Saville (35 page)

‘Not Berenice
Hartley
?’

‘I believe that is her name,’ he said.

The girls had laughed again, as intrigued by Stafford’s accent as they were by this inquiry.

‘Your name isn’t Henderson?’ one of them said.

‘Jones,’ Stafford said and began to laugh.

‘Jones the butcher, or Jones the baker?’

‘Jones the lover,’ Stafford said.

‘Oh, listen to him. Honestly,’ another of the girls said.

‘Honestly, do you know Berenice Hartley?’ another said.

‘As well as I know anyone, my darling,’ Stafford said.

‘Honestly, just listen to him.’

‘I think he’s deeply in love,’ another girl had said.

‘I’m deeply in love with two or three girls at the moment,’ Stafford said.

‘Honestly, just
listen
to him,’ another of the girls had said.

‘I think
all
the girls at that school are pretty attractive,’ Stafford said.

‘And what school do you go to, glamour-britches?’ one of the girls had said.

They laughed, linking arms and leaning their heads against each other.

‘I’ve left school. We don’t go there any longer, do we, Colin?’ Stafford said.

‘Tongey goes to school. Don’t you, Tarzan?’ one of the girls had said.

‘Why do you call him Tarzan?’ Stafford said.

‘That’s Belcher’s name for him. Isn’t it, Tarzan?’ one of the girls had said.

‘He says he’s so
strong
, does Belcher,’ another girl had said.

They laughed.

‘You’re too young not to be at school, in any case,’ they added.

‘Well, I may drop in odd days, of course, my darling,’ Stafford said. ‘When the mood is on me, so to speak.’

‘Honestly, just listen to him, then,’ they said.

‘Isn’t there any room in there for me, then?’ Stafford said, indicating that a space might be made somewhere in the middle.

‘We wouldn’t let you walk with us, then, would we?’ one of the girls had said.

‘Not somebody who knows Berenice
Hartley
,’ another girl had said.

They wandered on.

Stafford, smoothing down his hair, had let them past.

‘They’re a load of scrubbers. I don’t think much of those,’ he said. He began to whistle, his hands in his pockets, looking round idly and kicking the grass.

‘Are there any shops open in the village? We could get a bite to eat. I’m feeling pretty ravenous,’ he said.

‘We could go back’, Colin said, ‘and get some tea.’

‘I don’t want to put your people out. I mean, they’ve enough to do, I suppose,’ he said.

‘They’re expecting you to stay, in any case,’ he said.

‘I suppose we could go back,’ he said. He looked up the hill; figures were drifting down from the direction of the church: odd groups of girls in brightly coloured coats and boys who, walking behind them, climbed along the walls.

Bletchley was walking along with Reagan in the middle of the road; whereas Bletchley was broad and fat, fitting with some difficulty into his long-trousered suit, Reagan, tall and thin, appeared scarcely to inhabit his clothes at all, his dark, long-trousered suit exaggerating the extraordinary movements of his gangly body.

‘I shouldn’t let Mr Trubshaw see you,’ Bletchley said, referring to the vicar. ‘He asked where you were this afternoon and I told him you were sick.’ He glanced uneasily at Stafford.

Reagan was wearing a bright red tie; he had a long brass tie-pin clipped to it, beneath which hung a thin, brass-coloured chain. His eyes were large and staring, his long thin features, since he had grown much taller, more pronounced, the massive swelling of his head at the back disguised now by longish hair which he allowed to hang down towards his collar. He fingered his tie nervously as he glanced at Stafford.

Colin introduced him; Bletchley nodded. ‘Weren’t you at the scholarship exams?’ he said.

‘Which ones were those?’ Stafford said.

‘The ones where you sit for the scholarship,’ Bletchley said.

‘I can remember going to something of that sort,’ Stafford said.

‘Which school are you at, then?’ Bletchley said.

‘Oh, I don’t go to school very often,’ Stafford said. He stood with his hands in his pockets, looking round. He glanced at Reagan. ‘Which school do you go to, then?’ he added.

‘He goes to St Dominic’s,’ Bletchley said. ‘You have to pay fees. He didn’t pass the scholarship,’ he added.

‘Oh, those are the best schools,’ Stafford said. ‘I wish I’d gone there now myself.’

Bletchley’s neck reddened.

