Saville by David Storey Page A

It’s been like having one of your own.’
    ‘Aye,’ his father said. ‘We’re very grateful to you.’
    ‘What with the garden dug and him cleaning my brasses.’
    His father nodded, laughing.
    ‘He can get stuck into our garden now,’ he said. ‘These last few weeks it’s gone to ruin.’
    ‘Ah, well,’ she said. ‘You’re all back now, thank God, and a re-united family.’
    ‘Aye,’ his father said. ‘We’ve a lot to thank Him for.’
    When Mrs Shaw had gone his father put one of the cups of tea on a saucer with a biscuit and went to the stairs.
    ‘I’ll just take this up,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll see what we have for dinner.’
    ‘Is my mother coming down?’ he said.
    ‘Aye,’ his father said. ‘When she’s finished.’
    He sat in the kitchen, gazing out at the overgrown garden and the shelter. Overhead he heard his father’s steps then his voice followed by his mother’s.
    At the colliery a buzzer sounded.
    He put the cigarettes on the table. At the end of the garden, between it and the back yards of the next street, was a narrow field. It opened out on one side on to farm fields and at the other was enclosed by the converging houses. Several children were playing, waiting for their dinners, jumping in and out of a hole.
    When he went out he shouted to them, trying to avoid the patches of clay and soil either side of the path.
    ‘Hey,’ he said from the fence. ‘We’ve got a baby.’
    ‘What’s that?’ they said.
    He indicated the house behind.
    ‘What is it?’ they said.
    ‘A boy.’
    They jumped back into the hole, disappearing a moment then suddenly climbing out, running off down the field then back again, their arms stretched out. Every now and again they made a stuttering noise in their throats.
    He stood watching them for a while, holding the railings.
    Then, his hands in his pockets, he turned back to the house.
    Across the yards a woman was hanging out washing. She stood on her toes, reaching up to the line.
    ‘Is you mother back?’ she said.
    ‘Yes,’ he said and nodded.
    ‘What colour’s its eyes?’
    ‘Blue,’ he said.
    ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Just like his father’s.’
    When he went in his father was stoking up the fire.
    ‘Now, then, let’s see about some dinner,’ he said, stooping down and setting the pans against the flames.

Part Two

6
    The boys he played with were slightly older than himself. Some of them already wore long flannels. Their leader, when he wasn’t in hospital or didn’t feel too tired to come out, was a boy called Batty. He was very tall and had bright red hair. It was because of his height that he was always having trouble with his feet. They stuck out sideways and when he ran his legs were flicked out sideways too, his knees knocking against one another and causing him such discomfort that usually when he was out playing he spent most of his time calling to the others, ‘Hey, come on. Let’s walk.’ He was sometimes called Walkie-Talkie, other times Lolly, though usually Batty seemed to do.
    He came from a large family farther along the terrace: there were seven brothers, all with red hair. ‘Our kids’ll bash you,’ Batty would say whenever his authority was questioned and he would indicate the windows of his crowded home.
    The centre of Batty’s life was the hut he had built in the Dell, half a mile away. It stood between the high, fenced walls of the gasworks on one side and the sewage beds on the other.
    After the birth of the baby Colin spent a lot of his time in the hut. He would go down there after school, or in the dinner hour. Sometimes, getting up early and hearing his mother feeding the baby in the bedroom, he would get dressed and go out, taking a piece of bread with him. His mother would sometimes call out and when he went in she would be sitting up in bed, the baby held over her shoulder. She would ask him if he would like some tea, straighten his tie with her one free hand and look at his ears and neck. His