Saville (8 page)

‘And how is he, then?’ he would ask, standing still in the doorway, his cap in his hand.

‘Oh, he’s no trouble at all,’ she said.

‘Is he eating, then?’

‘More than enough.’

‘See, Colin,’ his father would add. ‘I’ve fetched thee some chocolate.’ He would step in and lay it on the table, stepping back to the door.

‘Well, then,’ Mrs Shaw would say. ‘Aren’t you going to say thank you?’

‘Yes,’ he’d say and looking up he would see his father smiling, nodding his head.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘Oh, that’s all right, then,’ his father would add, flushing.

He preferred in the end not to see his father at all, or to go into the house next door when he knew he could see him alone. Yet, whenever he looked in the house before going to school, he would find his father already asleep, lying in a chair, the fire unlit, full of dead ashes, the curtains drawn, the pots from the meals still unwashed on the table.

It was as if everything had moved away. At school he found himself suddenly cut off.

One day he had begun to cry, covering his face with his hand.

‘Why, Colin. What is it?’ the teacher asked him.

‘I don’t know,’ he said.

‘Now then,’ she said. ‘It can’t be that bad, surely.’

‘No,’ he said.

She held his head a moment against her smock.

He smelled the chalk there, and the dust from the cloth she used to clean the board.

‘Well then,’ she said. ‘Are you feeling better?’

‘Yes,’ he said, afraid to look up and see the other children.

Finally she took him to the teachers’ room. He sat there on a chair by the window, the book she had given him open on his knee.

He stared out at the colliery which backed on to the school across a lane. A column of white steam, thicker than a cloud, coiled slowly in the air. A little engine pulled a line of trucks in and out of the yard.

Every now and then another teacher came in, collected a book, glancing at him, smiling, then going out and closing the door. He sat quite still, watching the engine, looking up, flushing, whenever anyone came in to find him there.

Eventually the teacher came back and filled up a kettle, setting it on a gas ring by the door. ‘Are you all right?’ she said.

‘Yes.’ He nodded his head.

‘Well, then,’ she said. ‘You better run along. In five minutes it’ll be time for play.’

One morning he saw his father standing by the school railings, gripping the spikes and gazing over at the children.

The yard was full, everyone waiting to go in. When he ran
over he saw his eyes lighten, their blueness suddenly blazing then, just as quickly, fading away.

He seemed shy to find him there, like picking out a stranger.

‘I came looking for you,’ he said. ‘I might not see you tonight when I get back. I’m going to see your mother early.’

‘Can I come?’ he said.

‘They won’t let children in the hospital,’ he said. ‘Otherwise you could. Don’t worry.’

‘When shall I see you?’ he said.

‘I’ll look in tomorrow morning. You’ll be all right.’

‘All right,’ he said.

His father gazed over the railings a little longer.

‘Shall I give you a kiss?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ he said, and put up his face, holding the railings.

His father leaned down, stooping over.

‘You’ll be all right, then, won’t you?’ he said.

‘Yes.’ He nodded.

Though his father had washed, the coal-dust was still imprinted round his eyes.

‘Well, then,’ his father said. ‘I’ll be off.’

He turned away and walked down the road to where his cycle was propped up at the kerb. At the corner, where it turned off between the school and the pit yard, he waved, his hand touching the neb of his flat cap before his bike swung away.

When he came home at tea-time Mrs Shaw was standing in the door, her arms folded beneath her apron, gazing down the street. His tea was already on the table. There was a piece of cake beside his plate.

‘Now, then,’ she said. ‘I bet you’re hungry.’

He ate all the tea she put before him. Some of it was sandwiches with meat inside. It was like setting out on a journey: he felt he might as well get all he could inside.

‘Would you like another piece of cake?’ she said and brought the tin out from the pantry, lifting the cake out on to a plate and cutting off another slice, and raking all the crumbs together with the knife.

As he ate it Mr Shaw came down. He had just got out of bed: his braces hung round his trousers and he hadn’t tucked in the tail of his shirt. His hair stood up around his head like grass.

