by David Storey
‘Yes, sir,’ Stephens said. He bowed his head.
‘The principle of learning, Saville, isn’t that one should learn on behalf of someone else, but that one should do such learning as is required, in this establishment at least, on a wholly personal basis. How is one to learn anything if there is someone sitting behind you who is content to do it for you?’ He opened the book. ‘I see you have a good record here. Geography, from Mr Hepworth. That’s hardly a creditable first term’s work.’ He wrote in red in the opposite column, the gesture exaggerated slightly to demonstrate his displeasure to the class. He blotted the book and then, not glancing at him but holding it out sideways and gazing absorbedly at Stephens, added, ‘And what conclusion have you come to, Stephens?’
Only after a moment was Hodges aware of the book still in his hand.
Stephens gave his answer, repeated it louder at Hodges’s insistence, then the master said, ‘You may have your book back now, Saville.’
‘Thank you sir,’ he said.
‘Saville: would you come back here, boy,’ Hodges said.
Colin turned in the aisle, saw the redness rising, slowly, round Hodges’s eyes, and went back to the desk.
‘I’ve noticed my blandishments, Saville, carry very little weight. I detect an insolence in your manner which, the more I attempt to accommodate it, grows, it seems to me, from day to day. I shall ask the headmaster to speak to you. For one day at least I’ve had enough of your face. You’ll put your work away and go and stand outside the door.’
He replaced his books inside his desk, closed the lid and, without glancing at the others, crossed to the classroom door, opened it and stepped outside. The corridor was empty. He closed the door behind him.
He leant against the wall. An older boy went past. He glanced back at him down the length of the corridor, then, still gazing back, went on up the stairs at the opposite end.
The drone of a master’s voice came from the classroom opposite. He could hear Hodges’s voice coming quietly from the room behind, the occasional voice of a boy answering a question, the scraping of a chair, a desk. Other voices drifted down from adjacent rooms. He could hear the roar of a lorry passing in the road outside.
The door to the office opened; the secretary came out: her face reddened, almost cheerful, she started down the corridor past him. She carried several papers beneath her arm.
‘Have you been sent out?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Is that Mr Hodges’s class?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
She nodded, adjusted the papers beneath her arm, and went on down the corridor to the masters’ common-room at the opposite end.
She re-appeared a few moments later, walking past without a gesture, her shoes echoing on the stone-flagged floor.
She went back inside her room and closed the door.
The school was silent. He could hear, from the farthest distance, the sound of a master’s voice raised in anger, the calling of a name.
Laughter came from the room behind, then the sharp, hissing call of, ‘Sir, sir!’ as Hodges waited for an answer.
Some further laughter came a moment later.
The door opened; a boy came out, glanced across, then went on down the corridor and out of the school door.
He came back a few moments later and went back in.
Colin waited. He tapped his feet slowly against the stone-flagged floor; he pushed himself gently against the wall.
The sound of footsteps descending came from the stairs at the nearest end.
A tall, gowned figure appeared in the corridor, silhouetted for a moment against the light. A face came into view, thickboned, large-featured; the hair above was short and dark: it stood on end and projected forwards over a massive brow. A heavy, broad-knuckled hand gripped several books.
Colin moved back to the door and stood beside it, his hands behind his back.
‘What are you doing here?’ the master said. He smelled of tobacco; his teeth were large and irregularly set inside his mouth.
‘I’ve been sent out. For insolence,’ he said.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Saville.’
‘What class is it?’
‘Arithmetic,’ he said.
‘That’s Mr Hodges’s, I suppose,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
The man had paused.
‘And what insolence is it, Saville?’
‘For telling someone else an answer.’
The master gazed down at him for a while, then shook his head.
‘We don’t care for insolence here,’ he said. ‘It gets you nowhere, and if you’re missing a class you’re missing out on work as well.’
‘Yes.’
The man had frowned.
‘Stand up from that wall,’ he said.
He stepped past him quickly and opened the door.
Hodges, caught in the midst of some appeal, had paused.
‘There’s a boy out here who says he’s been sent out for insolence,’ he said. There was silence in the room beyond.
‘That’s perfectly correct, Mr Gannen,’ Hodges said, his voice instructional, as if he were speaking on behalf of everyone in the room as well.
‘I’d like to add to that, Mr Hodges, loutish behaviour,’ the master said. ‘I find him standing here as if he’d been sent out specifically to prop up the building.’ He turned to Colin. ‘Shoulders back, chin in, hands behind your back,’ he called.
‘I expect one or two people are going to see him standing there, Mr Gannen,’ Hodges said. ‘I’m glad you’ve brought an additonal impertinence to my notice.’
‘I’ll be passing along again in one or two seconds,’ the master said. ‘I’ll keep my eye on him and anyone else, for that matter, who thinks it’s for wholly recreational purposes that he’s sent outside.’
He closed the door.
A murmur came from the room behind.
‘One foot from the wall,’ the master said.
He adjusted the books beneath his arm and, without glancing back, went down to the common-room at the opposite end. The door was closed.
