by David Storey
Platt came in, followed by Hepworth and two masters from the other school. The other team came in. Stafford, his hair combed, his clipped pens showing in his blazer pocket, sat alone: he glanced up briefly as Hepworth tapped his back, but got up when the first boys began to leave. He picked up his canvas bag from the door and went out to the yard.
When Colin followed he saw his father talking to Stafford at the mouth of the ginnel. He’d evidently stopped him and, gesturing behind him, was talking about the match.
‘Oh, here’s Colin,’ he said. ‘Which way do you go, then, lad?’
‘I’m going to the station,’ Stafford said, looking back at him, surprised.
‘We’ll go down with you. We catch a bus in town,’ his father said.
They walked through the ginnel.
‘Thy’s got a good future there, if you put your back into it,’ his father said.
‘Oh, it’s too rough a game for me, Mr Saville,’ Stafford said.
His father laughed, looking at Stafford in some surprise.
‘Rough? I can’t see there’s much rough about it,’ his father said.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Stafford said. ‘If you’re playing out there you’d think it was rough. Particularly when they kick you instead of the ball.’ A certain neatness had come into his movements; even his voice was clipped, the accent sharp.
His father, intrigued, had glanced across.
‘There are rougher things than that,’ he said. ‘Give me football every time, tha knows.’
‘If there are, then I hope to keep away from them. It seems silly to go seeking roughness,’ Stafford said.
He left them at the opening leading to the station.
‘You go that way, then?’ his father said.
‘If I rush now I might just catch an early train,’ Stafford said. He put out his hand. ‘It’s been nice meeting you, Mr Saville.’ He swung his bag, as he turned, beneath his arm.
‘Well played, then, lad,’ his father said.
He watched him cross the road to the alley.
‘Well, that’s a bright ’un, then,’ his father said. ‘He could have won that match, tha knows, himself.’
Still talking of Stafford, they walked down to the stop.
‘And who was that feller with the jet black hair?’ his father said.
‘Platt,’ he said.
‘He came up to me and asked me who I was waiting for.’
‘What did you tell him?’ Colin said.
‘I said I was waiting for thee.’ He laughed. ‘“Didn’t you hear me cheering?” I said.’
He laughed again.
‘He said I needed a new shirt. If I wanted to go on playing,’ Colin said.
‘And where do we conjure new shirts from?’ his father asked.
On the bus, however, he added, ‘Well, then, I suppose we might,’ and a moment later, ‘I wish he’d mentioned a shirt to me. By God, I’d have shirted Mr Platt all right. I’ve a damn good mind to write him a letter.’
‘I shouldn’t write to him,’ he said.
‘Nay, I mu’n think about it though,’ he said.
Towards the end of that month his mother went away, to hospital, and in the mornings he and Steven went to Mrs Shaw’s for breakfast. His father was working mornings and got home each day in the afternoon. He was there to put Steven to bed at night but would come into Colin’s room each morning at five, whispering, laying the alarm clock beside his bed.
‘I’ll be off now. Tha mu’n not sleep in.’
Half-woken, he would gaze up blearily at his father’s face.
‘Sithee, then, I’m off. Mrs Shaw’ll look after Steve. Don’t be late for the bus,’ he’d add.
He’d hear his father’s feet go down through the house, the back door close, the key turned in the lock then slipped back through the letter box. Scarcely would he have fallen asleep it seemed than the alarm clock went. One morning he’d slept on to be woken by Mrs Shaw banging on the door downstairs.
He was more tired now than at any time since he’d started at the school; coming home in the bus each evening, watching the fields and villages pass, the colliery heaps, the distant glimpses of ponds and lakes he felt, at the thought of his father in the house, a kind of dread: grey-faced, red-eyed, washing dishes or turning, wearily, to cook the food, it was as if he and Steven and himself had been left behind.
He’d even, one Sunday morning, gone into Mrs Shaw’s to clean her brasses; other memories of his mother flooded back. Neither he nor Steven could go and visit her; he would watch his father wheel out his bike each evening, the saddle-bag bulging with a parcel, clean clothes or fruit, sometimes a book he’d borrowed from work, and be waiting for him, two hours later when, with an exhausted eagerness and anxiety, he came cycling back.
