by David Storey
*
Shortly after the bombing began his mother went away to hospital and he went to sleep at Mrs Shaw’s house next door. She had no children and her husband worked in the colliery in the village. The house was cleaner and neater than their own, and his bedroom had linoleum on the floor. On all the walls, on the stairs as well as in the rooms, were hung pieces of brass, small reliefs and plates, and medallions with figures. Almost every day Mrs Shaw cleaned them with a rag, breathing on them, or rubbing on a white liquid from a tin, the brasses laid out around her, on a table, in neat rows. At lunch-time he stayed at school for dinner and at tea-time he would go back to see his father, who had usually just got out of bed. He would be getting ready to go and see his mother on his way to work, getting his things together, the fire unlit, the place itself untidy, the sink full of plates and pans he had never washed, the curtains in most of the rooms still drawn. ‘I’ll be glad when she’s back,’ his father would say. ‘How are you liking Mrs Shaw’s?’
‘Can’t I stay here?’ he asked him.
‘Nay,’ his father said. ‘You can’t sleep in the house by yourself.’
‘I wouldn’t mind.’
His father looked down at him then with a half-smile. His face was grey, his eyes reddened.
‘You’re better off where you are, Colin,’ he said. ‘Your mother’ll be back home before long, then we’ll be all right.’
He would dress for work then and wheel his bike out into the yard.
‘Come on, then, out you come,’ he would say. ‘I mu’n lock the door.’
Sometimes Colin stood in the yard holding the bike while his father locked the door, turning the key then stooping down to fasten on his cycle clips, folding his trousers round the tops of his boots. Sometimes too, as he waited, he pumped up the air in the tyres, his father waiting then, groaning, and saying, ‘Come on. Come on. I’ll be here all night. You need a drop of meat in that arm.’
Usually he went out into the street to watch him cycle off. His father wore a long overcoat, his flat cap pulled well down over his eyes. In the pannier behind the seat he would put the parcel he had made up to take to his mother, some fruit or a change of clothes which he’d carefully washed and ironed himself. ‘You be a good lad, now,’ he would say. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Good night, Dad,’ he would tell him.
‘Good night, lad,’ his father would say and push off his bike with one foot, riding on the pedal then, as it gained momentum, lifting his leg over the seat.
Mrs Shaw was a tall, thin woman. She had a large jaw and large, staring eyes, dark and full of liquid. Her cheek-bones stuck out sharply on either side. She had little to do with the other neighbours. Often she would stand with her arms folded beneath her apron staring out into the street.
Her husband was a small man with light, gingerish hair and a freckled face. He went to work early in the morning and came back home while Colin was still at school. At night he would come into his room, sometimes with a book, and tell him a story, his wife listening to the radio downstairs. Often, however, as he listened to Mr Shaw reading Colin would begin to cry, covering his face with his hands.
‘Why, what is it?’ Mr Shaw would say. ‘What’s the matter?’
He would shake his head.
‘Your mother will soon be back,’ Mr Shaw would say. ‘And what will your dad say when I tell him you’ve been roaring?’
‘I don’t know,’ he’d say and shake his head.
‘“Why,” he’ll say. “Not my lad, surely?”’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Well, then,’ Mr Shaw would say, and add, ‘Shall I fetch you up a chocolate?’
Sometimes he would accept one and, after Mr Shaw had gone, kissing him good night, he would lie sucking it in the darkness, the taste of the sweet and of the salt from his crying inextricably mixed up inside his mouth.
Before he went to school each morning Mrs Shaw would brush his hair. She would look in his ears in much the same fashion as his father would look at his bike when he couldn’t find what was wrong with it. Sometimes she would take him back to the sink in the kitchen and wash his ears again, pushing his head forward and rubbing round the back of his neck. ‘You’ll never get clean,’ she said. ‘You’d think you worked down a pit yourself.’
