being hemmed in, enclosed, was as strong as ever.
He hated the town.The gridiron acres of Sunderland’s narrow streets with their back-to-back terraced houses and heaving humanity, and the tight-packed industries bordering the river were stifling, choking the life out of their inhabitants. As a lad he’d sometimes walked along the river bank, past the factories and workshops, roperies, glassworks, potteries, limekilns, ironworks and shipyards, all the time wondering what he was going to do when he was grown up because even then he’d known he couldn’t stomach the colliery.
His mother had always insisted his fear of being shut in had come from the months he’d been in hospital as a little bairn. He unconsciously touched the left side of his face. He didn’t know about that. What he did know was that living in the warren that was Monkwearmouth was not for him. He didn’t fit in, in more ways than one. He smiled grimly. And he hadn’t wanted to fit in.
He began to pick his way down the narrow lane, careful of the ice underfoot which made walking treacherous. There were more lights than usual in the windows, it being New Year’s Eve, and once he’d emerged into Southwick Road there were more folk about too. He’d already decided not to take a cab and continued down Southwick Road into Sunderland Road, but it wasn’t until he’d walked a couple of miles and North Hylton Road stretched before him that he began to breathe more easily.This area was more open, with just the odd house and farm dotted here and there, and by the time he had reached the old quarries at the back of Hylton Red House, the lights of the town were far behind him.
It was only then he permitted himself to acknowledge the truth which had been gnawing at him since he had left his mother’s house. That little lass in the kitchen had been scared to death of him. He’d noticed before she was nervous and on the quiet side but he hadn’t been sure if it was him or whether she was the same with everyone. But tonight when she had looked at him he had known. He disgusted her. Why it should bother him when he had been used to a similar reaction from people most of his life he didn’t know. But it did. Damn it, it did.
He stood for a moment staring over the white fields in front of him before turning off the main road and into the narrow lane which led to Clover Farm. The night was quiet and still, every twig on every tree and bush in the hedgerow either side of the winding lane outlined in silver tracery against the moonlit sky. The frozen tufted grass was especially lovely, each blade encrusted and edged with filigree frost-work. It brought the mingled pain and pleasure that beauty always produced in his chest and he shook his head at what he considered shameful weakness. He would rather cut out his own tongue than confess that such things - the sun setting like a ball of fire in a copper sky, shimmering films of mist rolling over a field in the pearly light of dawn, even a nightingale’s song - had the power to create a rhapsody in his soul. He was different enough already without adding to it.
He could remember the very moment he discovered he wasn’t like everyone else. He had been five years old and the day had started when his mother had set him on her knee and explained he was going to have a new da along with a new brother and sister. Their own mam had died, like his da, but now they’d be one family again. That’d be nice, wouldn’t it? He’d thought so. Grandma Hedley had never let him play out in the street with the other bairns and the thought of playmates had been exciting. But his new sister had screamed with fright at the sight of his face and had had to be taken home early.
There had been no mirrors within his reach at his grandparents’ house where he and his mother had lived since he’d returned from the infirmary just after his second birthday. Later that afternoon he’d crept away into his
He hated the town.The gridiron acres of Sunderland’s narrow streets with their back-to-back terraced houses and heaving humanity, and the tight-packed industries bordering the river were stifling, choking the life out of their inhabitants. As a lad he’d sometimes walked along the river bank, past the factories and workshops, roperies, glassworks, potteries, limekilns, ironworks and shipyards, all the time wondering what he was going to do when he was grown up because even then he’d known he couldn’t stomach the colliery.
His mother had always insisted his fear of being shut in had come from the months he’d been in hospital as a little bairn. He unconsciously touched the left side of his face. He didn’t know about that. What he did know was that living in the warren that was Monkwearmouth was not for him. He didn’t fit in, in more ways than one. He smiled grimly. And he hadn’t wanted to fit in.
He began to pick his way down the narrow lane, careful of the ice underfoot which made walking treacherous. There were more lights than usual in the windows, it being New Year’s Eve, and once he’d emerged into Southwick Road there were more folk about too. He’d already decided not to take a cab and continued down Southwick Road into Sunderland Road, but it wasn’t until he’d walked a couple of miles and North Hylton Road stretched before him that he began to breathe more easily.This area was more open, with just the odd house and farm dotted here and there, and by the time he had reached the old quarries at the back of Hylton Red House, the lights of the town were far behind him.
It was only then he permitted himself to acknowledge the truth which had been gnawing at him since he had left his mother’s house. That little lass in the kitchen had been scared to death of him. He’d noticed before she was nervous and on the quiet side but he hadn’t been sure if it was him or whether she was the same with everyone. But tonight when she had looked at him he had known. He disgusted her. Why it should bother him when he had been used to a similar reaction from people most of his life he didn’t know. But it did. Damn it, it did.
He stood for a moment staring over the white fields in front of him before turning off the main road and into the narrow lane which led to Clover Farm. The night was quiet and still, every twig on every tree and bush in the hedgerow either side of the winding lane outlined in silver tracery against the moonlit sky. The frozen tufted grass was especially lovely, each blade encrusted and edged with filigree frost-work. It brought the mingled pain and pleasure that beauty always produced in his chest and he shook his head at what he considered shameful weakness. He would rather cut out his own tongue than confess that such things - the sun setting like a ball of fire in a copper sky, shimmering films of mist rolling over a field in the pearly light of dawn, even a nightingale’s song - had the power to create a rhapsody in his soul. He was different enough already without adding to it.
He could remember the very moment he discovered he wasn’t like everyone else. He had been five years old and the day had started when his mother had set him on her knee and explained he was going to have a new da along with a new brother and sister. Their own mam had died, like his da, but now they’d be one family again. That’d be nice, wouldn’t it? He’d thought so. Grandma Hedley had never let him play out in the street with the other bairns and the thought of playmates had been exciting. But his new sister had screamed with fright at the sight of his face and had had to be taken home early.
There had been no mirrors within his reach at his grandparents’ house where he and his mother had lived since he’d returned from the infirmary just after his second birthday. Later that afternoon he’d crept away into his
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