David Storey - Saville

‘He’s out at the back, Mother,’ Stafford said, raising his voice as if he were speaking to the other woman as well as his mother.

‘Oh well, I’ll catch him when he comes back in,’ Mrs Stafford said, glancing at Colin then and smiling. ‘Is this the friend who was coming?’

‘We were just going out to take a photograph,’ Stafford said already moving off towards the kitchen.

‘Try and keep out of the mud,’ his mother said. ‘There might be some tea for you when you come back in.’ She’d already moved out to the porch and called back over her shoulder, Stafford himself already in the kitchen. The table, as before, was bare.

Outside, a larger bike than Stafford’s had been leant against the wall, its rear wheel half-enclosed by a canvas hood, a large black canvas bag hanging down behind the saddle.

The rain had stopped. A faint wind was blowing. Stafford, after glancing towards the brick-built shelter, moved off across the back of the house.

‘We can go on this side,’ he said. ‘There’ll be more light.’

They passed a pair of windows that opened to the lawn; inside a tiny, square-shaped room a man in a dark suit was reading a paper. He glanced up at the sound of their steps, saw Stafford, and immediately looked back to his paper again.

Several bushes had been planted on the opposite side of the house. A wooden fence, against which a hedge had recently been planted, divided the garden from a field of corn: a green haze showed up across the furrows.

Stafford handed him the camera; he showed him the eye-piece and the small chromium lever he had to press.

‘Get it in the middle,’ Stafford said.

He leant against the fence, half-smiling, smoothing down his hair at one point and calling, ‘Haven’t you got it? Come on, I can’t keep smiling here for ever.’

He smiled again, his head, with its almost delicate features, angled to one side. Beyond him, in one of the side windows of the house, several women were gazing out. A car was parked outside the door.

Colin pressed the lever and handed back the camera.

‘I’ll take one of you, then,’ Stafford said.

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’m not really bothered.’

‘No, I’ll take one,’ Stafford said. ‘Perhaps somebody’ll come out and take us both together.’

He looked round vaguely for a suitable spot.

‘I’ll try and get you with the house,’ he said.

He gazed into the camera for several seconds, swinging it round.

‘To your left,’ he called, and then, ‘More this way. Come a bit nearer,’ and then, finally, ‘Try to smile. Honestly, you look like murder.’

The camera clicked and Stafford lowered it, examining it for a while then winding on the film.

‘How about taking old Porky? We could get the old man as well,’ he said.

Several women had come out to the porch; the figure of Mrs Stafford appeared beyond them. She was a tall, angular woman, with something of the same proportions as her husband, grey-haired, her features thin, the nose pronounced. She glanced across absent-mindedly as they reached the drive, then turned to the women as they stepped down to the car.

At the back of the house Mr Stafford was carrying a clump of hay on a fork, disappearing into the roofless structure where the hay was still visible above the wall.

The geese had gone back to the pond, some idling in the water, others feeding along the bank. Their heads erect, they moved off as Stafford passed them, his father re-appearing, gazing across, the fork in his hand, the trilby hat pushed to the back of his head.

‘What are you up to?’ he said, staring at the camera then turning away to a shed at the back of the pen before Stafford could answer.

‘We wondered if you’d take our photograph,’ Stafford said, smoothing down his hair and glancing over at Colin.

‘Oh, I’m busy,’ Mr Stafford said, disappearing inside the shed then re-emerging a moment later with another clump of straw. ‘If you want something to do you can clean out the sty.’

‘You only have to click it,’ Stafford said, following him across and showing him the camera.

‘Has your mother finished her party yet?’ he said, glancing up towards the house.

‘They’re just leaving,’ Stafford said, and held out the camera.

‘Don’t come pestering. Do something useful or keep out of the way,’ Mr Stafford said. He hoisted the straw above his head, walking briskly over to the roofless building.

His features were large, his nose long, his eyes pale blue and shielded by heavy brows. His mouth, as he glanced across, was drawn back in irritation.

‘Isn’t Douglas in? Or John?’ he added. ‘Ask one of them. They’ve nothing else to do.’

Stafford, with a shrug, had turned aside.

‘Perhaps my mother’ll do it,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t matter. Shall we see if there’s anything to eat?’ he added.

They went back to the house.

‘His brothers have all the money. From the mills, I mean. I suppose if he had more of it we’d have a farm.’ He shrugged again. ‘Though I suppose we have enough,’ he added.

A tall, thick-chested man was stooping over the table when they went back in the kitchen. Fair-haired, with heavy features, he glanced round as he heard them in the door, then turned back to the table where he was buttering a piece of bread. He was perhaps in his early twenties; a book, opened, was pressed up beneath his arm.

‘Is there anything left for us, Dougie?’ Stafford said and the man had shaken his head, putting the bread between his teeth, then catching hold of the book and a pot of tea and crossing to the door. He murmured impatiently around the bread, nodding at the door, wildly, and Stafford stepped across and opened it.

‘That’s Douglas, one of my brothers,’ Stafford said. ‘He’s home from college. John’s here, too. He’s home on leave.’

‘How many brothers do you have?’ he said.

‘Four,’ he said. ‘I’m the youngest, you see, by about eight years.’

He pulled back the door to the pantry, looked inside, then crossed over to the door through which the other figure had disappeared.

‘Mother? Is there anything in to eat?’ he called, waiting for an answer then shaking his head. ‘She’s probably gone out. She often does at this time if she can get a life’ He called again, waited, then came back in the kitchen. ‘We could boil an egg. Are you keen on eggs?’ Yet he stood indecisively by the window, gazing out to the back of the house where his father had once again re-appeared from the shed, a clump of hay above his head, walking over to the roofless pen.

‘How many pigs do you have?’ Colin said.

‘There’s Porky,’ Stafford said. ‘And there’s a sow with six or seven young ones. I’ve never counted them. It might be more.’

The figure Colin had glimpsed earlier, through a rear window of the house, came in and seeing only Stafford and himself immediately went back out.

‘That’s John,’ Stafford said, fingering the table moodily, then suddenly looking up and adding, ‘I say, come on up. I’ve something in my room.’ He picked up the camera he’d left on the table and stepped out to the hall.

The house was silent. The door to the room where the women had been was standing open; the figure with the book was sitting there, in front of the fire, eating the piece of bread and drinking from the pot ‘Can you close the door?’ he called as they crossed the hall.

Stafford pulled it to. The front door opened as they reached the stairs and another tall, awkwardly built figure appeared taking off a peaked Air Force hat and hanging it on a peg, laughing, then calling to the drive from where a moment later came a shout, followed immediately by a burst of women’s laughter.