Saville

by David Storey

  ‘Here, Stringer,’ Batty called. ‘We’ve set another.’

  ‘Tha mu’n catch us coming through if tha sets any more, then, Lolly,’ Stringer said.

  He lifted Steven from his shoulders and set him down; blue-eyed, his face flushed, Steven ran off inside the hut.

  ‘What mu’n thy do theer, then, Tongey?’ Batty said.

  ‘Do wheer, then, Lolly?’ Stringer said.

  ‘At Tongey’s school, then,’ Batty said.

  Stringer took his gun which Batty had borrowed.

  ‘We mu’n go theer one day. We mu’n wave to him’, Stringer said, ‘between the bars.’

  Stringer laughed. He sighted the gun. He sat down on an upturned box beside the wooden door.

  From inside the hut came the sound of Steven poking the fire.

  ‘Dost sit in a room, then,’ Batty said, ‘or dost thy have to move around?’

  ‘For some lessons we move. Though most of them’, Colin said, ‘we stay where we are.’

  ‘Which ones do you move for?’ Batty said.

  He examined Colin for a moment with narrowed eyes.

  ‘Chemistry,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a big place, then.’

  ‘I suppose it is.’

  ‘I suppose they have cleaners in, an’ all, at night.’

  ‘They come as we’re leaving,’ Colin said.

  ‘I bet they have some cleaning up.’

  ‘I suppose they have,’ he said. ‘Though we put the chairs up’, he added, ‘before we leave.’

  ‘Up wheer?’

  ‘On top of the desks.’

  Batty looked up from the corner of his eye.

  ‘Wheer dost t’headmaster keep all his books and equipment, then?’

  ‘In the stock-room,’ he said.

  ‘Wheer’s that, then?’

  ‘Next to the secretary’s office.’

  ‘I suppose thy’s been in a time or two. Getting new books, tha knows, and things.’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  Batty looked away, then said, ‘If thy has two afternoons up on yon playing field laking footer I suppose there’s nobody left,’ and added, ‘In the school, I mean.’

  ‘There might be one or two.’

  ‘Oh, aye?’

  ‘Thy knows what Lolly’s after, dost ’a?’ Stringer said.

  ‘Tha mu’n shut thy mouth afore I put summat in it,’ Batty said.

  He turned to the hut.

  ‘What’s thy young ’un cooking, then?’

  They went inside.

  ‘Thy knows what Batty Industries are, then, do you?’ Stringer said.

  Batty took the pan from Steven and looked inside.

  ‘Biggest industrial combine in Saxton,’ Stringer said.

  ‘And thy’ll have t’biggest thick ear in Saxton if thy doesn’t shut it up, then,’ Batty said.

  ‘Bloody field-marshal, tha knows, is Loll.’

  Batty stirred the pan; he’d taken out his knife, unfolding the blade.

  ‘Their two kids are up in court this week.’

  ‘I’ve telled thee,’ Batty said. He waved the knife.

  Steven, laughing, put up his hand.

  ‘Work afternoons down t’pit and half the neet, then, somewhere else.’

  Batty leapt across; Stringer, already, had sprung aside.

  Steven, still laughing, ran over to the door; Stringer was running off across the swamp.

  ‘I mu’n cop him one day,’ Batty said. He cleaned the blade of the knife against his sleeve. ‘And when I do he mu’n get the feel of this.’

  He went back to the pan.

  ‘I better be getting Steven home,’ he said.

  ‘Aren’t you having some of this, then?’ Batty said.

  ‘I better be getting him back,’ he said.

  ‘Can’t I have some, Colin?’ Steven said.

  There were beans in the pan, and bits of bread.

  ‘It’s past your bed-time now,’ he said.

  ‘Thy have some afore thy leaves, then,’ Batty said.

  He set the pan down.

  ‘Sithee, thy can have first taste.’

  He held out the beans on the tip of the knife.

  ‘Theer, then, young ’un. Dost fancy that?’

  It was over an hour later before they reached the road. His father was coming down the slope from the village, pushing his bike, looking over the hedge towards the pens.