‘Well, then, he’s eaten all that, has he?’ he said. ‘When we take them off we’ll find his boots are full of bread.’

Mrs Shaw came in later to tuck him into bed. ‘Well, then, sleep tight,’ she said and kissed him. It was the first time she had tried and he saw her eyes close as she stooped towards him. ‘Well, then,’ she said, tucking in the sheets.

For some time he lay awake, listening for sounds of his father next door. But, as on every other night, it was silent. Vague voices came through the wall from the house the other side.

In the morning he heard Mr Shaw going to work, the kettle being filled in the kitchen below as he made some tea.

He heard his boots finally clack out across the yard and some time later the pit hooter. It would be another two hours or more before his father came home from work. He imagined him coming out of the cage, blackened, crossing the yard to give in his lamp, going to the locker, washing, putting on his coat, getting his bike from the rack; then he tried to imagine the ride back through the lightening countryside, the hills, up some of which his father pushed the bike, the bends, the level-crossing which occurred at some point on the route, the bridge across a railway.

He fell asleep, saw, vaguely, his mother lying in a bed, unfamiliar, her face round and curiously shining, like glass; then found himself riding his father’s bike, flying across the hedges and walls that blocked his path.

It was Mrs Shaw’s movements on the stairs that finally woke him and he immediately sat up, listening for any sounds next door.

When he went down Mrs Shaw was lighting the fire.

She was kneeling by the grate and looked up, her long face half-hidden by her shoulder.

‘Well, then, we’ll soon have this lit and breakfast on,’ she said.

‘Has my dad come back?’ he asked her.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t think so. Would you like me to take you to school?’

‘No,’ he said, and shook his head

He went out into the garden. It was still early, the sun scarcely risen: long shadows ran out from the edge of the terrace.

He played in Mrs Shaw’s garden, emptied the bucket of ashes and filled it up with coal, looking back at his house, at the window
of his bedroom. He looked over at the shelter, at the weed-covered vegetables: it looked more abandoned and neglected now than ever, something he had left behind a long time ago.

He climbed over the fence eventually and knocked on the back door. He tried the handle then went to the window and looked inside. The curtains were still drawn as his father had left them.

He walked down through the other yards, past kitchen windows where other women were lighting fires and cooking breakfast, and round into the street the other side. He walked down to the corner; he looked down the lane that led out towards the fields and along which his father normally returned.

He sat down finally and waited, saw the newspaper boy go by, then the milkman with his horse and trap.

‘Now, then, lad,’ he said. ‘You’re up early. Any news from your dad?’

He shook his head.

As the milkman neared the other end of the street Mrs Shaw came to the door and called him.

‘I wondered where you were,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t find you in the yard.’

She watched him, waiting, while he washed his hands.

He saw his father as he was setting off for school. He was pushing his bike along the lane that led into the village. His head was bowed so that only the top of his cap was visible, and he was pushing the bike as if he had walked a long way, his short legs thrust out behind him, his arms straight and stiff.

He had to call out and run to him before he looked up.

‘I’m just off to school,’ he said.

‘Aye,’ his father said. ‘I was hoping to catch you. How have you been?’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I’m all right.’

His father’s eyes were red, the lashes coated with black, his cheeks drawn in as if he had nipped them inside. ‘I called in to see your mother on my way from work.’

‘Is she all right?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Champion.’ He stared at him a minute longer. ‘You better get off to school.’

He stooped down then, as if reminded, and kissed his cheek.

‘Will I see you tonight?’ he said.

‘Aye, well,’ he said. ‘You’ll be all right with Mrs Shaw. I might have to go off to the hospital again when I’ve had a bath.’

‘Can I come with you?’

‘Nay, what’ll they think at school? Any road, they won’t let you take children.’ He looked away, across the fields, the way he’d come. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be all right at school.’

‘Can’t I come to the door?’

‘Nay, they won’t let you past the gate, you see.’

He put his foot on the pedal and began to push the bike along.

‘Now, you be a good lad,’ he added.

