George insisted, ‘just want to stop off at me da’s on the way - see how the old bugger is.’
He knew Bob and the others thought him strange for not living at home with his family, preferring to rent a room on his own in a dilapidated house in Rye Hill. But he had always been independent, a very private man, in spite of his capacity for organising others and being a stalwart of the rowing team. He revelled in his one-roomed freedom away from the bursting pit cottage in Benwell where his sister Irene kept house for his father and brothers, his mother having died long since.
‘Haven’t got yourself a secret woman tucked away in that den of yours, have you, George?’ Bob teased, punching him on the chest.
‘Wouldn’t you like to know.’ George caught Bob’s fist, delivering a playful cuff on his chin in return. They wrestled for a minute until the others intervened and they parted with cheerful obscenities.
When his friends were out of sight, George turned in the opposite direction and made his way over some derelict land, climbing a battered fence and crossing a field. Later he would visit his old father and help himself to Irene’s homemade pies, but first he wanted to walk. Since a scrawny youth he had enjoyed roaming the countryside on the fringes of Newcastle, watching the wilderness retreat before the greedy sprawling mass of hastily thrown up housing and brash new factories.
Small farms and meadows still stood their ground against the grime and smoke and effluent that threatened to poison them with progress. As a boy, George had played among the stooks and waded barefoot through burns, imagining he was an ancient Briton evading the imperious Romans just like in the history book John Heslop, the Sunday School teacher, had lent him. George had long since turned his back on religion, seeing it as a trick of the ruling classes to keep their workers docile and obedient. But Heslop’s teaching had fired a love of history that had never been quenched and George would often steal to the institute library after work to read dusty historical tomes and even poetry.
‘God forbid - if there is a God - that Bob and the lads should ever find me reciting poetry,’ George said aloud as he strode through the young green grasses, stirring up butterflies.
When he was sure he was out of earshot of the receding houses, he pulled a volume of poetry from inside his jacket and began to read Matthew Arnold to the trees and hedgerows as he passed. It was suitably melancholic after his defeat on the river and he boomed out verse after verse. Approaching a farmhouse, George fell silent, enjoying the evening twitter of birds and the bellow of a cow needing milking. He waved at the red-cheeked dairy girl with her raw hands and wondered why he had not been born on the land where he felt most at home.
At least he was not working underground like his father and brothers, George thought with relief. After his mother’s death, he had hung around the blacksmith’s forge to be near the horses, comforted by the animal smells and the warmth of the forge fire in winter. For years he had watched fascinated as the blacksmith in his leather apron had shod pit ponies and dray horses, his tools ringing harshly as the hot metal glowed orange in his grasp and the forge reeking with the pungency of scorched hooves. Finally the blacksmith had agreed to take him on because he was the strongest of the boys who pestered for a job and he learned quickly.
George gained the top of the hill and looked back down to the Tyne and its hazy industrial sprawl. Church spires poked up hopefully out of the smog, but they were outnumbered by the smoking chimneys and preying cranes. George sighed. He had left the smithy, lured by better prospects in the shipyards, and since then it had been his lot to spend his days sweating in Pearson’s forge working its gigantic hammers and hydraulic presses. Although there was satisfaction in producing huge metal sheets that
He knew Bob and the others thought him strange for not living at home with his family, preferring to rent a room on his own in a dilapidated house in Rye Hill. But he had always been independent, a very private man, in spite of his capacity for organising others and being a stalwart of the rowing team. He revelled in his one-roomed freedom away from the bursting pit cottage in Benwell where his sister Irene kept house for his father and brothers, his mother having died long since.
‘Haven’t got yourself a secret woman tucked away in that den of yours, have you, George?’ Bob teased, punching him on the chest.
‘Wouldn’t you like to know.’ George caught Bob’s fist, delivering a playful cuff on his chin in return. They wrestled for a minute until the others intervened and they parted with cheerful obscenities.
When his friends were out of sight, George turned in the opposite direction and made his way over some derelict land, climbing a battered fence and crossing a field. Later he would visit his old father and help himself to Irene’s homemade pies, but first he wanted to walk. Since a scrawny youth he had enjoyed roaming the countryside on the fringes of Newcastle, watching the wilderness retreat before the greedy sprawling mass of hastily thrown up housing and brash new factories.
Small farms and meadows still stood their ground against the grime and smoke and effluent that threatened to poison them with progress. As a boy, George had played among the stooks and waded barefoot through burns, imagining he was an ancient Briton evading the imperious Romans just like in the history book John Heslop, the Sunday School teacher, had lent him. George had long since turned his back on religion, seeing it as a trick of the ruling classes to keep their workers docile and obedient. But Heslop’s teaching had fired a love of history that had never been quenched and George would often steal to the institute library after work to read dusty historical tomes and even poetry.
‘God forbid - if there is a God - that Bob and the lads should ever find me reciting poetry,’ George said aloud as he strode through the young green grasses, stirring up butterflies.
When he was sure he was out of earshot of the receding houses, he pulled a volume of poetry from inside his jacket and began to read Matthew Arnold to the trees and hedgerows as he passed. It was suitably melancholic after his defeat on the river and he boomed out verse after verse. Approaching a farmhouse, George fell silent, enjoying the evening twitter of birds and the bellow of a cow needing milking. He waved at the red-cheeked dairy girl with her raw hands and wondered why he had not been born on the land where he felt most at home.
At least he was not working underground like his father and brothers, George thought with relief. After his mother’s death, he had hung around the blacksmith’s forge to be near the horses, comforted by the animal smells and the warmth of the forge fire in winter. For years he had watched fascinated as the blacksmith in his leather apron had shod pit ponies and dray horses, his tools ringing harshly as the hot metal glowed orange in his grasp and the forge reeking with the pungency of scorched hooves. Finally the blacksmith had agreed to take him on because he was the strongest of the boys who pestered for a job and he learned quickly.
George gained the top of the hill and looked back down to the Tyne and its hazy industrial sprawl. Church spires poked up hopefully out of the smog, but they were outnumbered by the smoking chimneys and preying cranes. George sighed. He had left the smithy, lured by better prospects in the shipyards, and since then it had been his lot to spend his days sweating in Pearson’s forge working its gigantic hammers and hydraulic presses. Although there was satisfaction in producing huge metal sheets that
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