  ‘There you are. I’ve been looking for you, you know, for hours.’ He mounted the bike. ‘I’m going to be late for work,’ he added. ‘Go on. Get off. You mu’n tell your mother where a f’und you.’

  He watched his father cycle off; to walk more quickly he set Steven on his back. He was still carrying him when they reached the house.

  ‘What do you call this?’ his mother said. ‘Your father’s out looking for you. He’ll be late for work.’

  ‘We saw him. Down by the sewage pens,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve not been playing there?’ she said.

  She’d been stooping to the fire where she’d been baking bread: the loaves, rising, were standing in the hearth.

  ‘You’ve never had Steven there?’ she said.

  Before he could answer she had struck his head.

  ‘Get those clothes off before you come in here. Just look at them,’ she said.

  She took Steven to the sink in the corner and washed his legs; she washed his hands and arms, and then his face.

  Upstairs, a moment later, the baby cried.

  ‘Just look at his neck: he must have been soaking in the stuff,’ she said. ‘Just smell his clothes.’ She held them to his face. ‘And yours.’

  He went to bed; he lay listening to his mother as she took Richard from his cot. He and Steven now slept together; already, despite his crying, his younger brother had fallen asleep.

  He turned in the bed; he held his hand against his cheek: the skin still throbbed. With the smell of sewage around him he fell asleep.

  ‘Back up. Back up, School,’ Platt had said.

  He stood on the touch-line, his collar up, a scarf wound round his neck, his hands thrust down, heavily, into his overcoat pockets.

  ‘Back up, School! Feet! Feet!’

  Snow lay in odd patches round the edges of the pitch.

  Colin took the ball; he ran against a line of figures: his arm swung out.

  The whistle blew. He went on running: his collar was caught and then his arm; his legs were swept away. He fell down; snow was crushed up against his cheek.

  The whistle blew again.

  ‘Free kick against King Edward’s,’ the referee had said.

  He pointed Colin out.

  ‘If you use your fist again I’m afraid I’ll have to send you off,’ he said.

  Platt, red-faced, was standing still.

  The players fell back. The kick was taken.

  ‘Just watch how you play, Saville,’ Harrison said. His face, too, was turning red.

  He could scarcely feel his fingers; the cold had numbed his feet. He ran for the ball, felt it bounce away and got down, stooping, ready for the scrum.

  Stafford took the ball; he kicked: it soared down the field and floated into touch.

  ‘Well kicked, Stafford,’ Platt had called.

  Stafford did a great deal of kicking now. It was more positive than passing and had none of the disadvantages of trying to run: his clothes at the end of a match were almost as clean as when he began. He folded back his hair and with a slight raising of his shoulders jogged after the ball.

  At the edge of the field stood a stone pavilion: white-painted windows echoed the whiteness of the snow that had collected in odd ridges around the eaves and ornamental chimneys.

  Beyond, in the faint haze, lay a line of wooded hills; snow-covered fields ran up to silhouetted copses. The sky overhead was clear; a frost had fallen.

  ‘Harder, Edward’s! Harder!’ Platt had called.

  Before the match, arriving early in a coach, they’d been shown a
round the school: dormitories with rows of beds; studies, with casement windows, shelves of books and fires; a library, a gymnasium with a gleaming, spotless floor; a tennis court indoors; a science room from whose tall windows they’d gazed out, briefly, to the distant line of hills and woods.

  Trees overlooked the school; they screened the pitch so that as the sun descended vague shadows, like ribs, spread out across the grass.

  Steam rose from the scrum, the boys’ breath rose in clouds as they waited for the ball then ran, slow-limbed, as Stafford casually kicked it into touch. There was an air of desolation about the place: Platt’s voice echoed now and the referee’s whistle or the calling of the boys lingered on, faintly, beneath the trees.

  ‘On, School! On, School!’ Platt had said.

  They ran to and fro.

  The field darkened.

  ‘Just look at my fingers. I think they’re swelling,’ Hopkins said. ‘They’ll hardly move.’

