I again met Lee in Easterby. This time he arrived looking for all the world like a postman or plumber and we got turned heads, smirks and comments as we wandered up through the streets.
Easterby was seething with people; groups of lads in burgundy and grey, white socks, wedge-cuts and their girls in whites and pastels and tight jeans, idling amid the streams of people, casting speculative glances at passersby, ready to stare and nudge when someone not cast in their mold appeared. Lee seemed blissfully unaware, but did mutter darkly that he hated everybody he’d seen.
As we headed for HMV, two white-bloused and jean-clad slags fastened themselves onto us, staring at us with an almost insolent intensity, walking alongside mockingly. They giggled as we disappeared into the shop. I bought The Fall’s A Part of America Therein – 1981; they were there when we re-emerged. I tried to outstare one of them and she and her cig smoking friend broke into derisive sniggers.
I went home feeling black and vulnerable: the people, the sneers, the hostile intolerance, the readiness to mock had all got the better of me. When I got home I said “they’ve all crawled out of the woodwork” in bitter enough fashion to elicit a, “that’s not a nice thing to say” from Mum.
It’s started to rain. The grey skies glower and the drizzle is falling for the first time in weeks. Jeremy’s barbecue has fallen on an inopportune night.
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