The room behind fell silent; faintly came the drone of Hodges’s voice.
The door to the office suddenly opened.
The headmaster came out, glanced down the corridor, then went out of the door at the nearest end.
The door slammed shut.
Another boy went past.
A desk lid was banged in the room behind.
His shoulders ached.
A boy came out of the classroom opposite the office, went into the office, then came out with a bell.
He came along the corridor to ring it.
There was a shuffling of feet in the room behind. A door down the corridor suddenly opened: figures hurried out.
Hodges appeared at the door behind.
His head erect, he appeared on the point of walking past him.
‘I’ve decided, Saville, to postpone any reference of your behaviour to Mr Walker. Since Mr Gannen is now acquainted with it, and since Mr Gannen, as you are probably aware, is the deputy-head, I shall leave the situation for the present precisely where it is; namely, that I and Mr Gannen have taken note of your insolent behaviour and any further expression of it will leave me with no alternative but to carry out my original intent. Have you understood that, Saville?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘You have my permission to go to your desk and collect your books for what I hope will be a singularly amicable lesson.’
‘Yes,’ he said.
Hodges swung away; his figure was caught up in those surging from the classrooms on either side.
He went back in the classroom and opened his desk.
‘What did he say to you?’ Stephens said.
‘Nothing, really,’ Colin said.
*
‘See here. Your school’s been broken into,’ his father said.
He folded the paper up and ran his finger acro
ss the lines.
‘Two hundred and forty pounds’ worth of stuff’s been stolen.’
He read the paper intently for a while.
‘They got in at the side through a broken window. They think it’s somebody local, then.’
‘They’ll break into anything, these days,’ his mother said. ‘No counting how much good they’re doing. Hospitals, churches: you see it all the time.’
‘There’s not many banks get broken into,’ his father said.
‘No. Don’t worry. They take trouble there.’
‘Can I go out now?’ Colin said.
‘Sithee, hast done all thy errands?’ his father said.
‘I think he has,’ his mother said.
‘What about his homework, then?’
‘I can do that tomorrow afternoon,’ he said.
‘Thy’s Sunday School tomorrow,’ his father said.
‘Nay, let him go,’ his mother said.
She was worn and faded; since the birth of Richard there’d been a greyness in her face. When they went out to the shops she would say, ‘You’ll have to take the basket, Colin. I can’t bear lifting anything now.’ On washdays she would wait for him to come home from school and they’d spend an evening together in the kitchen, he lifting the water to the metal tub, plying the peggy stick up and down, sliding the tub to the grate outside. Other times, white-faced, she’d be sitting at the fire, the clothes half-washed, or standing at the sink, round-shouldered, the water cold, trying to wash the clothes by hand.
‘Are you sure there’s nothing he can do?’ his father said.
‘Nay, he’s done enough for now,’ she said.
Colin went out to the backs; Steven, with one or two other children, was playing in the field.
‘Now don’t be late for your dinner,’ his mother said.
He went to the Dell. Smoke from the colliery hung close to the village.
It was beginning to rain. A stream of thick brown water ran along the beck; a cloud of black smoke drifted from the gasworks chimney. The metal container, full, loomed up mistily beyond the hedge.
The shed was locked. He loosened a panel and climbed inside; he lit a candle. Two black objects slid out beneath the door.
The stove was hot; he put on wood: flames licked up around the metal pipe.
There was a steady drumming, like fingers tapping, on the metal roof.
Then, from the direction of the sewage pens, came a low-pitched scream.
He picked up a stick.
A second scream sounded from the pens and then, moments later, he heard the sound of movements in the mud outside.
A key was turned in a lock, a chain removed; a metal bar was raised and the door pushed back.
Batty stood there, a box in his arms, gazing in.
‘I’ve never locked you in, then, have I, Col?’
‘I got in under the wall,’ he said.
‘What wall?’
Batty looked round him at the hut.
‘Nay, thy’s never, then.’ He put down the box. ‘Dost make a habit of breaking in?’
‘I’ll mend it for you, if you like,’ he said.
‘Nay, tha’ll never.’
Batty bent to the wood. He replaced the panel.
‘Thy mu’n stay if thy wants to, I suppose,’ he said.
Colin sat by the fire.
‘Tha mu’n stay and have some dinner.’
‘What dinner?’ Colin said.
‘I’ve got some grub.’ He gestured at the box.
‘I’ll have to get home for it,’ he said.
‘I’ve got some other stuff, an’ all.’ He gestured at the box again.
‘What sort of stuff?’
Batty opened the box. He took out a piece of newspaper, unwrapped it and showed him a piece of meat.
‘I wa’ going to save it, tha knows. Until to-neet. Stringer’s coming, and one or two more.’
He took out a bottle.
‘Gin,’ Batty said. ‘One drop o’ this and tha’s out like a leet.’
‘I’ll try and get down tonight,’ he said.
‘Tha can have a sup now, tha knows, if you like.’
He began to unscrew the bottle.
