,’ he said, and added, ‘Sir.’

‘You can brawl all you want in the field outside; you can brawl all you want, if it comes to that, at home. When you step inside that ring it’s with the purpose of learning something, not much, but a little bit about boxing. Do I make my meaning clear?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘If you fancy coming again I’d be glad to see you. If not, no hard feelings.’ He put out his hand.

After a moment’s hesitation Colin took it.

As he was leaving he glanced through the sliding doors into the interior of the gym; sunlight, diffused by the frosted glass, fell in a broad panel across the floor. Dancing in and out of the shadows were the white-vested figures of the senior boys, ducking, weaving, their breathing staccato, irregular, following him out to the gymnasium door.

It was early evening. The first offices had begun to empty, a thin trickle of figures moving down the narrow streets towards the city centre; there were odd groups of girls in the winter uniform of dark-blue skirts and white blouses, the dark-blue coats hanging almost to their ankles: now, instead of the straw hats, they wore berets. Groups of older boys from the school had joined them; they stood on the pavements around the city centre, in front of the windows of the large hotel, leaning against the walls, one leg hitched up, or feet astride, hands in pockets, their caps pushed carelessly to the backs of their heads.

The bus was full. He sat upstairs. The windows, all closed, had begun to steam up. Fields flew past; figures rose; others came up the narrow stairs beside him. When he reached the village he could scarcely stand.