Saville (37 page)

‘Gloves, gloves,’ his father said, opening a drawer and taking them out. ‘I put them in here, you see, in case one of this lot picked them up. You can’t keep ought in this house, tha knows, for long.’

He went to the stairs.

‘Ellen! Ellen. Neville’s leaving, then,’ he said.

‘I won’t be a minute,’ his mother called, faintly, half-whispering, from overhead.

‘She’s putting the baby to bed,’ his father said.

He took the bike from Stafford and wheeled it out.

‘Out of the front today,’ he said when Stafford, initially, had turned it to the yard.

He wheeled it down the passage, opened the front door, stooping, then half-carried it to the street beyond.

Stafford, his jacket fastened, his collar up, with one glove on and the other in his hand, followed him down the passage, turning then, his hand out, as his mother appeared at the foot of the stairs.

‘Goodbye, Mrs Saville. And thank you so much for giving me tea,’ he said.

‘It’s been a pleasure having you. I hope you’ll come again,’ his mother said.

‘Next time I might try the train, then,’ Stafford said.

‘A Saturday might be better,’ his mother said.

Steven followed them out to the street. Stafford mounted his bike. The thin rain now had strengthened.

‘Sithee: you’ll need your lights on soon,’ his father said.

Bletchley, still standing in Reagan’s door, had waved. Reagan appeared beside him after a moment, their two strangely contrasted figures pressed together.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then,’ Stafford said and, stooping to the low handlebars, pushed off from the kerb.

Steven ran after him, waving, pausing finally some distance down the street and watching Stafford as he pedalled out of sight.

His mother had turned back inside the door; his father waited while Steven came back in.

‘Did yon enjoy himself?’ he said.

‘I think so,’ Colin said. ‘I can’t see why he shouldn’t.’

‘He’ll not be used, I suppose, to the likes of us.’

‘I can’t see why not,’ he said and shook his head.

‘I never knew he was a Stafford, then.’

‘Are they that more important, then?’ he said.

‘Nay, they’re the biggest family, tha knows, round here. You can ask your mother: her father worked for them. Years ago: afore we married.’

‘Oh, they’re an important family all right,’ his mother said. ‘Though I don’t suppose he’ll want to come down here again.’

‘I don’t see why not,’ he said.

‘Nay, lad: thy’s a lot to learn,’ his father said. ‘Though I like him well enough, mysen.’

He got his books and went upstairs.

He could hear them talking, as he worked, in the room below, his father’s voice half-wearied, slow, getting on his clothes for work, his mother’s querulous, half-complaining. He only went down, finally, when Steven came up to go to bed.

Miss Woodson sharpened her pencil slowly. The wastepaper basket into which she fed the shavings stood immediately by the fire, itself now a mass of smoking coke. No one in the classroom stirred; they watched the small, sharp blade of the penknife, which she’d removed moments before from her large black handbag, cut into the now sharply pointed piece of wood and waited while the last thin shaving had floated down into the large straw orifice below.

‘Two-thirds, expressed as a decimal, is what?’

Stephens, the boy with the misshapen back, had raised his hand. It was a speculative gesture: Miss Woodson, inevitably, would ask one of those whose hands were lowered.

‘Two-thirds expressed as a decimal.’

The large black eyes came up; the black, bushy eyebrows were slowly raised. The spectacles were hitched up, slowly, on to the broad, projecting platform of Miss Woodson’s nose.

Walker’s hand went up; the hands of almost the entire class, in a communal gesture, were raised as well.

‘I’m glad to see so many hands.’

The small, silvery-coloured blade was folded; the ivory-handled penknife was returned to the large black bag.

‘Two-thirds.’

The bag, having been placed on the desk top, was lowered on to the floor beside it. Miss Woodson’s figure, small, compact, surmounted by a crest of jet-black hair, sank down into the round-backed chair behind the desk itself.

‘Two-thirds.’

‘Miss,
Miss
!’ one or two had said.

‘Two-thirds.’

Her large eyes moved slowly along one side of the room, across the back, then returned along the opposite side until they came to rest on Stephens.

His eyes, fixed on hers, huge, startled, were suddenly lowered.

‘Stephens.’

‘Point …’ Stephens said, his hand still raised, almost pinned there, as if fastened to the wall itself.

‘Nought point, Stephens,’ she said, and paused.

‘Nought point,’ Stephens said, then added, ‘Six.’

‘Six.’ She glanced around, briefly; her gaze, finally, came back to Stephens. ‘Any advance on six?’

