had married Ruth about that time, and his marriage and the birth of his son had given him a degree of consolation. Bob, meanwhile, feverishly immersed himself in his work at the quarries, and when young Casey was born, the old man’s heart was happier than it had been for months. Seemingly gifted with a deep love and a joyful ability for music, the boy had given him another reason to keep going. Bob still missed his lovely woman – that would never change – but he tried to move on in life as best he could.
The previous year, Bob had retired from work, so now all he had was his son and his grandson, two people he loved more than life itself. As for Ruth, he had tried many times to befriend her, but she was not an easy woman to get close to. In the end, he had no choice but to give up trying, yet it was a situation he still fretted over.
Like it or not, Ruth carried the name of Denton. She was his daughter-in-law, the wife of his only son, and the mother of his only grandchild, but because she had little time for him, he hardly knew her.
He had always considered that to be a great pity.
Having eaten his dinner and washed the dishes, Bob was now putting them away in the cupboard. Got to keep the place tidy, he thought. As my lovely woman used to say, ‘You never know when you might get visitors.’
Like the rest of this lived-in kind of house, the kitchen was a homely place, not ‘posh’, and certainly not pristine. A well-worn, crinkled mat was at the door, and a row of pretty floral teacups decorated the shelves of the kitchen cabinet. More often than not, there was a used cup on the draining board, next to the tea caddy, and beside that was a barrel of biscuits.
Many things were naturally reused. Every morning Bob would scrunch up yesterday’s newspaper and spread it beneath the wood and coal in the fire grate. Later, when he slumped in his favourite armchair to smoke his pipe and read his paper, he would light the fire, and enjoy the evening warming his toes, and eating his hot stew. If there was any stew left over, he’d always take it down to the butcher, who would be very grateful. ‘I’ll give it to the pigs,’ he would say. ‘Mek the meat taste that much richer, eh?’ Bob told him he didn’t want that information, thank you. It was enough to know that the leftovers were of a use to him.
This little house was Bob’s castle. It had known much love and laughter – a house adorned with mementoes of good times – and when you went inside it was like a pair of strong arms wrapping themselves about you, covering you with warmth and love, which over the years had steeped into the walls for all time.
Arranged on the sitting-room walls were many beautiful sketches of local landscapes, each and every one lovingly created by Bob’s talented wife, Anne.
With much love and a true painter’s eye, she had sketched the green, meandering fields around Pleasington: the town hall on a sunny day; the canal with its colourful barges; even a painting of Addison Street, with its loaf-shaped cobbles and tall iron streetlamps, which lit the way home at night, and provided the supports for children’s swings during the day.
It was said that once you’d enjoyed the unique experience of Addison Street, you would never forget it. If you approached the street from the bottom, you had to lean your body forward at a sharp angle, in order to climb to the top.
But if you approached Addison Street from Preston New Road at the top, you would need to be feet first and leaning backwards, in the opposite direction.
Negotiating the street from top to bottom was either foolhardy, or an act of sheer bravery, the locals claimed. It was so impossibly steep that you could never adopt a leisurely pace, though with legs slightly bent and your whole body leaning backwards for balance, you might start off with that intention. The first few steps might give you the confidence to accelerate slightly, but unless you had a desire to be catapulted into Never Never Land, you would be well advised to take it slowly; though that might be harder than you envisaged.
Inevitably you would find yourself increasing pace, going faster and faster, until you started running; by that point, in an uncontrollable and terrifying manner. With your best hat flown away, and hair standing on end, your last resort would be to pray you might get to the bottom without injury.
Once there, with shattered nerves and a fast-beating heart, you’d be anxious to resume your journey on level ground, promising yourself that never again would you be so careless of life and limb.
Some wary adults learned to negotiate the street by walking sideways with their backs to the wall as they edged along; others were known to hang onto the door handles as they inched their way down. And a few staunch heroes might brave the ordeal with a forced smile on their faces.
Most adults dreaded the ordeal of negotiating Addison Street, but children would happily throw caution to the winds as they ran from top to bottom, whooping and hollering. When it seemed they might take off and launch themselves into the wild blue yonder, they would catch hold of a passing lamppost and swing round and round until they fell in a dizzy heap on the pavement.
Some said it was better than a free funfair, while Granddad Bob claimed it was his beloved Addison Street that kept him ‘fit for owt’.
Having just tidied the kitchen, Bob planned to amble his way to the back parlour, where he would settle down with pipe and paper, and choose a likely winning horse from the racing page.
As he went into the passageway, he was surprised and slightly irritated by a determined knock on the door.
He opened the front door, delighted to see Tom and Casey.
‘Well, I never!’ Opening his arms, he took the boy into his embrace before inviting him to, ‘Get yer coat off an’ help yourself to a ginger biscuit from the barrel in the kitchen cabinet. Oh, and by the way, your comics are still in the drawer, if you’re wondering.’
Curious, he glanced at the mantelpiece clock. It was almost 8 p.m. At this time of evening, the boy should be at home, getting ready for his bed. And when Tom hung his coat up, the old fella noticed that he was still in his working clothes. That was odd, he thought worriedly. ‘Come through, lad. Looks to me like we need to talk, eh?’
Leaving the boy to his biscuits and comic, Bob led his son to the back parlour, where Tom stood with his back to the fireplace, while his father sat himself in the big old armchair.
‘What’s wrong, lad?’ Though a working man, married with a child, Tom was always referred to by his father as ‘lad’. In an odd way, it gave him a sense of comfort, but not tonight, because tonight, there was nothing on earth that might comfort him.
‘I’ve left her.’ Tom spoke softly so the boy might not hear. He was not proud of his decision, however justified it might be. Nor was he proud of the awful burden he was about to heap on this dear man. ‘We’re not going back, Dad. Not ever!’
When his father made no response, Tom saw the worry in his face. ‘I’m sorry, Dad. I know it was a drastic step to take, but this time, she’s gone too far.’ In his mind’s eye he could see Ruth wildly attacking Casey, and the boy flinching from her, his arms held high in a feeble effort to protect himself.
‘I see.’ Bob gave a small, understanding smile. ‘You had another bad set-to with Ruth, am I right?’
‘Yes.’ He had no intentions of revealing the shocking thing Ruth had confessed to him about the stranger in the alley being Casey’s true father.
‘Hmm.
