frost on the road. He had to watch out for pedestrians.
School children were walking to school in twos and threes, muffled up against the cold, pixie hoods knitted from scraps of wool on their heads and mufflers round their necks, crisscrossed over their chests and tied behind their backs. On the ridge behind the houses stood the cathedral, standing guard over the little city. Ken spared it a quick glance, his spirits lifting as they always did at the sight.
Coming out on the other side of Durham, he took the Sunderland road. He had to go along the coast road through the town, skirting round the ruins where the bombs had fallen earlier in the war, smiling spontaneously as he caught his first glimpse of the sea.
That was it, that was what he had missed since he left Marsden: the sight of the North Sea. All this time in Africa and Italy, when he had often been so close to the sea, had not made up for this. It was different somehow, the smell of the North Sea, even the wind freezing his bones as it swept down from the Arctic.
What a fool he was! he thought. The smell was a mixture of fish and salt and sea coal, mingled with the down-blown smoke from the stacks in the pit yards of the coastal collieries. He grinned at his own sentimentality.
He was still smiling as he drove into the farmyard along the lane from the mining village and stopped the engine. As he climbed out of the car his younger brother Walt appeared in the doorway of the stable, grinning widely as he saw who it was sweeping into the yard, scattering the hens and making the drake honk and spread his wings in defence of his geese.
‘You’re back then,’ was all the greeting Walt gave, in spite of his grin. ‘Look at you now. Causing havoc already, you are.’
The pet porker that had been rooting about in the yard had panicked and fled, squealing, knocking the clothes prop from the line of washing which had been fluttering high above the yard and was now dangerously close to the muddy ground. Ken bent to pick up the prop and put it back in place before answering his brother’s greeting.
‘Ken! Why didn’t you tell us you were coming? By, lad, it’s grand to see you, it is that.’
‘Hello, Grandma,’ he said, bending again to kiss the white-haired old lady who had rushed out of the kitchen door. ‘I thought I would surprise you all. Of course, if you don’t want to see me, I can soon go.’
‘Don’t be daft, lad. Howay in and see your mam. Walt, tell your uncle we’re having our elevenses early now Ken’s here.’
Ken glanced back at his brother before following Meg, his grandmother, into the big old-fashioned kitchen. Walt’s welcome had been genuine and warm enough; he never was one to show a lot of emotion. He was a born farmer, like most of the family on both sides. Their father had been killed in 1933 when his tractor rolled down a bank on top of him and their mother had sold up the small inland farm they had owned and brought her boys back to the farm, which her father, Jonty Grizedale, had bought when he first brought Meg and her two boys away from Winton Colliery.
In spite of his love of farming, Walt had been envious of his elder brother’s scholarship to the Medical School of Durham University in Newcastle. And then, tied as he himself was to the farm when war broke out, he was envious of Ken’s going into the army. Of course he might have enlisted himself, but couldn’t leave his uncle the only man on the farm apart from Ben, a fifteen-year-old boy who intended to join the navy as soon as he was old enough.
So Ken had felt the need to tread softly in his dealings with Walt. The question was, had his brother matured enough by now to forget his envious feeling? Perhaps.
The kitchen was exactly the same as he remembered it. Still the same red-tiled range with shining steel hinges on the oven door, the terracotta tiles on the floor which Grandma had had laid just before the war. Only a new proddy mat before the fire – bright
School children were walking to school in twos and threes, muffled up against the cold, pixie hoods knitted from scraps of wool on their heads and mufflers round their necks, crisscrossed over their chests and tied behind their backs. On the ridge behind the houses stood the cathedral, standing guard over the little city. Ken spared it a quick glance, his spirits lifting as they always did at the sight.
Coming out on the other side of Durham, he took the Sunderland road. He had to go along the coast road through the town, skirting round the ruins where the bombs had fallen earlier in the war, smiling spontaneously as he caught his first glimpse of the sea.
That was it, that was what he had missed since he left Marsden: the sight of the North Sea. All this time in Africa and Italy, when he had often been so close to the sea, had not made up for this. It was different somehow, the smell of the North Sea, even the wind freezing his bones as it swept down from the Arctic.
What a fool he was! he thought. The smell was a mixture of fish and salt and sea coal, mingled with the down-blown smoke from the stacks in the pit yards of the coastal collieries. He grinned at his own sentimentality.
He was still smiling as he drove into the farmyard along the lane from the mining village and stopped the engine. As he climbed out of the car his younger brother Walt appeared in the doorway of the stable, grinning widely as he saw who it was sweeping into the yard, scattering the hens and making the drake honk and spread his wings in defence of his geese.
‘You’re back then,’ was all the greeting Walt gave, in spite of his grin. ‘Look at you now. Causing havoc already, you are.’
The pet porker that had been rooting about in the yard had panicked and fled, squealing, knocking the clothes prop from the line of washing which had been fluttering high above the yard and was now dangerously close to the muddy ground. Ken bent to pick up the prop and put it back in place before answering his brother’s greeting.
‘Ken! Why didn’t you tell us you were coming? By, lad, it’s grand to see you, it is that.’
‘Hello, Grandma,’ he said, bending again to kiss the white-haired old lady who had rushed out of the kitchen door. ‘I thought I would surprise you all. Of course, if you don’t want to see me, I can soon go.’
‘Don’t be daft, lad. Howay in and see your mam. Walt, tell your uncle we’re having our elevenses early now Ken’s here.’
Ken glanced back at his brother before following Meg, his grandmother, into the big old-fashioned kitchen. Walt’s welcome had been genuine and warm enough; he never was one to show a lot of emotion. He was a born farmer, like most of the family on both sides. Their father had been killed in 1933 when his tractor rolled down a bank on top of him and their mother had sold up the small inland farm they had owned and brought her boys back to the farm, which her father, Jonty Grizedale, had bought when he first brought Meg and her two boys away from Winton Colliery.
In spite of his love of farming, Walt had been envious of his elder brother’s scholarship to the Medical School of Durham University in Newcastle. And then, tied as he himself was to the farm when war broke out, he was envious of Ken’s going into the army. Of course he might have enlisted himself, but couldn’t leave his uncle the only man on the farm apart from Ben, a fifteen-year-old boy who intended to join the navy as soon as he was old enough.
So Ken had felt the need to tread softly in his dealings with Walt. The question was, had his brother matured enough by now to forget his envious feeling? Perhaps.
The kitchen was exactly the same as he remembered it. Still the same red-tiled range with shining steel hinges on the oven door, the terracotta tiles on the floor which Grandma had had laid just before the war. Only a new proddy mat before the fire – bright
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