‘Sithee, aren’t you in bed then, yet?’
He’d be fingering his homework, or reading a book by the light of the fire.
‘Tha mu’n go to bed,’ his father would add, ‘I’ve got a key,’ yet glad, beneath his anxiety, that he hadn’t gone yet.
They’d sit by the fire while his father brewed some tea.
‘She’s champion. She’s looking well,’ he’d tell him. ‘She won’t be long in theer, don’t worry.’
He’d talk to him, then, about his work, the pit, about Fernley, Roberts, Hopkirk and Marshall, new names and old names, about accidents at the face itself, a roof collapsing, a machine being stuck, about a man being caught beneath a rock.
His father had no one else to talk to now. It would be two hours or more after his bed-time frequently before Colin went to bed; his father would follow him. ‘Now you get to sleep. I’ll put out the light. I’ll set thy alarm for seven o’clock.’
It was always half-past six when the alarm clock went; at the last minute, as if loath to let him sleep in, he’d set it earlier. ‘Think on. As soon as it rings, get up. If Mrs Shaw sleeps in tha’ll be in trouble.’
He often had the feeling that his father wanted him to get up as well, to see him off to work; he would often cough in the kitchen below as he got on his clothes, or trim his lamp in the yard outside, flashing a light against the window. Later, when Colin got up, he would have to waken his brother, pull back his covers, get him dressed; he was four years old, yet, with the absence of his mother, he would often cry.
‘Mam?’ he would call, anxious, listening, as if overnight she’d come back to her room.
‘She won’t be long,’ he’d tell him.
‘Mam?’ his brother would call.
He would pull on his clothes, which Steven could do himself but always resisted now. Sometimes he would lie in bed, moaning, his head to the pillow, and he himself would sit on the edge, his energy gone, waiting. Only the clock and the thought of being late would finally drag him back to his brother and the bed.
‘Steve? She’ll have us breakfast ready.’
‘Mam? I want my Mam.’
‘Don’t you want any breakfast, then?’ he’d ask him.
‘I want me Mam. Mam? ’ he would call again.
Sometimes, still crying, he left him at Mrs Shaw’s.
‘Oh, he’ll be all right with me. I’ll have him clean my brasses. And I take him to the swings in the afternoon.’
She would sit him on her knee, her gaunt figure upright, Steven, pale-faced, leaning apprehensively against her.
‘Don’t worry. He’ll be all right. You get off to school. Don’t fret. His father’ll be home in two or three hours. “Not my Steve? Not our Steve?” he’ll say. “He’s never worried!”’
There was a coldness about the school; he felt nothing from the moment he walked between the gates to the moment he came out. Only on the bus would the nagging return, a slow tugging, as if he were being brought down inside.
His mother gave birth to a son. His father was waiting for him when he came home one day, smiling, dressed in his suit. He’d just come back from seeing her.
‘He’s a beauty, lad. As big as a tree. What do you thi
nk we mu’n call it? Your mother’s thought of Richard, then.’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Do you like it, then?’
‘Yes.’
Steven came in.
‘Now, then,’ his father said. He picked him up. ‘What dost think to a brother, then?’ He held out his arm. ‘Sithee, his leg’s no thicker than that.’ He wiggled his finger. ‘By God, but I’m feeling glad.’
His mother came home. His father and Steven had gone to fetch her. ‘Can’t I have a day off school?’ he said. ‘You could write a letter.’
‘Nay, they’d never let you off for that. She mu’n be here when thy comes back home, tha knows.’ He laughed at his dismay and rubbed his head. ‘Just think on: thy’ll have two brothers waiting for you, then, at tea.’
He’d felt the excitement then all day. While his mother had been away she’d written him letters: he’d taken them with him in his bag to school. For days he waited for some meaning to emerge, reading them again, uncertain of what the phrases meant. ‘How much I miss you.’ ‘I hope, Colin, you’re looking after Steve.’ ‘I hope your work is going well.’ ‘Don’t forget to get up on time.’ ‘All my love.’ There’d been a row of kisses at the foot of each: his mother seldom if ever kissed him in any case.
