Saville (34 page)

‘Go on, our kid,’ his brothers called.

‘Nay, he mu’n have fought him fair.’ His father had come out from the house and stood by the fence.

Reagan had already turned towards his door.

‘He fought fair: you can’t say better than that,’ his father called.

Farther along the terrace he saw Batty climbing the fence.

‘Thy ought to have beaten him,’ his father said. ‘Go under his guard, not try to stand outside. With fellers like that you’ve to go beneath.’

‘I suppose you’re satisfied,’ his mother said, standing at the door as they reached the house. ‘And what was it all about?’ she added.

‘Nothing,’ he said.

‘It looks like nothing. Just look at your eyes: they’re almost closed.’

‘Nay, they’ll come up like two beauties,’ his father said.

‘And look at his mouth,’ his mother cried.

‘He’ll not be speaking tomorrow either.’ His father laughed. ‘See nowt, and say nowt: we mu’n have a bit o’ peace at last.’

Yet later he’d added, before he went to work, stooping to his boots to pull them on, ‘You must go under his guard when you’ve somebody big. Take my word for it, I ought to know. Hitting up you can hit much stronger.’

He got up in his work clothes and, despite his pit boots, began to dance around. ‘Left, left, then right. One, two, then bring it over. If you’d have taken a bit more notice you’d have been all right.’

He was still talking about the fight when he went to work, pedalling off slowly across the yard.

‘All wind,’ his mother said. ‘Don’t take any notice of your father in your fights.’

He heard his father’s voice then his mother’s, then Steven’s feet as he ran through the passage. A moment later, as if antagonized by the commotion, the baby began to cry.

He went through to his parents’ bedroom and looked down at the street. A red-painted bicycle with white mudguards was propped against the fence; it had a dynamo and electric lights, its handlebars curved down with rubber grips.

He heard his father’s strange, half-strangled tone in the passage below, then his mother’s almost formal accompanying tone, then, in response to some remark or gesture on their visitor’s part, a sudden burst of laughter.

‘Come in. Come in, lad,’ his father said and almost at the same moment he had added, calling, ‘Colin. There’s someone here to see you, then.’

When he went downstairs his father was standing awkwardly in front of the fire, smiling, his mother by the table, her hands clenched together, Steven by a chair uncertain now whether he might sit down; the baby was crawling across the floor, pacified for the moment by a piece of bread.

Stafford appeared to be unaware that anything unusual had occurred; he lay stretched out in a chair, pulling off a pair of gloves then, casually, raising one leg and removing a cycle clip that held his trousers.

‘It was farther than I thought,’ he said. ‘I missed the bus so I came on the bike. I looked up the trains: there’s not one through till after tea, and not one back until late tonight.’ He showed no curiosity in the room, or its inhabitants; it might have been a place he’d been coming into regularly for several years. Having removed his clips he dropped them on the table, his gloves beside them, and began to unfasten the buttons of his jacket. ‘You’ve some terrible hills round here,’ he added. ‘If I hadn’t a three-speed I couldn’t have managed.’

‘Oh, you need a bit of muscle to live round here,’ his father said. ‘None of your three-speed namby-pambies in a place like this.’

‘I can see that. I s’ll have to get into training,’ Stafford said, thickening his accent then and smiling.

The baby, suddenly conscious of his strangeness, stood up by a chair and began to cry.

‘Now, then. Now, then,’ his mother said, lifting it quickly. ‘It’s only a young man who’s come to see you. We don’t need any more of that, then, do we?’

‘And this is Steven, Colin’s brother,’ his father said.

Stafford nodded; he scarcely glanced in Steven’s direction, loosening his jacket then smoothing down his hair.

‘Would you like a cup o’ tea, or summat?’ his father said.

‘I wouldn’t mind. Or just a drink of water,’ Stafford said.

He looked up at Colin for the first time since he’d come into the room.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’ve got here, then.’

‘Oh, it’ll be tea, don’t worry,’ his father said. ‘You’re not coming here to sup us watter.’

‘Water,’ his mother said.

‘Water. Watter,’ his father said. ‘Dost think when you’re thirsty it makes any difference?’

They went out a little later to show Stafford round the village. ‘He won’t have seen a place like this afore,’ his father said. ‘You know, where people work.’

