David Storey - Saville

‘I could meet you from the bus on the other days,’ he said.

‘Well,’ she said, and added without much enthusiasm, ‘I suppose you could.’

They picked up their coats. She leant back for a moment against his arm. ‘We could always find somewhere else,’ she said and closed her eyes, thrusting up her face to his, moving off finally along the paths that led between the overgrown mounds to the road. A faint shape passed across the slope above them. ‘I suppose you’ll always find someone here,’ she said. ‘It’s so close to the village.’

They reached the road; until they neared the first houses they walked with their arms around each other’s waist, she releasing his as they neared the first of the lights, glancing up then, frowning, as they stepped from the darkness and saying, ‘What do I look like? Do I look all right?’ She’d buttoned her coat and straightened her socks. She waited, smiling, while he turned her round. ‘One or two marks on the back,’ he said.

‘Grass,’ she said.

‘Mud,’ he said.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘it’ll soon brush off.’

She loosened her hair, taking off her ribbon. They passed, blinking, through the light of the cinema entrance, listened to the call from the miners in the Institute door, and reached the corner of her street without, apparently, having been recognized by anyone she knew.

She leant up quickly, kissed his cheek and without adding anything further set off down the street. He waited, watching her pass through the pools of gaslight until, disappearing into a patch of shadow, he finally heard the click as she closed her door.

They went out sometimes twice a week, traversing the fields and copses beyond the manor, lying in the darkness beneath hedges or in some shrub-enclosed alcove in a wood. On some occasions she would remove her skirt, unfastening her blouse, drawing out her arms then gazing up at him, a vague anonymous whiteness against the darkness of the ground, her hands held out, her head thrust up, releasing her breasts, drawing down his head. ‘No, no further,’ she would say when he moved against her, drawing out her legs, sometimes crying then and turning away, and saying, ‘I’ve seen enough of where that leads to. Honestly, don’t you think I want to?’ running her hands against him, sinking her lips towards him, drawing him to her mouth with moans and sighs.

One evening, coming back with her through the centre of the village, he met his father setting off for work. He’d already passed them in the road, cycling slowly, his father pausing in the darkness, calling, ‘Colin is that you?’ drawing his bike against the kerb, waiting for his answer, looking back towards the girl. ‘Your mother’s wondering where you’ve got to. Do you realize it’s nearly ten o’clock?’ His voice was muted, as if oppressed, like someone calling from beneath a stone.

‘I’m just going back,’ he said and added, ‘I’m just seeing Sheila home.’

‘Well be quick about it,’ his father said, turning to the bike, setting the pedal. ‘It’s too late for somebody your age to be out like this.’

And the following evening, when he got back from school, his father was waiting in the kitchen, Steven and Richard removed, playing in the other room: his mother’s voice came from beyond the door.

‘Well, who is she, then?’ his father said. ‘What’s her name and Where’s she from?’

‘She lives in the village. She’s called Sheila.’ He went to the cupboard in the corner to look for food.

‘And what’s her second name?’ he said.

‘Richmond.’

‘I’ve heard of no Richmond. What street does she live in, then?’ His father sat upright at the table, his hands clenched tightly on his knees.

‘They’ve just arrived here,’ he said and when he mentioned the street his father added, ‘Not down theer? That’s one of the worst districts in the village. Theer’s some right people live down there.’

‘She can’t help where she lives,’ he said.

‘Well, somebody can,’ he said. ‘What’s her father do, in any case?’ he added.

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

‘And that’s where you’ve been all these nights when you said you’d been out with Ian and Michael Reagan?’

‘Not every night. Some nights I’ve been out with them,’ he said.

‘Aye. About one from what I can make out,’ he said. ‘What’s her mother say to her going off at that time of night?’ he added.

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘They must say summat. They can’t all be as daft as we are,’ his father said.

‘Her parents are divorced, and her mother works, so she’s to spend a lot of the time looking after the house herself.’

‘Good God.’ His father banged his head. ‘Does she work this girl, then, or is she still at school?’

‘Ian knows her,’ he said. ‘She goes to the Manor.’

‘Aye, I bet Ian knows her,’ his father said. ‘If she’s left on her own like that you can bet quite a few people know her.’

‘Well, I’m not discussing it any more,’ he said. ‘You don’t know her, and if you did I doubt if you’d feel it necessary to say things like that.’

‘And where do you go in the evenings?’ his father said as if he hadn’t heard this last remark. ‘Where do you go at that time of night?’

‘We go to the Plaza. We go for walks. We sometimes go to the Park,’ he said.

The door from the passage opened and his mother appeared. His brothers’ voices came from the room at the front.

‘And what’re you going to say to this, then?’ his father said. ‘Did you know he was out nearly every night with a girl?’

‘I had a good idea of it,’ his mother said, blinking now behind her glasses.

‘Then you kept it a damn good secret,’ his father said.

His mother closed the door behind her. ‘There’s no need to swear,’ she said, her eyes if anything growing larger.

‘I’m not swearing. Did I say a swear word there?’ his father said. He got up from the table; he crossed to the fire, stood there for a moment, then came back to the table. ‘By God, I could swear, I can tell you that. Where do you think they go, and what do they get up to at that time of the night? Aren’t you going to ask him?’ He banged the table with his hand, banged it once again then, having sat down, glanced up helplessly towards his mother.

‘Why don’t you invite her round? Would she mind coming round?’ his mother said.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I think she’d like it.’

‘There, then. That’s settled,’ his mother said, and added, turning to his father, ‘Are you satisfied? You’ll be able to meet her and see what sort of girl she is.’

‘A lot that’s going to do,’ his father said, turning once more towards the fire as if there were a great deal he couldn’t tell her.

‘I think he’s forgotten that he was young once,’ his mother said.

‘Nay, I haven’t forgotten,’ his father said. He gazed resolutely towards the flames.

‘Oh, well, one man’s bitterness mustn’t feed another’s,’ his mother said. She picked up Richard as he came into the room, holding his face against her chest.

‘I’m not bitter,’ his father said. ‘I just know more about the world than some.’

‘Some things you know about,’ his mother said. ‘But about other things, I’m afraid you know very little.’

‘Aye. I knew and I know nought about ought,’ his father said, crossing to the hearth and taking up his woollen socks, his shirt and his faded trousers, and turning to the stairs, since it was nearly work-time, to put them on.

She was strangely disconcerted at being asked. He’d met her from her school bus one evening and had walked with her through the village to the corner of her street.