Mr Morrison walked past, with the woman with the red eyes who played the piano. Bletchley touched his school cap and gave a smile as he gestured at Colin. ‘He’ll tell Trubshaw and you’ll catch it, I suppose,’ he said. He called out to two girls passing in the road. ‘Where’s your boy-friends today?’ he shouted.

‘What’s it to do with you, then, Belch?’ they said.

Bletchley laughed; he pulled down at the peak of his cap and glanced at Stafford.

Reagan, nervously, had begun to kick his feet against the road.

‘You’ll be late for your violin class,’ Bletchley said.

‘I don’t have it on Sunday afternoons, now,’ Reagan said.

‘Mic plays the violin. He’s a virtuoso,’ Bletchley said. He laughed again, slowly, still watching Stafford. ‘You should hear him play. It’s like a cat being cut in two.’

‘Who do you have lessons with?’ Stafford said.

‘I go to somebody in town. You won’t have heard of them, I reckon,’ Reagan said. His face had darkened. Faint white marks, like smears of paint, showed at his temples.

Bletchley’s neck had begun to swell; the red flush spread slowly upwards towards his cheeks.

‘Not Mr Prendergast?’ Stafford said.

‘Do you know him?’ Reagan said.

‘I go there twice a week myself.’

‘Honestly? Not the violin?’ he said.

‘I do the piano,’ Stafford said.

‘Honestly,’ Reagan said, gazing at Stafford in admiration.

‘I did violin about two years ago. I go on Wednesdays and Fridays, after school.’

‘I go Tuesdays,’ Reagan said.

‘I had piano lessons, and violin lessons, but I go to elocution
now, though,’ Bletchley said. ‘“The rain in Spain stays mainly on the plain.” “Tea for two is good for you.” “How soon will you be finished with your spoon?”’

He quoted the phrases carefully to Stafford.

‘Weren’t we going to your place?’ Stafford said, looking up at Colin. He glanced down sharply then towards the village.

‘We’re going in the Park,’ Bletchley said, indicating Reagan. He glanced over once again at Stafford. ‘Why don’t you come? There are one or two tarts I know from school.’

‘We’ve just been down,’ Stafford said. He turned towards the hill. ‘Are you coming?’ he added to Colin.

Bletchley turned to the Park, holding Reagan’s arm as if afraid for a moment that Reagan might be inclined to follow.

‘See you, Tarzan,’ he said.

‘They look like Laurel and Hardy,’ Stafford said. ‘Just look at them,’ he added, glancing back.

The two figures, the one inflated like a large balloon, the other tall and willowy, like some misshapen stick, were moving slowly along the path towards the slope leading to the recreation ground. Bletchley was already calling out, waving to a line of girls who, as they passed, had all glanced back, their laughter floating up across the hill.

‘Belcher,’ he could hear them calling out, the sound echoing a moment later beneath the trees. Perhaps they’d called to Bletchley a second time; though still holding to Reagan’s arm he appeared for a moment as if he might run across, the girls screaming then and moving off. They ran separately across the grass, coming together slowly, laughing, some distance down the hill.

‘A village Romeo,’ Stafford said and for the first time that afternoon laughed, lightly, without any intention of provoking Colin.

There was no sign of Batty or Stringer at the foot of the hill; the miners were sitting in rows outside the pub, crouching in the gutter and along the walls, calling out suddenly to Stafford as he passed, attracted by the fairness of his hair, and the strange freshness of his manner.

‘Dost fancy yon, then, Jack?’ they said. ‘Wheerst tha come from, lad? Ar’t’a sure he’s not a lass?’

The laughter from the crouched rows and the odd, isolated figures standing in the road followed them down towards the house.

‘What’s the matter with them?’ Stafford said. ‘Haven’t they seen somebody dressed decently before?’

‘They’re always like that’, he said, ‘with strangers. Suspicious of anything or anyone they haven’t seen before.’

‘I’m surprised anyone comes here, in any case,’ Stafford said. ‘I mean, the place hasn’t got many attractions at the best of times,’ he added.

‘I never knew you played the piano,’ Colin said.

‘Oh, I don’t do it much. Sometimes I skip the lessons as a matter of fact. Prendergast, who takes me, doesn’t mind. If he makes a fuss I’ll be taken away, and he’d lose whatever fees he gets.’

He began whistling slowly to himself, walking along with his hands in his pockets, kicking at the kerb.

‘You ought to come to our place,’ he said, as they reached the house. ‘We could have some fun. It’s different to this.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, not much different, I suppose,’ he added.