At the end of the week, on the Friday evening, she set out a bath in front of the fire. Around it she lay down sheets of newspaper to collect the drips.
‘I don’t think he wants to get in it,’ Mr Shaw said the first time it appeared.
‘I’ve changed the sheets,’ she said. ‘He’ll have to.’
‘I want to get bathed at home,’ he said.
‘Nay, this is your home,’ she said. ‘And your dad’s gone to work in any case and locked the door.’
‘I’ll get bathed tomorrow night, then,’ he said.
‘You can’t,’ she said. ‘I’ve changed the sheets and I’m not getting the old ones out of the wash.’
Her eyes expanded, her cheek bones flushing.
‘Now don’t be such a silly,’ she said.
In the end he got undressed and got into the bath. Mr Shaw had gone into the other room.
He sat perfectly still in the water, his toes curled up against the zinc bottom.
‘Well, then,’ Mrs Shaw said. ‘You better stand up. You’ll never get washed cramped up like that.’
She’d already washed his face and neck, his back and his shoulders.
‘I can wash myself,’ he said.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen it. Black ring left everywhere you’ve been.’ She put her hand under his arm. ‘Now, then. Up you get.’
He stood gazing down at the fire as she washed him. It was full of pieces of coal that had already caught alight.
‘Well, then. That wasn’t so bad,’ she said when she’d finished.
She knelt back on her heels by the bath, the apron damp between her knees.
‘You can get out now’, she said, ‘and dry yourself.’
‘Stand on the paper,’ she added, and gave him the towel.
He rubbed himself up and down, turned to the fire.
‘Now then. You see, that’s not dry,’ she said.
She took the towel from him and rubbed him, his body shaking at the force. She held him with one hand and rubbed him with the other.
‘Getting into dry pyjamas you want to be dry all over.’
Mr Shaw came in and picked up the bath. He opened the back door and carried it outside, emptying it down the grate.
Then he came in and picked up the damp sheets of paper, putting the bath away beneath the sink.
‘Now then, he looks as bright as a new pin,’ his wife said.
Mr Shaw nodded, gazing down at him.
‘Would you like a chocolate?’ he said.
He went up to bed and lay down in the clean sheets. They were like strips of ice. No matter how tightly he curled they burned him all over.
Sometimes at night, when he couldn’t sleep, he got out of bed and looked down into the garden next door, at the shelter, its black square mound at the end of the garden, at the rows of vegetables covered now, since his father’s absence, in weeds. It was all changed, as if it had been set down in a different place entirely. In the early mornings he could hear Mr Shaw get up and plod his way through the house, sometimes one of the brasses jangling as he caught it with his arm, his boots finally beating out across the yard and fading with the sound of other boots towards the colliery.
Each morning his father came in the kitchen, just back from work, ducking his head awkwardly in the doorway and smiling, Mrs Shaw sometimes offering him a cup of tea which he always refused. ‘Nay, you’re doing enough for me,’ he’d say. ‘I don’t want to put you to any more trouble.’
‘Ah, yes,’ she’d say as if she understood.
‘And how is he, then?’ he would ask, standing still in the doorway, his cap in his hand.
‘Oh, he’s no trouble at all,’ she sai
d.
‘Is he eating, then?’
‘More than enough.’
‘See, Colin,’ his father would add. ‘I’ve fetched thee some chocolate.’ He would step in and lay it on the table, stepping back to the door.
‘Well, then,’ Mrs Shaw would say. ‘Aren’t you going to say thank you?’
‘Yes,’ he’d say and looking up he would see his father smiling, nodding his head.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Oh, that’s all right, then,’ his father would add, flushing.
He preferred in the end not to see his father at all, or to go into the house next door when he knew he could see him alone. Yet, whenever he looked in the house before going to school, he would find his father already asleep, lying in a chair, the fire unlit, full of dead ashes, the curtains drawn, the pots from the meals still unwashed on the table.
It was as if everything had moved away. At school he found himself suddenly cut off.