‘I’d better be getting back,’ he said.
He went to the door. Batty, the bottle in his hand, had followed him out.
‘Sithee, then: here’s to it,’ Batty said.
He raised the bottle, drank briefly, and began to cough.
‘I’ll see you later,’ Colin said.
‘Tha’s not running off just ’cos I’ve come in, then?’ Batty said.
‘No,’ he said.
He set off through the drizzle; a steady pattering came from the swamp. Smoke from the hut’s fire hung in thin wreaths around the bushes. His feet were wet by the time he reached the road.
‘You’re back early. Dinner’s not for another hour,’ his mother said.
‘I thought I’d come back’, he said, ‘to help.’
‘Help. Two mysteries in one morning,’ his mother said.
‘Move up! Move up, boy,’ Gannen said.
Colin closed his eyes; he judged the curve of the track and ran more quickly. When he opened his eyes he found he was last: the remaining runners were strung out in a line ahead. Following Stafford’s example in the previous race he ran quickly enough at the finish to get fifth place. ‘Bad luck, Saville,’ Macready said. A tall, thin man with a gingerish moustache, he stood by the finish writing names. ‘If you’d come up sooner you’d have got a place. First four go through, you know, to Saturday’s final.’
He walked away; he could see Gannen making towards him across the field.
‘Saville.’ He waved his arm.
Colin turned towards him, making some display of the effort he’d made.
‘You’re a slacker, Saville. You could have come in easily second or third.’
‘I ran as fast as I could,’ he said.
‘You ran as fast as you wanted. You’re a slacker. You’ll come to no good. What other events are you entered in?’
‘The long-jump, sir,’ he said.
‘I’ll come and watch you in the long-jump, Saville. Do you understand that, boy?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Aren’t you in the relay, too?’
‘No.’ He shook his head.
‘You’ve got out of that as well, then, have you?’ He took out a book and wrote inside. ‘I’ve put you back in the relay, and if you don’t run as fast as you can you’ll feel the weight of my foot behind you. Do you understand that, Saville?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Two-thirty, Saturday.’
Colin walked over to the pavilion. Stafford, his canvas bag beneath his arm, was coming out.
‘What did Gannen want?’ he said.
‘He thought I didn’t run fast enough,’ he said.
‘What you’ve got to do is run as fast as you can,’ Stafford said, ‘but with a shorter stride. It’s surprising how slow it makes you go.’
He took out a comb and smoothed his hair.
‘Are you running in anything on Saturday?’ Colin said.
‘Nothing,’ Stafford said. ‘I’ve got out of it all.’
Calling to some boys he ran off, alertly, towards the ginnel.
Colin watched him go, then turned into the pavilion to find his clothes.
‘That’s more like it, Saville.’
Colin went back to where he’d left his blazer and put it on.
‘You’ve jumped well there, Colin,’ his father said.
The remaining jumpers ran off in turn.
‘Which is your mark?’ his father added, straining between the figures in front to look at the wooden pegs driven in at the edge of the pit.
The masters stooped down; the crowd had drifted off.
‘We mu’n stay and see where you’ve come in,’ his father said.
Gannen had turned.
A boy came past.
‘You’ve come in third, Wa
lters. And you’ve come in second, Saville,’ Gannen said.
‘Second,’ his father said and, almost involuntarily, shook his hand. ‘What else are you racing in?’ he added.
‘The relay,’ he said for a second time, for he’d already explained the events at home.
‘Sithee, then: you mu’n run well in that.’
He went back with his father across the field.
They sat on a bank beneath a hedge. Other events had already begun. Immediately beneath them was the finishing line. Across the centre of the field lay a sprinting track, and to their right, by the pavilion, a high-jump pit.
A master with a loudspeaker announced each event.
‘You mu’n tell me who everybody is,’ his father said.
Colin pointed out Gannen, who, a pencil in his hand and a sheaf of papers, was still standing by the jumping pit; he pointed out Platt, whom his father already knew, and then Hodges in his clerical collar, holding the tape on the running track with Macready.
‘I suppose I know him, an’ all,’ his father said.
Boys in white vests jogged slowly to and fro. Odd groups at irregular intervals, set off around the track. Whistles blew, on a blackboard in the centre of the field numbers were chalked up and rubbed off again.
When the relay was announced he went down to the track. He ran from one corner of the field to the one adjacent to the finish. His team came second.
He went to the pavilion and got changed quickly; when he came out a little later his father was waiting at the gate. They walked together along the ginnel.
‘Where’s that other lad today?’ his father said. ‘The one that doesn’t like trying ought.’
‘He was eliminated earlier on,’ he said.
‘Aye. I mu’n expect he was,’ his father said. ‘As bright as a new pin and twice as sharp.’
When they reached the stop they stood in a queue of shoppers; boys from the school with their parents drifted past.
‘It’s a good school, all right,’ his father said.
‘Why’s that?’
‘You can tell by the way they dress.’ He paused. ‘And the way they organize things,’ he added.
Colin waited.