Saville (36 page)

‘How about some jam?’ he said.

‘I’d love some jam, Mr Saville,’ Stafford said.

When the fruit was finished, and the bread had been
consumed, the plates were removed and a plate of jam tarts and a sandwich roll were placed on the table.

‘By go, where’ve we been saving this, then?’ his father said.

‘Now don’t go embarrassing us, Father,’ his mother said. ‘Neville’ll think we don’t always have this,’ she added.

‘We don’t!’ his father said, and laughed, crumbs spraying from his mouth. ‘By go,’ he said, stooping to the table. ‘Thy mu’n come every week at this rate, Nev.’

The plates were handed round; his mother, red-faced, stooped to the table, short-sightedly, and cut the roll into even slices.

Stafford ate a piece; he ate a tart.

‘Have one more,’ his mother had said, offering him the plate. There was one tart for each person, and one piece of roll.

‘I’ll never get home if I have any more, Mrs Saville,’ Stafford said. ‘That’s the best tea I’ve had, you know, for a very long time. We don’t often have it, you see, at home.’

‘Not have tea?’ his mother said as if she suspected some deprivation now in Stafford’s background.

‘We usually have dinner, you see, at about seven o’clock. And if I have a big tea I don’t have the appetite at seven,’ Stafford said.

‘Oh. Dinner. I see,’ his mother said. She looked away. ‘Won’t you get into trouble, then? Eating all this at this time, then?’

‘Oh, we have dinner later on Sundays,’ Stafford said. ‘We usually have visitors in the evening and nobody likes to eat until after eight.’

‘Oh, you should be all right, then,’ his mother said, distantly, as if this absolved her of all blame for Stafford’s condition.

‘Well, if nobody wants it, I’ll have the extra tart,’ his father said.

‘Well, it was my tart, actually,’ his mother said.

‘Oh, I didn’t know that, my dear,’ his father said.

‘I didn’t mind, if Neville would have liked another,’ his mother said.

‘No, no, you go ahead, love,’ his father said. ‘It’s yours by right.’ He looked fiercely at Steven, who had shown signs of laying claims on it himself.

His mother ate it in silence. The baby, fastened to a chair by a
scarf, having spent most of the meal consuming a biscuit, began to moan quietly, making signs that it wanted a drink.

Colin leaned across and held the handleless cup it drank from against its lips; it bit against the edge, swallowing, its arms waving to and fro on either side.

‘Well, that was a meal to be proud of,’ his father said, sighing now and finishing his tea. ‘I don’t care who they are, or where they come from, they couldn’t have a better tea than that, tha knows.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ his mother said. ‘If it wasn’t for rationing it might be better.’

‘Rationing or no rationing,’ his father said. ‘You couldn’t make much improvement, I’m telling you.’ He got out a cigarette and struck a match.

‘You don’t mind if Mr Saville smokes?’ his mother said.

‘No. No. That’ll all right, Mrs Saville,’ Stafford said. His father, hastily, had blown out his match.

‘You can get up from the table if you like,’ his mother said.

‘Aye, we mu’n give you a hand with the washing-up, Mother,’ his father said.

‘Nay, I’d much prefer to do it on my own,’ she said, and added, ‘You could take Neville into the front room, Colin, if you like.’

‘Aye. I’ve lit a fire in theer,’ his father said.

Colin glanced at Stafford; having got up from the table he seemed uncertain where to turn; he’d grasped his chair as if to remove it from the table but, after glancing round, could see no other place to set it.

‘We’ll clear up in here,’ his father added. ‘It’s not the visitor’s job, tha knows, isn’t that.’

They went through to the other room. Despite the fire the air was cold. There was a smell of dampness in the room. Stafford glanced out to the street at the front.

‘I suppose, really,’ he said, ‘I ought to go. It’ll take me an hour to cycle back.’

He held the curtain, stooping to the glass, then, releasing the curtain, glanced round quickly at the room itself. Because of the curtains and the size of the window, and with no outer door to supplement the light, it was darker than the kitchen.

‘Where’s this place your mother mentioned?’

‘It’s not far away,’ he said. ‘It’s where those two hang out. The two that stopped us in the road.’

‘I don’t mind meeting them again.’ Stafford raised his head, gazing across, his eyes quite bright. ‘Shall we go down on the bike, or walk?’ he added.