One day he had begun to cry, covering his face with his hand.
‘Why, Colin. What is it?’ the teacher asked him.
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘Now then,’ she said. ‘It can’t be that bad, surely.’
‘No,’ he said.
She held his head a moment against her smock.
He smelled the chalk there, and the dust from the cloth she used to clean the board.
‘Well then,’ she said. ‘Are you feeling better?’
‘Yes,’ he said, afraid to look up and see the other children.
Finally she took him to the teachers’ room. He sat there on a chair by the window, the book she had given him open on his knee.
He stared out at the colliery which backed on to the school across a lane. A column of white steam, thicker than a cloud, coiled slowly in the air. A little engine pulled a line of trucks in and out of the yard.
Every now and then another teacher came in, collected a book, glancing at him, smiling, then going out and closing the door. He sat quite still, watching the engine, looking up, flushing, whenever anyone came in to find him there.
Eventually the teacher came back and filled up a kettle, setting it on a gas ring by the door. ‘Are you all right?’ she said.
‘Yes.’ He nodded his head.
‘Well, then,’ she said. ‘You better run along. In five minutes it’ll be time for play.’
One morning he saw his father standing by the school railings, gripping the spikes and gazing over at the children.
The yard was full, everyone waiting to go in. When he ran over he saw his eyes lighten, their blueness suddenly blazing then, just as quickly, fading away.
He seemed shy to find him there, like picking out a stranger.
‘I came looking for you,’ he said. ‘I might not see you tonight when I get back. I’m going to see your mother early.’
‘Can I come?’ he said.
‘They won’t let children in the hospital,’ he said. ‘Otherwise you could. Don’t worry.’
‘When shall I see you?’ he said.
‘I’ll look in tomorrow morning. You’ll be all right.’
‘All right,’ he said.
His father gazed over the railings a little longer.
‘Shall I give you a kiss?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ he said, and put up his face, holding the railings.
His father leaned down, stooping over.
‘You’ll be all right, then, won’t you?’ he said.
‘Yes.’ He nodded.
Though his father had washed, the coal-dust was still imprinted round his eyes.
‘Well, then,’ his father said. ‘I’ll be off.’
He turned away and walked down the road to where his cycle was propped up at the kerb. At the corner, where it turned off between the school and the pit yard, he waved, his hand touching the neb of his flat cap before his bike swung away.
When he came home at tea-time Mrs Shaw was standing in the door, her arms folded beneath her apron, gazing down the street. His tea was already on the table. There was a piece of cake beside his plate.
‘Now, then,’ she said. ‘I bet you’re hungry.’
He ate all the tea she put before him. Some of it was sandwiches with meat inside. It was like setting out on a journey: he felt he might as well get all he could inside.
‘Would you like another piece of cake?’ she said and brought the tin out from the pantry, lifting the cake out on to a plate and cutting off another slice, and raking all the crumbs together with the knife.
As he ate it Mr Shaw came down. He had just got out of bed: his braces hung round his trousers and he hadn’t tucked in the tail of his shirt. His hair stood up around his head like grass.
‘Well, then, he’s eaten all that, has he?’ he said. ‘When we take them off we’ll find his boots are full of bread.’
Mrs Shaw came in later to tuck him into bed. ‘Well, then, sleep tight,’ she said and kissed him. It was the first time she had tried and he saw her eyes close as she stooped towards him. ‘Well, then,’ she said, tucking in the sheets.
For some time he lay awake, listening for sounds of his father next door. But, as on every other night, it was silent. Vague voices came through the wall from the house the other side.
In the morning he heard Mr Shaw going to work, the kettle being filled in the kitchen below as he made some tea.
He heard his boots finally clack out across the yard and some time later the pit hooter. It would be another two hours or more before his father came home from work. He imagined him coming out of the cage, blackened, crossing the yard to give in his lamp, going to the locker, washing, putting on his coat, getting his bike from the rack; then he tried to imagine the ride back through the lightening countryside, the hills, up some of which his father pushed the bike, the bends, the level-crossing which occurred at some point on the route, the bridge across a railway.