In the end he’d left the letters on the kitchen table.
‘Have you finished with these?’ his father said and when he nodded his head he dropped them in the fire.
Now, coming back on the bus from school, he sat at the front as if he expected his mother to materialize in the road ahead.
When he reached the village he ran to the house.
There was no one in.
He ran upstairs: he looked in his parents’ room, he looked in his own and then in Steve’s.
He went back down; he glanced out at the yard. He went through to the room at the front and looked in there.
The house was silent.
He went through to the kitchen, stood at the door; he gazed along the terrace. Already, with the early evening, it was growing dark. A vast cloud of steam whirled up from the colliery yard.
He went down the terrace to Mrs Shaw’s. He could hear his mother’s voice inside: he heard her laughter, then Mr Shaw’s.
His knock at first had gone unheard. He knocked again.
A moment later he heard his father call.
‘Sithee, then, there’s someone at the door.’
He heard his mother’s laughter, high, shrill, then the latch was lifted and the door pulled back.
‘It’s thy Colin, then. Come in, lad.’ Mr Shaw, still laughing, had stepped aside. ‘Come in, then, Colin, and see your brother.’
His mother was standing directly beneath the electric light in the middle of the kitchen: one side of her was lit up by the light from the fire. In her arms, wrapped in a white shawl, she was holding a baby; she’d just taken it from Mrs Shaw, who was leaning across, one finger extended, to stroke its cheek.
‘Why, Colin, love,’ she said. ‘You’ve got back quick.’
His father stood by the fire; he held a glass in his hand. Steven, eating a biscuit, was sitting at the table.
‘Why, how are you, love?’ his mother said. She leaned down, with one free hand; she pressed her lips against his cheek.
‘Look at your brother. Who do you think he looks like, then?’
She held the baby down; a red, tightly wrinkled face gazed up from inside the shawl.
He looked at the face, then shook his head.
‘Dost think he looks like me?’ his father said. His face was flushed; he leant back, glancing at Mr Shaw, and laughed. ‘Or dost think he looks like the postman, then?’
‘Nay, whatever will he think?’ Mrs Shaw had said. A bottle and several empty glasses stood by an empty plate.
‘Nay, round here,’ his father said, ‘you mu’n never tell.’ Mrs Shaw had laughed again.
‘Get on with you, Harry,’ Mrs Shaw had said. She turned to the baby and stroked its head.
‘He’s been a damn good brother has Colin,’ Mr Shaw had said. ‘He’s looked to that lad like a father would.’
‘Is there anything in for tea?’ he said.
‘Tea, sithee. And thy’s only just got home,’ Mr Shaw had said.
He laughed again.
‘Well, here’s to t’third ’un,’ his father said. He emptied the glass. ‘Another mouth to feed,’ he added.
‘Aye. Thy better be going careful, Harry.’ Mr Shaw had laughed again. ‘Thy’ll be needing a new house as well as a pram.’
‘Nay, this is t’last, as far as I’m concerned,’ his father said. ‘There mu’n be no more, then, after this.’ He smacked his lips then laughed again. ‘Sithee, it’s not every day we’ve summat to celebrate,’ he added.
‘Thy mu’n find summat afore long, though, Harry,’ Mr Shaw had said.
They laughed again.
‘There’s two lads ready for food if I’m not mistaken,’ Mrs Shaw had said. ‘And one of em’s not just come home for the first time either.’ She stroked the baby’s face again. ‘Nay, but he’s like you, Ellen,’ she added.
‘Let’s hope, though, he grows up to look like me,’ his father said.
Colin went to the door.
‘Mind the blackout,’ Mr Shaw had said.
The light went out: his mother came to the door, stooping, the baby in her arms, looking for the step.
‘Two down, then, love,’ Mrs Shaw had said.
They crossed the yard; he could hear his father, still standing in the kitchen.
‘Nay, I can’t leave here wi’ one or two drops still left,’ he said.