‘We could walk down. There’s nowhere’, he added, ‘to leave the bike.’

He called out to his mother in the kitchen.

‘Don’t leave it too late for Neville getting back,’ she said, coming into the passage as he opened the door.

The cloud had thinned since the afternoon; a desultory light shone through the gaps. In the Dell the gas-works chimney was filtering out a stream of smoke, the cylinder of the storage tank sunk down, within its metal supports, almost to the ground.

Stafford had fashioned a stick from the hedge; he whipped it at the grass and the weeds at the side of the road, glancing round, his gestures those of someone who’d been to the place already: he was scarcely interested in where they were going.

The path wound off between the brick-built pens: it faded out amongst the swampland the other side.

Colin led the way between the reeds; on the site of the disused colliery figures were running to and fro between the trees, a dog barking, and from the direction of the road itself came the sound of a car engine as it started at the hill.

Birds flew off from the shrubs; the smell of the mud from the brackish pools replaced the smell of gas. Stafford walked along with a half-expectant air, startled, gazing at the banks of reeds, at the strange pools that opened out intermittently on either side. He grew self-absorbed, his shoulders hunched, Colin waiting for him at each of the difficult stretches. Finally, at the edge of the clearing, its chimney smoking, appeared Batty’s hut.

Stringer was standing at the door, his gun raised, aiming it vaguely in their direction.

‘I heard you, Tongey. Don’t come closer, then,’ he said.

‘Is that one of them, Colin?’ Stafford said.

‘It’s the one I hit on the nose,’ he said.

A smear of blood could be seen on Stringer’s face.

‘Is he likely to fire it?’ Stafford said.

Something ripped through the leaves above their heads.

Immediately, stooping, Stringer snapped the gun; he fumbled with the barrel, loaded it, straightened, then raised it quickly in their direction. He fired again.

‘We better get under cover,’ Stafford said.

He’d half-raised his arm to cover his face.

Stringer, re-loading the gun, had backed inside the hut. The shutters on the window closed. A moment later an arm reached out and the door, at the end of a piece of string, was pulled quickly to.

Stafford stood at the edge of the clearing uncertain whether to cross.

‘Is Lolly there, then?’ Colin called.

‘There’s a lot of us in here, Tongey,’ Stringer said. His voice came faintly from inside the door.

Colin crossed over to the wall of the hut. The gun, from inside the window, was fired again.

He waited for a moment in the shelter of the door; Stafford, across the clearing, was waving his arm.

‘Are you in there, Lolly?’ Colin said.

‘We’re all in here, Tongey,’ Stringer said.

He could hear the table being moved against the door; a chain began to rattle the other side. When he pressed against the door it yielded.

‘If you come in, Tongey,’ Stringer said, ‘I’ll fire.’

‘We only want to look,’ he said.

‘I mu’n fire if you come any farther,’ Stringer said.

Colin opened the door and glanced inside. The stove was lit. A candle burnt against the wall.

Stringer stood with his head stooped to the barrel of the gun.

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Tonge,’ he said.

‘We only want to look,’ he said again, and added, ‘Lolly isn’t here. I thought he was.’

‘He’s coming. He’ll be coming any time. He’s bringing their kid down with him,’ Stringer said.

‘I should put the gun down,’ he said, and stepped inside.

He stood with his back to Stringer and felt the stove.

‘If Lolly’s coming,’ he said, ‘I’ll wait.’

He went to the door and waved to Stafford.

‘You can come in,’ he said. ‘It’s only Stringer.’

Stafford crossed slowly from the trees and looked inside.

‘I say, what a super place.’ He glanced at Stringer then quickly at the hut. ‘Is this where you cook stuff, then?’ He bent to the stove.

‘Lolly’ll be on to you,’ Stringer said. ‘If I let you go thy mu’n have a chance.’

Stafford, having examined the stove, glanced uneasily at the table behind the door, at the wooden chairs and cupboard, and finally once more at Stringer.

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

‘I don’t mind,’ Stafford said. He looked round him at the hut again.

‘He’s fetching their kid down, is Lolly,’ Stringer said.

He moved towards the door.

‘Let’s have a go with your gun, then,’ Stafford said.

‘You mu’n have a go: but it’ll be me who’s firing it,’ Stringer said. He raised it slowly to Stafford’s head.

Stafford stooped to the stove; he felt it with his hand.

‘You want to put more wood on,’ Colin said.

