Saville (27 page)

‘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.

‘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.

‘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 around 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.