He fell asleep, saw, vaguely, his mother lying in a bed, unfamiliar, her face round and curiously shining, like glass; then found himself riding his father’s bike, flying across the hedges and walls that blocked his path.
It was Mrs Shaw’s movements on the stairs that finally woke him and he immediately sat up, listening for any sounds next door.
When he went down Mrs Shaw was lighting the fire.
She was kneeling by the grate and looked up, her long face half-hidden by her shoulder.
‘Well, then, we’ll soon have this lit and breakfast on,’ she said.
‘Has my dad come back?’ he asked her.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t think so. Would you like me to take you to school?’
‘No,’ he said, and shook his head
He went out into the garden. It was still early, the sun scarcely risen: long shadows ran out from the edge of the terrace.
He played in Mrs Shaw’s garden, emptied the bucket of ashes and filled it up with coal, looking back at his house, at the window of his bedroom. He looked over at the shelter, at the weed-covered vegetables: it looked more abandoned and neglected now than ever, something he had left behind a long time ago.
He climbed over the fence eventually and knocked on the back door. He tried the handle then went to the window and looked inside. The curtains were still drawn as his father had left them.
He walked down through the other yards, past kitchen windows where other women were lighting fires and cooking breakfast, and round into the street the other side. He walked down to the corner; he looked down the lane that led out towards the fields and along which his father normally returned.
He sat down finally and waited, saw the newspaper boy go by, then the milkman with his horse and trap.
‘Now, then, lad,’ he said. ‘You’re up early. Any news from your dad?’
He shook his head.
As the milkman neared the other end of the street Mrs Shaw came to the door and called him.
‘I wondered where you were,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t find you in the yard.’
He saw his father as he was setting off for school. He was pushing his bike along the lane that led into the village. His head was bowed so that only the top of his cap was visible, and he was pushing the bike as if he had walked a long way, his short legs thrust out behind him, his arms straight and stiff.
He had to call out and run to him before he looked up.
‘I’m just off to school,’ he said.
‘Aye,’ his father said. ‘I was hoping to catch you. How have you been?’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I’m all right.’
His father’s eyes were red, the lashes coated with black, his cheeks drawn in as if he had nipped them inside. ‘I called in to see your mother on my way from work.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Champion.’ He stared at him a minute longer. ‘You better get off to school.’
He stooped down then, as if reminded, and kissed his cheek.
‘Will I see you tonight?’ he said.
‘Aye, well,’ he said. ‘You’ll be all right with Mrs Shaw. I might have to go off to the hospital again when I’ve had a bath.’
‘Can I come with you?’
‘Nay, what’ll they think at school? Any road, they won’t let you take children.’ He looked away, across the fields, the way he’d come. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be all right at school.’
‘Can’t I come to the door?’
‘Nay, they won’t let you past the gate, you see.’
He put his foot on the pedal and began to push the bike along.
‘Now, you be a good lad,’ he added.
At school the teacher sat him by her desk, giving him special tasks. He got out the paper, gave out the books, collected the pencils and rulers. In the playground he stood by the fence, gazing out over the colliery to the rows of chimneys beyond. At tea-time he ran all the way home but his father had already left.
His mother was away for six weeks. In the end he decided she wasn’t coming back and at night, in bed, he tried to invent a life for himself with Mrs Shaw. One day he offered to clean her brasses and she sat by him at the table, anxiously watching each one, taking it from him when he had finished and polishing it a little harder herself. He dug Mr Shaw’s garden and planted some seeds, gazing over at his own garden, at the house now almost always silent, his father at the hospital nearly all the time. At school the other children told him his mother was dying and once an older boy told him she was dead, watching his expression, stooping down to look into his eyes.