‘You mu’n not touch that wood, then,’ Stringer said.

Stafford lifted up a piece; he lifted the lid of the stove and dropped it in.

‘Tha mu’n not touch it,’ Stringer said.

Stafford crossed over to the cupboard door; it was secured by a lock and a metal bar: he pulled back the shutter on the window, gazing out.

‘I could bring a gun as well,’ he said. He gestured at Stringer. ‘It’s newer than that.’

‘Tha mu’n not come here again, then,’ Stringer said and turned quickly at a sound outside.

Batty was standing at the door; he had the stick in his hand that he’d had before.

‘Here, quick, Lolly, fetch thy kid, then,’ Stringer said. ‘Tongey’s here and that mate of his.’

Batty gazed in for a moment, then stepped inside.

‘Who gave you permission to come in here?’ He glanced at Colin and then, less certainly, at Stafford.

‘He forced his way in, Loll,’ Stringer said.

Colin sat down on one of the chairs.

‘We just came in to have a look,’ he said.

‘Tha mu’n have a look and go, then,’ Batty said.

He stood by the stove himself now, gazing round.

‘Tha mu’n go. Go on. Or I’ll chuck you out.’

Stafford went to the door; he passed Stringer, stooped to the doorway slightly, and stepped outside.

‘Go on,’ Batty said. ‘And thee an’ all.’

Colin got up from the chair.

‘And don’t come again. I’ve telled you now.’

Stringer laughed; he lifted the gun again and aimed it vaguely at Colin’s head.

He went outside; Stafford, the switch in his hand, was flicking at the mud around the hut; he glanced up at its roof, its metal chimney, and called to Batty, ‘It’s quite a good place you’ve got, you know.’

‘We mu’n keep it that way an’ all, then,’ Batty said. He stood in the doorway of the hut, the barrel of the air-gun poking out behind.

‘It’s a bit of a dump really,’ Stafford said as they came away. ‘What a terrible pong.’ He held out his arms, throwing the stick away, to keep his balance as they crossed the swamp. ‘I don’t know how they stand it. What a dump.’

Something clipped through the leaves above Colin’s head.

‘I suppose you don’t notice it after you’ve been here a while. I suppose you get used to it,’ he said. He led the way, holding back the bushes until Stafford caught him up.

They reached the road.

Stafford glanced up towards the village.

‘I ought to be getting back,’ he said. He scraped off the mud at the side of the road. ‘Honestly, what a pong.’

‘I suppose it’s a good place to build a den, though,’ Colin said.

Stafford shrugged.

‘When you come to our place I’ll show you mine. You don’t have to wade through all that mud.’

They walked up the road towards the village. The light, showing in odd patches of the sky, had begun to fade. Far away, across the plain, rain had begun to fall, a vague blurring in the sky that sloped at an angle towards the fields.

‘What time have you to be back home, then?’ Colin said.

‘Depends. They don’t usually mind if I’m late, though,’ Stafford said.

He scraped his shoes against the road, occasionally crossing to the verges and wiping the mud off against the grass.

‘Honestly, it really sticks on. You can’t get rid of it,’ he added.

A thin shower of rain began to fall; they began to run. Bletchley was standing at the door of Reagan’s house.

‘Hey, where’ve you been? You should have stayed with us,’ he said. Reagan, in his shirt-sleeves, was standing in the door. ‘We’re off back later, you know, tonight.’

‘Where?’ Stafford said. He raised his head.

Bletchley flicked his head as if he didn’t care to say the word. He glanced behind him at the passage, past Reagan’s figure, to the kitchen at the other end.

‘The Park. Do you want to come?’ He called out louder, ‘We might go up to church as well.’

Colin waited; Stafford had paused, uncertain; then, slowly, he came to the door.

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

The kitchen had been cleared when they went inside; his father was listening to the wireless. Stafford’s bike had been wheeled inside: it leant with his father’s against the sideboard. Steven was playing on the floor in front of the fire.

‘We brought your bike in. We thought it looked like rain,’ his father said.

‘Oh, there’s no need for that, Mr Saville,’ Stafford said. ‘It’s quite used, you know, to getting wet.’

He took out his clips, stooped down, and put them on.

‘You’re off now, then, Neville?’ his father said.

‘I think I’d better, Mr Saville,’ Stafford said.

He looked for his gloves which he’d left behind.