‘Oh, it’s not all that different from where I live,’ Stafford said. At his father’s insistence he’d got up to wheel his bike through to the yard behind.

‘And where’s that, then?’ his father said.

‘It’s over at Spennymoor,’ Stafford said.

‘Oh, I know that well.’ His father laughed. ‘They have that big mill theer. What’s its name?’

‘Stafford’s. My family own it,’ Stafford said.

His father’s face had paled. He looked as if, at that moment, he might have fallen down.

‘Oh, thy’s
that
Stafford,’ his father said, glancing quickly at his mother.

Now, as they moved away from the house, Stafford had clapped his hands.

‘That gave your father a shock,’ he said. ‘Didn’t he know, do you think, or did he put it on?’

‘I shouldn’t think he knew,’ he said and shook his head.

‘People are funny about things like that. Money, I mean. As if it matters.’

‘I suppose if they haven’t got any’, he said, ‘it probably does.’

‘What difference does money make?’ Stafford said. He gazed over for a moment then shook his head. They were walking along the backs, Colin’s habitual path to get to the street outside. When he didn’t answer Stafford glanced about him, freshly; he gazed in at the open doors, at the dark, fire-lit kitchens. ‘If you have less money you have fewer worries,’ he added, as if quoting something he’d heard before.

They came to the street.

‘What would you like to see?’ he said.

‘What do you usually do on Sundays?’ Stafford said.

‘Go to Sunday School.’ He gestured off, vaguely, in the direction of the church.

‘No, honestly?’ Stafford said. He gazed off, with fresh curiosity, along the street. ‘I suppose it’s too late to go,’ he added.

‘We could go to the Park, if you like,’ he said.

Stafford looked round him at the houses. ‘Have you always lived here, or did you live somewhere else?’ he said.

‘I’ve always lived here,’ he said.

‘I come through the station on my way to school, but you can’t see up to the village,’ he said as if he’d wondered at the curiosity of this on his journeys through.

They reached the centre of the village and turned up the hill towards the Park.

Stringer and Batty were coming down the road, Batty with a stick which he flicked in the bushes on either side. When he saw Colin approaching he called to Stringer, who, without his gun, picked up a stone which he weighed, reflectively, in either hand.

‘Who’s your friend, Tongey?’ Batty said.

‘He’s from our school,’ he said, and added, ‘This is Lolly, and that’s Stringer,’ Stafford, his hands in his pockets, nodding, about to go on up the road.

‘Who says tha mu’n go up theer, then?’ Stringer said.

‘Up where?’ Stafford said and shook his head.

‘Up theer,’ Stringer said, suddenly dismayed by Stafford’s accent.

‘I don’t see that anyone mu’n say I have to go up theer or not, then,’ Stafford said, imitating Stringer’s accent.

‘Thy mu’n want thy nose knocking in, then?’ Stringer said. He put up his fist in Stafford’s face.

‘I’ mu’n not want anything knocking in, then,’ Stafford said, his voice faltering for a moment as he regarded Stringer’s fist.

‘Tha mu’n feel this, then,’ Stringer said, ‘if thy goes up theer. Nobody goes up theer without permission.’

‘Have we got permission, Colin?’ Stafford said. He looked half-alarmed at Batty, then, almost reluctantly, glanced at Colin.

Stringer, turning his attention now to Colin, raised his fist again, waving it to and fro in front of his face.

Assuming Batty wouldn’t do anything, he hit Stringer as hard as he could on the end of his nose.

Stringer stepped back and covered his face.

‘Watch it. Watch it, Tongey,’ Batty said.

He came over with the stick, tapping the end of it now in his other hand.

‘Watch it,’ he said. He tapped the stick more slowly, glancing at Stringer and then at Stafford, not sure, of the two of them, which to go to first.

‘We’ll go on up, then,’ Colin said. It was as if then, for a moment, nothing had happened; as he turned from Stringer Colin saw him swing his arm. Stringer lunged at him with his boot and then his fist and before he could give an answer ran off calling to the foot of the hill.

Batty, deserted, stood gazing up the hill, his legs astride, the stick still in his hand.

‘Thy mu’n cop it when thy comes back down,’ he said. ‘I s’ll fetch our kid.’

He walked backwards, then turned, still tapping the stick against his hand.

‘Thy look out, then, when you come back down.’

‘Aye: thy look out,’ Stringer called from the foot of the hill.