  A large boy, with broad features, he was the one Colin got down with in the scrum. Though smaller than Harrison, he had much the same build, lumbering, almost careless. His knees were reddened with cold. His teeth chattered as they leant down. He gave a whimper: blood ran down from his cheek and round his mouth.

  ‘Do you want to go off, then?’ Colin said.

  ‘They won’t let you,’ Hopkins said. ‘In any case,’ he added, darkening, ‘we’ve got to win.’

  Colin ran aimlessly towards the ball; he ran so slowly that the ball, continuously, moved away. There was a pointlessness to sport which he’d never sensed before: a plodding after things which, even if they should occur, were over in a second.

  ‘Feet, School! Feet, School!’ Platt had said.

  Rooks rose slowly from the trees; wheeling, they climbed then, as the game ended, descended once again.

  ‘Three cheers for Edward’s. Hip, hip.’

  ‘Hooray.’

  ‘Hip, hip.’

  ‘Hooray.’

  ‘Hip, hip.’

  ‘Three cheers for St Benedict’s,’ Harrison said.

  The sound faded as they crossed the field.

  ‘I shan’t consider you for the next match, Saville.’

  Platt, his hands still in his pockets, walked beside him; but for the fact that he’d heard the voice he would have doubted that he’d even spoken.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Foul play is something I particularly take objection to. It lets down the individual, but more important, it lets down the school.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’ll be a long time before I forget today.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He waited; already the other players had gone ahead.

  Platt, as if nothing had occurred, had turned aside. He called out cheerily to the referee.

  Colin took off his boots; his feet were sore. He walked on slowly to where the steam already rose from the pavilion doors.

  He sat alone on the bus on the journey back.

  Stafford sat at the back with Harrison and Hopkins, singing; most of the players had gathered round, gazing backwards, kneeling on the seats.

  Platt sat at the front beside the driver; occasionally he glanced round and smiled.

  The sun had set. The bus ran on in virtual darkness. Colin caught a brief glimpse of trees outside, of hills silhouetted against a lightless sky. In the window opposite he saw his face, the bulk of the seat behind, the pallid shape, the dark shadow beneath his eyes, his hair, uncombed, still wet from the showers.

  ‘Not singing?’ Stafford said. He slumped down beside him in the seat.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come and sit at the back.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘I’m not keen on sitting there, either. I suppose you have to on a thing like this.’

  ‘A good game today, Stafford,’ Platt said, calling from the scat in front.

  ‘I think it went our way, sir,’ Stafford said.

  Platt had smiled, nodded; he turned his head.

  ‘I better get back, then,’ Stafford said.

  ‘Okay,’ he said.

  The figure beside him rose, pulling on the seat in front, then turning to the aisle.

  ‘See you.’

  ‘See you,’ Colin said.

  The singing continued; it had scarcely faded when they reached the town.

  His parents were in bed when he got back home.

  ‘Wherever have you been till this time?’ his mother said.

  ‘Playing,’ he said. ‘It was farther than I thought.’

  ‘I’ve been down to the bus stop twice.’

  ‘We went on a coach.’

  ‘If you went in a coach couldn’t you get back before this time, then?’

  He turned to the stairs.

  ‘And don’t wake Richard when you get undressed.’

  Moments later, however, after he’d reached his room, he heard the familiar wail from beyond the wall.

  ‘God Almighty, isn’t there any peace for anyone?’ his father said, calling, from the darkness of their room.

  ‘In decimals everything is measured in tenths, whereas in this country we have the privilege of measuring everything in twelfths, boy,’ Hodges said.

  He leant his arm against the desk.

  ‘What instances are there of the use of tenths in the monetary system, Saville?’ he added.

  ‘A ten shilling note.’ He shook his head.

  ‘Do I hear a suffix to that remark?’ he said.

  ‘Sir,’ he said.

  ‘A ten shilling note, then. Anything else?’

  ‘A ten pound note.’

  ‘A ten pound note.’

  ‘Twenty shillings in the pound,’ he said.

  ‘Walker: have you any examples you’re eager to give?’

  Small, light-haired, with a bright red nose, Walker, after a moment’s hesitation, had shaken his head.

  ‘No further examples forthcoming, then?’