‘Miss,
Miss
!’ several of the boys had said.

‘Two-thirds expressed as a decimal, is what?’

She waited.

‘Walker?’

Walker’s hand, judiciously, had been lowered to a less conspicuous place behind his desk; nevertheless, his red nose, if nothing else, had caught Miss Woodson’s attention.

‘I don’t know, Miss,’ he said and shook his head.

‘Walker doesn’t know. I wonder,’ she added, ‘if the same is true …’, she paused, ‘of everyone else.’

‘Miss, Miss!’ nearly all the boys had said.

‘Saville.’

‘Nought point six, six’, he said, ‘recurring.’

‘Now, then,’ she said. ‘I hope we all heard that.’ The thick-framed glasses were slowly lowered. ‘Walker?’

‘Nought point six, six recurring,’ Walker said.

The arms were lowered.

‘And what would
one
-third be, expressed as a decimal, Walker?’

‘Point three, three recurring,’ Walker said.

‘And if I asked you to give me two-thirds of one pound, Walker, how much would you give me?’

‘Two-thirds, Miss?’ he said. His eyes expanded; the redness around his nose had deepened. A sudden agitated movement took place beneath his desk.

‘Two-thirds, Walker,’ Miss Woodson said.

‘Two-thirds of one pound would be …’ Walker said, his fingers entwined, working frantically together. ‘Two-thirds …’

‘Stephens.’

‘Yes, Miss?’

‘Don’t “Yes, Miss” me. Two-thirds of one pound, Stephens, in shillings and pence.’

Stephens’s head had begun to shake; a look of terror lit his features; even his hair had begun to tremble, his habitual stoop suddenly pronounced as if he intended to hide beneath the desk.

‘Miss, Miss,’ two or three boys had said.

Again, with a communal, self-protective gesture, nearly every hand in the class was raised.

‘Two-thirds of one pound, Stephens.’

Stephens’s eyes wandered slowly from Miss Woodson’s gaze to the door behind; from there they drifted helplessly across the wall until, half-way down the side of the class they came to the low, rectangular-shaped window which looked out to the basement wall of the drive. All that was visible, beyond the wire-netting shielding the window, was the ancient, eroded stonework of the wall itself.

‘Twelve shillings, roughly, Miss,’ he said.

‘Twelve shillings roughly, Stephens,’ Miss Woodson said. Her lips slid back; two rows of large, uneven teeth were suddenly revealed. ‘If twelve shillings represent two-thirds of a pound, what does the remainder represent?’ she said.

‘Miss, Miss,’ several boys had said.

‘Eight shillings, Miss Woodson,’ Stephens said.

His lips, too, had begun to tremble. Tears welled up around his eyes.

‘Represents, Stephens. Represents. If twelve shillings represents two-thirds, what does the remainder represent?’

‘One-third, Miss.’

‘And one-third, by your reckoning, is equivalent to eight shillings, Stephens. And that being so, what would three-thirds represent?’

‘Miss I’ several boys had said.

‘Twenty-four shillings,’ Stephens said.

‘And how many shillings are there in one pound, Stephens?’

‘Twenty shillings, Miss,’ he said.

‘How many shillings and pence are represented by two-thirds of a pound, then, Walker?’

‘Me, Miss?’ Walker said.

‘Don’t “Me, Miss?” me, Walker. Am I talking to the wall?’ she said. ‘Out with an answer before I thrash you.’

She got up slowly from the desk; she came down the aisle between the desks, gazing towards the window at the end of the room; it opened out directly to the field; a small, black dog crossed between the brick-built shelters.

‘I don’t know, Miss,’ Walker said.

‘Out to the front, Walker,’ Miss Woodson said.

Walker got up; his head held slightly to one side, he stepped carefully between Miss Woodson and his desk.

‘Stand facing the blackboard, Walker,’ Miss Woodson said.

He stood with his hands behind him, his legs astride.

‘Pick up the piece of chalk before you.’

Walker picked up the chalk from a wooden tray beneath the board.

‘Write down one pound on the blackboard, Walker.’

Walker wrote one pound, reaching over.

‘Now divide one pound, Walker,’ Miss Woodson said, ‘by three. Do it clearly. We all want to see your ignorance,’ she added.

‘Three into one won’t go, Miss,’ Walker said. He stood with his hand half-poised, the stick of white chalk clenched tightly in it.

‘Oh, dear. And what shall we do now, then, Walker?’ Miss Woodson said.