Mr Shaw had laughed.
Steven’s voice had called. His father’s voice echoed from the yard.
‘Put the light on, love,’ his mother said. ‘Never mind the door,’ she added.
She came in, the baby held upright, its head against her arm.
‘There, now. There, then, love,’ she said.
She laid it on a chair.
‘Can you get me a nappy?’ she said, her back towards him now. ‘You’ll find it in the cupboard.’
He opened the cupboard door beside the fire. He took out the nappy.
The baby, behind him, had begun to cry.
‘He’s just had his feed. So he can’t be hungry yet,’ she said.
Its legs were thrust out in tiny spasms. Its hands, fisted, waved to and fro before its face.
‘Well, then. I’ll just take him up for a bit,’ she said.
She went to the stairs; he could hear her a moment later in the bedroom at the front.
The kitchen door had opened. His father came in.
‘Sithee, has she taken him up? Has she taken him up to bed for cheers?’ he said.
He took off his jacket. His face was flushed, his collar undone.
‘There, then. Did’st see thy brother, then?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘What did I tell you, lad? She’s come home in the end.’
His father went to the fire, swaying, then loosened his tie.
‘By go, old Shaw had a bottle, then.’ He belched, slowly, then held his chest. ‘I mu’n get off to bed. I haven’t had a sleep, tha knows, today. I mu’n be off again at five. Thy’ll know that, then, o’ course,’ he added. ‘Thy’s been here long enough, then, an’t ’a?’
He sat down in a chair; his eyes were closed. Steven came in; he held another biscuit.
‘Is my mother here?’ he said.
His mother came down. Like his father, her face too was flushed.
‘He might sleep for an hour,’ she said. ‘Though all that noise, I think, has wakened him for good.’
She looked over to the table.
‘What are you doing, then, love?’ she said.
‘My homework,’ he said. He bent to the book.
‘Nay, can’t you give it a miss for once?’ she said.
‘No,’ he said. He shook his head.
‘He’s worked like a Trojan, has
Colin,’ his father said. ‘He’s looked after this house as good as a woman. He’s had it cleaned a time or two, floors polished, pots washed. And lit that fire for when I come back in,’ he added.
His head sank over, slowly; a few moments later he began to snore.
‘See, then: your father’s drunk too much,’ his mother said. ‘He always lets it go to his head,’ she added.
‘I’ll go in the other room to work,’ he said.
He picked up the book.
‘Will you, love? That’s good of you. I wouldn’t want to disturb him,’ his mother said. ‘And I’ll get your tea ready for you’, she called after him, ‘in a couple of minutes.’
He went in the other room and drew the curtains. The room was cold. A fire hadn’t been lit in the room for several weeks.
He put on the light and began to read; through the wall, intermittently, came his mother’s voice and then, more rhythmically, his father’s snores.
13
‘How far can you bend it?’ Batty said.
He was holding the branch against his chest. In his other hand he held the gun.
‘Pull it right back, then fasten it with the string.’
Colin fastened off the branch, then cut the remnant of string with Batty’s knife.
From farther back, near the hut, came Steven’s shout.
‘Thy wants to leave him at home, thy young ’un,’ Batty said. ‘He mu’n give it away, where we have the hut.’
Batty had grown much taller in recent months; his figure had narrowed, the legs drawn out, the thin, red-thatched head set on top of a limb-like neck. He was taller now than any of his brothers; even his father looked up to him whenever they spoke, and his mother’s head came scarcely to his chest.
Now, having set the branch, they went back to the hut: it was Stringer, he discovered, who was playing with Steven. He was riding him up and down, upright, on his back. Steven clutched at the twigs as they passed above his head, startled, wide-eyed, uncertain of Stringer’s mood. Frequently, even when Colin was there, they would set his brother to some ill-considered task, urging him to climb a dangerous tree, to mend the fragile roof, to walk along a sunken path with brackish pools on either side, to wade into a part of the swamp where they hadn’t been before, Steven sinking to his knees before they hauled him out. There was an imperturbability about his brother which nothing disturbed.