FALLEN IDOLS. Neil White

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       TWELVE

      It was late afternoon before I arrived in Turners Fold.

      I was surprised at how nothing had changed, like it had a different time-frame, existing in a bubble; like driving around a photograph album, sepia print, reminders of why I’d had to leave.

      I entered the Fold the usual way. There were just two ways in, from the north and from the south. All the roads that headed for the hills either turned into tracks or turned back on themselves. Pre-war bay fronts were at the entrance to the town, and then came the terraces. But these weren’t the narrow two-storey strips found nearer to the centre of town, the old mill-workers terraces with doors right onto the street. These were much grander, three storeys high, with neat gardens at the front protected by low stone walls. They gave way eventually to shops, but they were tiny affairs, crammed into Victorian fronts with stone-edged door frames, the insides dark and uninviting.

      There was grey as far as I could see, lines and lines of it, the severe stripes brightened only by the fake red of suburbia as new developments filled the gaps left behind by derelict industry. I dodged slow drivers and bolting dogs for half a mile and then passed my old high school. I gave a look left. I always did when I passed it, the sign by the entrance announcing what it was, the view over the town reminding me why I had to get away.

      I saw a flash of the sports fields just behind. There was a football field, goals warped and irregular, and beyond that there was a cricket pitch, really just a rectangle of short grass protected by a rope, surrounded by benches framed against the rising hills. That would be a good place to get a picture, and so I made a mental note to call back early in the morning, when the light would be sharp blue. It was where the career of David Watts had started, where he had dominated the school league and ended up signing for Burnley before making the trip to the south. From then on it had been millionaire and superstar.

      I shrugged off my school memories when I drove into the town triangle. I pulled over at Jake’s and stepped out of the car, feeling the Pennine breeze on my face for the first time since Christmas. The air felt clean, like it was coming in straight off the craggy tops, packed full with chill. It didn’t have that urban warmth of London, where the air was sodden with smoke and fumes. I’d forgotten what it was like, this clarity, this purity.

      I looked up at Jake’s Store and smiled.

      Jake’s had been there as long as there’d been Turners Fold, or at least that’s how it seemed. It had an old wooden frame around the front, painted blue, casting shadows over the windows, making it impossible to see in. The front had been painted many times, the wood now bending with age and the effects of the sun, when it came, so the paint had chipped and flaked and pointed jagged fingers.

      As I walked towards it, I could hear the sound of a brush on the old tiled floor drifting out to the street, like it always did when trade slackened off.

      I turned as I heard a car rumble over the cobbles running alongside the town hall. It was an old Mondeo, windows down, someone from my old school at the wheel. His arm rested lazily out of the window as he drove slowly along, tapping lightly to the beat of his radio. Robbie Williams swirled around the square and washed over me like cleanser, the simple pop anthem a change from the usual club-land thump that seemed to bang out of every bar in London. The music matched the slow crunch of the tyres as I watched them roll away.

      I walked into Jake’s. The shop was dark and shaded, so it took my eyes a couple of seconds to adjust, and when they did I saw Jake by his broom, nodding his head and smiling.

      ‘Well, look who it is,’ he chuckled. ‘Jack Garrett. You tired of old London town?’

      I grinned and held out my hand. Jake took it and gave it a gentle shake. His fingers felt old and brittle in mine. His skin was soft and cold, and I could feel the thinness of the skin. He looked bonier than I remembered, and he seemed to be stooping more than he used to. His skin just didn’t fit as tight these days.

      ‘I think London’s tired of me,’ I replied, laughing. ‘How are you, Jake?’

      He skimmed the brush across the floor absentmindedly. ‘I’m fine, Jack. The winters get colder and the summers make me want to sleep, but I feel fine.’

      ‘How’s Martha? Is she still working?’

      ‘Oh, СКАЧАТЬ