The table was already laid when they went into the kitchen. Walking along the backs Stafford had glanced with the same intentness as before into the open doors and windows; now, standing in the door of the house itself, he appeared dismayed by the sight of the table, as if the identity of the room itself had changed, or he’d come into the wrong room entirely; then, seeing Saville sitting in a chair beside the fire, the Sunday paper open awkwardly on his knee, he stepped inside, ducking his head slightly then smoothing down his hair.

‘You’ve seen all we have to see, then?’ his father said, folding the paper and standing up. ‘There mu’n not be much around here, I suppose,’ he added.

‘We went to the Park, Mr Saville,’ Stafford said, sinking into the chair opposite his father, and mentioning the Park now as if it were a place of some significance.

‘Aye, well: it’s a bit of a dump, is yon,’ his father said. He put the paper down. ‘There’s not much to see up there, tha knows. Though there’s one or two nice walks around the village.’

‘Don’t let him take you down to the Dell, at least,’ his mother said. ‘That’s been his favourite haunt these last few years.’

‘Where’s that, then?’ Stafford asked him, looking up.

‘Down by the sewage works,’ his father said.

‘And the gas-works,’ his mother added.

‘Thy hasn’t to breathe too deeply when thy passes there.’ His father laughed.

The baby, attracted by Stafford’s presence, had pulled itself up against a chair. Stafford put out his hands.

‘Sithee, yon’s too shy for ought, unless it’s asking to be fed,’ his father said. ‘We’ve just stuffed him up to keep him quiet.’

‘Now, you know that’s not true, not true at all,’ his mother said.

She was opening a tin of fruit on the draining-board beside the sink; glancing at Stafford she brought it over in a bowl to the table, standing there a moment uncertain whether, before the meal, she ought to serve it out.

‘Do you like fruit, then, Neville?’ she said, hesitating slightly as she mentioned Stafford’s name.

‘Any amount of it, Mrs Saville,’ Stafford said, turning in the chair.

‘It’s tinned fruit,’ she said, still holding to the bowl.

‘Tinned fruit all the better,’ Stafford said, turning once more to face the baby.

‘We alus have tinned fruit, tha knows, on Sundays,’ his father said, then added, ‘Well, some Sundays, tha knows, when visitors are here.’

The baby got down from the chair and crawled across the floor; it stood up finally by the door, which Stafford had left open, and began to stumble out.

‘And where’s thy off to?’ his father said, his movements stiff now, his voice uncertain. Something about Stafford’s presence had affected him immensely; he seemed uncertain where to put himself, picking up the baby, then putting it down, closing the door behind him, then standing once more beside the table, straightening the plates and spoons, and pulling out a chair.

A kettle was simmering on the fire.

‘Well, I think it’s ready,’ his mother said.

They sat at the table. His mother served the fruit. No one was
sure whether to eat it first, or the bread and jam which stood – the thinly buttered slices on one plate, the jam in a bowl beside it – in the centre of the table. Finally they took their lead from Stafford, who started on the fruit, his mother offering him a slice of bread and asking him if he’d like to eat it with it.

‘That’s very kind. Thank you,’ Stafford said, evidently unused to eating tinned fruit and bread together.

‘When we have a meal in this house we have one. Don’t you worry,’ his father said.

Steven came in. His face was marked with grease, his knees were cut.

‘Wherever have you been? And on Sunday, Steven,’ his mother said.

She got up from the table and took him to the sink. There was a moment’s pause at the table; his father, with a loud sucking noise, began to drink his tea.

The tap ran in the sink; Steven’s face was bent towards it; his hands were scrubbed, his knees were washed. Red-faced from stooping, his mother led him to the table.

‘Start on your fruit,’ she said when Steven reached across to take the jam.

‘Why have we got it in a bowl?’ he said. ‘What’s happened to the jar?’

‘We don’t always have it in a jar,’ his mother said, glancing uneasily at Stafford.

‘I’ve never seen it in a bowl afore, then,’ Steven said.

‘
Before
, not
a
fore,’ his mother said.

Steven had already finished his fruit; he looked expectantly around the table.

‘Can I take your dish, then, Neville?’ his mother said.

She got up from her place, leaning across to take Stafford’s bowl. Her own fruit, as yet, she’d scarcely touched.

‘Shall I pour your tea out now?’ she added.

Stafford held out his cup; his father watched with an air of concern, nodding his head, half-smiling, encouraging Stafford now to take something else.