  Walker, once again, had shaken his head.

  ‘What about the use of twelfths, then, Walker?’ Hodges said.

  ‘Twelve pennies in a shilling sir,’ he said.

  ‘Twelve pennies in a shilling. Brilliant. Anything else?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Walker said.

  ‘What about half-pennies, Walker?’ Hodges said.

  ‘Twenty-four half-pennies in the shilling, sir,’ Walker said.

  ‘Brilliant, Walker. Anything else?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Are you quite sure, Walker?’ Hodges said.

  ‘Forty-eight farthings in a shilling, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Walker, I can see, is coming out, very slowly, from his habitual coma,’ Hodges said. ‘What are you doing, Walker?’

  ‘I’m coming out from my habitual coma,’ Walker said.

  ‘And what word do we use to distinguish our system from the so-called metric system, Saville?’

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

  ‘Did I not hear the suffix once again?’ he said.

  ‘Sir,’ he said.

  ‘Saville doesn’t know. Does anyone else? Walker, I suppose, this is far above your head?’

  ‘What sir?’ Walker said.

  ‘What do we call the system that uses twelfths instead of tenths?’ he said.

  ‘The Imperial system,’ someone said.

  ‘Why Imperial, Walker?’ Hodges said.

  ‘Has it something to do with the king, sir?’ Walker said.

  ‘It might. Indeed, it might very easily, Walker,’ Hodges said.

  He looked around.

  ‘It comes, need I mention it to a class steeped already in the subject, from the Latin what?’

  He paused.

  ‘From imperialis. From imperialis. Meaning?’

  ‘To do with kings, sir,’ someone said.

  ‘Not to do with kings precisely. To do with authority, Stephens. Command.’

  He took off his glass and wiped them on his gown.

  ‘Imperium: command, dominio
n. In other words, a system that, in this instance, has to do with empire.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’Walker said.

  ‘Certain unfortunate nations may use the decimal system because they have nothing better to fall back on, Stephens.’

  Stephens had nodded his head.

  ‘Whereas we, in this country, and in those lands that constitute our empire, and our dominions, Stephens, use a measure which, for better or worse, is peculiar to ourselves. Peculiar, that is, to an imperial nation. Imperialis, imperium. To a nation which is used to authority, to dominion, Stephens. How many pennies in a pound?’

  Stephens paused; he raised his hand. Then, finally, he lowered it and shook his head.

  He was a pale, thin-featured boy; he sat immediately in front of Colin. His hair was thin and long, hanging in greasy strands across his narrow head. His back was bowed by some malformation. His legs were swollen round the knees as if in some peculiar way the upper and the lower parts had been bracketed together by artificial means.

  ‘Two hundred and forty.’ Colin whispered behind his hand to the back of Stephens’s head.

  ‘What was that, Saville?’ Hodges said.

  Stephens’s head had begun to tremble.

  ‘Were you telling him the answer, Saville?’ Hodges said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Will you stand up, Saville?’

  The class had turned.

  ‘Your name is Saville, I take it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘I haven’t been deceived into assuming it was Saville, with or without a double l, when all the time it was really Stephens?’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘How many pennies in a pound, then, Stephens?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ Stephens said and shook his head.

  ‘You don’t know, boy? For God’s sake, how did you get into this school? A five-year-old child could tell me that.’

  Stephens bowed his head; he began to cry.

  ‘Don’t blub, Stephens,’ Hodges said. ‘I’m asking you a reasonable question. There’s not one person in this class who couldn’t answer it.’

  Several hands went up.

  ‘Saville: can I have your record book?’ he said.

  He got out the book from his inside pocket, saw that Hodges expected him to walk down to his desk, and stepped out in the aisle.

  ‘In your own time, Saville, of course. I can hardly expect your efforts to be directed to the convenience of someone else.’ He glanced at Stephens. ‘While I’m inscribing Saville’s record for impertinence it will give you, Stephens, several vital seconds in which to work out a suitable answer. And by suitable I mean of course, since our subject, I believe, is mathematics, a correct one. Have you understood that, Stephens?’