She’d taken up a position at the back of the room, gazing down to Walker and the blackboard at the opposite end.

‘Change it into shillings, Miss Woodson,’ Walker said.

‘Let’s see the machinations of your brilliant logic, Walker. Twenty shillings divided into three,’ she said.

‘Threes into twenty go six,’ Walker said. ‘With two left over.’

‘Two what, Walker? Legs, arms, feet?’

‘Shillings, Miss.’

‘And what do we divide those by, Walker?’ Miss Woodson said.

‘Change them into pence and divide by three, Miss,’ Walker said.

‘And the answer, according to this mathematical genius, then, is what?’

‘Eightpence, Miss.’

‘So, one-third of one pound is how much, Walker?’

‘Six shillings and eightpence, Miss Woodson,’ Walker said.

‘Go back to your desk, genius,’ Miss Woodson said.

She came slowly down the room again.

‘I want to see no hand down when I ask you this. Two-thirds of one pound is what, then, class?’

Everyone’s hand except Stephens went quickly up.

‘Two-thirds of one pound is what, then, Stephens?’

He was writing quickly, with his finger, on the top of the desk.

‘Are you washing that desk, Stephens?’ Miss Woodson said. ‘Or endeavouring in some way to improve its surface?’

‘No, Miss,’ Stephens said and shook his head.

Several boys had quickly laughed.

‘I shan’t give you another second, Stephens. Two-thirds of one pound: answer quick.’

‘Sixteen shillings and eightpence, Miss.’

Miss Woodson took off her glasses. With a sudden, uncharacteristic violence, she struck the desk with the flat of her hand. ‘What was that answer, Stephens?’ she said, gazing now into Stephens’s eyes.

The dark-haired boy had shaken his head. It was as if the two figures were preoccupied in some private conversation, stooped together, Stephens bowed, Miss Woodson bending, scarcely inches now between them.

‘Two-thirds of one pound is what, then, Stephens?’

‘I don’t know, Miss,’ Stephens said and once again he shook his head. His voice had faded off into a moan; he buried his head between his hands, banging it down against the desk.

For a moment Miss Woodson gazed down on to Stephens’s hair; then, with something of a groan herself, an ecstatic, choking wail, she slowly straightened.

‘What boy in this room does not know what two-thirds of one pound is?’ she said.

Every hand was raised.

‘Two-thirds of one pound,’ she said again, almost chanting out the phrase.

‘Miss ! Miss !’ nearly everyone had said.

‘Well, Walker?’

‘Thirteen shillings and fourpence, Miss,’ he said.

‘Thirteen and fourpence,’ Miss Woodson said. ‘And what decimal of a pound is that?’

‘Nought point six, six recurring, Miss,’ he said.

‘And what decimal is six shillings and eightpence, then?’

‘Nought point three, three recurring,’ Walker said.

‘What is it, now, class, all together?’

‘Nought point three, three recurring,’ the class had said.

‘And what fraction of a pound is nought point three, three recurring, then?’

‘One-third of a pound, Miss Woodson,’ the class had said.

She sank down in her chair again. Stephens, his head between his hands, moaned quietly against his desk, his back, misshapen, thrust up, reproachtully, towards the class.

‘Does anyone know of an opening as a kitchen maid?’ Miss Woodson said.

‘Left, left. Left,’ Carter said. ‘Left, boy. Left. Left. Right up then, boy, against your cheek. You’re leaving yourself wide open.’

He crossed over with his right into Colin’s face.

‘Higher, higher. Up against your chin, boy,’ Carter said.

Having raised his glove to his chin he felt an even harder blow against his ribs; though not much taller than himself, Carter appeared, suddenly, to have acquired a longer reach: he felt a left from Carter against his face, another right beneath his ribs, and the next moment his back was against the rope and the room, or that aspect of it which he could see from a horizontal position, was revolving slowly above his head.

‘On your feet, Saville,’ Carter said. ‘You’re not hurt yet.’

Cold water was splashed down on to the top of his head; other figures, farther off, were dancing up and down, white-vested, with the large, brown-coloured, bulbous gloves at the ends of their arms. The gym-master half-lifted him beneath the
rope then called over another boy and ducked back into the ring.

He sat on a bench at the side of the ring and waited for his turn again.

Carter wore the red trousers of a track-suit; on top he wore a vest. He was a small, almost daintily featured man, with doll-like eyes and a tiny nose; his hair was long and brushed smoothly back across his head, the end flapping up each time he swung a blow.