59

Down Coldstream Walk and Youlgreave Way I heard the drunken cries of the broken with skin arms aloft and beer can swinging empty as the mid-afternoon mid-town workers hit the streets and see him as he spits forth satanic notions to buses, cars and pram-pushing ma's who trot quick sharp to see him pass.

58

And as I approached forty they approached forty and climbed to the zenith of their managerial careers.

57

The mere sound of Lombard's employment made her wet. Such were the times.

56

'It's cross-contamination boy, you don't mix the coffee spoon with the tea.' Everyday a new complaint. Then his elephant hands grabbed his stained mug and he took another long swallow.

55

The bus unnervingly swerves around the tight bend of the crossroads before stopping. A group of passengers, of which I am included, lurch forward as we wait to depart. I make my way through the busy streets.

 

It’s a Friday, and I notice the Friday rush as the mole-faced shoppers start to show their faces. On the ground, a light rain has left a film of muddy water which covers the paving slabs. Imprinted are the footsteps of those that have gone before me.

 

Drinkers come here for the cheap booze. Not the decor. The cheap drinks bring out the heavies, the all-day old sorts with nothing left to do with their lives but while away the hours knocking back ale until the doors close. Lombard is sitting in the far corner of the room reading a paper. I walk over.

 

A weathered black guy with a long white beard stares into oblivion. His hat is frayed around the edges. An old boy stands, takes his plastic bags and rests an unlit smoke between his lips. Down an alley a junkie slips away, his chequered shirt hanging limply off his wiry frame.

54

Even over the revellers’ voices you can hear the boats moving on the river. The creaking of ropes as they tighten and snap to take the strain from this November night’s wind.

Buoys clank hollow against empty hulls and untied awnings lash rebelliously as the wind blows in harder from the North Sea.

I remember after nights like this, when my father would a fret and always come down early the next day to check for damage.