At school the teacher sat him by her desk, giving him special tasks. He got out the paper, gave out the books, collected the pencils and rulers. In the playground he stood by the fence, gazing out over the colliery to the rows of chimneys beyond. At tea-time he ran all the way home but his father had already left.

His mother was away for six weeks. In the end he decided she wasn’t coming back and at night, in bed, he tried to invent a life for himself with Mrs Shaw. One day he offered to clean her brasses and she sat by him at the table, anxiously watching each one, taking it from him when he had finished and polishing it a little harder herself. He dug Mr Shaw’s garden and planted some seeds, gazing over at his own garden, at the house now almost always silent, his father at the hospital nearly all the time. At school the other children told him his mother was dying and once an older boy told him she was dead, watching his expression, stooping down to look into his eyes.

When, finally, they went to fetch his mother he felt frozen all over. It was as if everything had been numbed. He sat with his hands clenched on his knees, staring out of the bus window, past his father’s shoulder. He couldn’t remember what his mother looked like, or what kind of person she was.

He had on his suit, and before they had left his father had washed him. He had tidied the house, pushing most of the rubbish into piles, setting a chair in front of it. He had put on his own suit and his cheeks were bright red where he had shaved.

‘Ah, we’ll be all right now, when we have her back,’ he said.

Colin nodded, gazing at the fields. In one some pit ponies had been let out to graze, their heads still blinkered against the light.
‘See, now,’ his father said. ‘They’ve been let up on holiday,’ turning in his seat to watch them pass.

At the hospital he waited in a small lodge at the gates. Wooden chairs were set against a wall and behind a glass shutter in the wall a man in uniform sat reading a newspaper, occasionally looking out into the drive.

He didn’t see his mother come down the drive. A door at the end of the room opened and she appeared wearing her coat, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shining, almost shy, as if she had been away on holiday. In her arms she carried a bundle wrapped up in a white shawl.

‘Oh, now,’ she said, ‘and how are you, Colin?’ turning to his father who put down the case he was carrying.

She stooped down then and said, ‘Now then, love. Have you missed me?’

He nodded his head and as she leant against him he began to cry.

‘Now then, I’m coming home. We’ll be all right.’

‘Yes,’ he said, hiding his face against her arm.

‘Are you having a taxi?’ the man in the uniform said. He had come out from behind the glass partition and stood with his newspaper in his hand by the door.

‘Aye,’ his father said. ‘Ring us a taxi, will you?’

He was smiling, almost laughing, nodding his head as he gazed at the man.

‘Here, now,’ his mother said. ‘Have a look at him if you like.’

‘Yes,’ he said, and looked down at a tiny face sticking out at one end of the bundle.

It was sleeping, its eyes closed, a tiny fist clenched by its cheek, the thumb nail showing, almost white.

‘What shall we call him?’ his mother said

‘I don’t know.’ He shook his head, gazing at the face.

‘We’ve thought of Steven. But you choose one. We’ll think of one when we get home.’

When the taxi came his mother’s case was put into the boot and the driver held the rear door for her to climb in with the baby. Colin sat beside her and his father got in front with the driver.

‘Where to?’ the driver said.

‘The bus stop,’ his father said.

‘Nay,’ the driver said. ‘That’s less than two hundred yards.’

‘I can’t afford any more,’ his father said. ‘It’s six miles to where we live.’

The driver looked up a moment, his eyes closed, and said, ‘I can do that for ten bob.’

‘Ten bob,’ his father said. ‘Do you know how many hours I work for that?’

They got out at the bus stop and the driver stayed behind the wheel. They had to get the case out themselves; Colin held the door for his mother.

‘We ought to have paid it,’ she said. ‘This once.’

‘I would have done,’ he said. ‘I didn’t like him, that’s all. I’m damned if I’m going to pay all that to somebody like him. I’ll walk back if you like and get another.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘We’ll get the bus.’

She held the baby to her, occasionally looking down into its face, shielded by a fold of the shawl.

‘We should have had that ambulance,’ his father said. ‘I pay all that every week into the Hospital Fund and we can’t even get an ambulance.’

‘Oh, you don’t know,’ his mother said. ‘I’ve been looking forward to the ride.’