‘Who are those two?’ Stafford said.

‘I suppose they own the village,’ Colin said. Yet he felt a strange resentment now, as if Stafford had forced him to something he hadn’t wished.

‘All bluster I suppose, then,’ Stafford said.

‘Something like that,’ he said and turned off the hill to the gates of the Park, which, like the railings to the school playground, had been removed.

Odd couples were walking along the paths inside, groups of children playing on the metal roundabout and swings.

The afternoon was overcast; grey clouds mounded over the horizon beyond the pit: a light wind blew in from across the fields.

‘That looks good fun, then,’ Stafford said and with a sudden
lightness ran down the hill, clambering on the box-like rocking-horse and calling out.

Colin went down slowly; Stafford was standing on the side of the rocking-horse, swinging it violently up and down.

‘I say, get on the end,’ he said.

Colin clambered up the other side.

Another boy climbed on and Stafford laughed; he flung the rocking-horse from side to side, the metal arms knocking underneath, the boy who’d climbed on last holding to a handle, calling out.

‘Come on: rock it, Colin,’ Stafford said.

Almost mechanically now he followed Stafford’s movements; the head of the rocking-horse, hard, with beady eyes and flaring, metal nostrils, flew up and down by Stafford’s head.

A strange carelessness had come into Stafford’s movements; his coat flew up behind him, his face reddening, his eyes starting with a strange intentness.

‘Keep it going, Col,’ he said.

The boy sitting on the rocking-horse half stood up.

‘Keep it going,’ Stafford said.

The boy got off; the rocking-horse slowed.

Before its swinging motion had finally stopped Stafford had sprung down and run across to the roundabout. Several children already were swinging it round: they dropped off quickly as they felt his weight.

‘Come and give it a push,’ he called.

Another, larger boy got on. He ran at the side of the platform, pushing it round then, his legs swinging, he clambered on.

Colin watched. Stafford climbed up the metal rigging, standing spread-eagled with his feet on a spar.

‘Shove it. Shove it faster,’ he called to the boy.

The boy swung off; large, heavy, with studded boots and a torn jacket he pounded round the concrete track, the metal cusp of the roundabout clanging as it cracked against the top of the metal pole.

‘Sithee: ’od on tight,’ he said.

Stafford called out, his figure flattened against the metal spars. The roundabout clanged to and fro, swaying, the metal framework spinning round.

‘Jump on. Jump on, Col,’ Stafford called, laughing now, his head bowed, his hair flung out. His jacket billowed up behind.

Yet only moments later he was climbing down, the roundabout slowing, the boy pounding at the concrete track again.

Stafford leapt off, the roundabout swaying up.

‘Why didn’t you jump on, then, Col?’ he said. Without waiting for an answer he moved over to the swings.

Figures rose slowly, swaying on the chairs.

Colin sat on the concrete seat beside the playground; Stafford, as the swing swept out from the metal stanchions, laughed and, tugging at the chains, called out.

‘Come on. Grab one, Col. It’s going free.’

Stafford’s hair flew up as the swing swept back.

He was rising higher, crouching at the back of the swing then hanging poised, his head thrust back.

‘Col!’

He thought, then, he might have fallen, the chains falling slack, the wood seat swaying sideways, Stafford, unsure of his balance, crouching there before, with a half-nervous gesture, he carefully sat down.

He let the swing rise and fall, his legs swaying to its slow momentum, then, as the swing slowed further, finally jumped down.

‘I say, aren’t you going to have a go?’ He slumped down on the seat. He tapped his chest, sighing, and glanced around.

A group of girls, familiar to Colin from his walks in the Park with Bletchley, came slowly past. One of them called.

‘Where’s Belcher today?’ she said.

‘Who’s that, then?’ Stafford said. He ran his hand across his head, leaning forward. He smoothed his hair.

‘They’re from the Manor,’ Colin said.

Stafford got up from the bench.

‘Come on. We might as well go this way, then,’ he said.

He set off along the side of the path, kicking at the grass edges as he walked along. As he reached the girls he called across. Colin heard them laugh, one of them shrieking, tossing back her head.

Stafford, shrugging, laughed himself.

When Colin reached him he was walking in front of the girls, turning then and walking backward, still laughing and then adding, ‘Do you know a girl called Berenice, then?’