I took a morning trip with Dad to the bank in Lockley, to the pet shop in Crossley and Farnshaw. As we drove, he regaled me with tales of 1960s Temperance Hotel stabbings and other Easterby murders. Yesterday’s feelings on encountering the poorer areas of Whincliffe were repeated today as we went through Woodhead Mills and Birkside Bank. Easterby has its own slummy areas too, their impact lessened no doubt through familiarity. We got back in the early afternoon.
It rained all afternoon and while Dad frantically hoovered and dusted in preparation for the descent of Andrew and friend I gave my boots another coat of dye. They rolled up at three or so; Andrew’s friend Jay is a Chicagoan, red-faced, acned and bearded and quite amusing to listen to as he drawled on, punctuating his conversation with “wow” and “I guess."
Everything was very correct for the guest; Dad pronounced his words properly and with care as he talked to Andrew, whereas normally he doesn’t bother.
Andrew and Jay went for a walk along the canal bank before tea, and in the evening, after a lavish meal by usual standards, they went for a drink in Knowlesbeck. Dad and I watched England lose 1-0 at home to a much-vaunted Denmark team while Mum dozed wearily in the chair.
It’s colder than of late tonight and the full moon has risen and now casts its icy brilliance across the sky. My departure for Watermouth looms ever nearer and I can feel my time here drawing slowly to a close. I’ve begun packing my trunk and I’ve hidden my £30-share of the cheese in a layer at the very bottom, concealed beneath records, books and clothes.
Shelley sent me another letter. She’s so self-confident, and rails against her fellow flat-mates for being “bossy” and “boring,” and Penny for complaining about being bored. P. has got a Mohican, done no doubt at the instigation of Shawn. Shelley has been trying to get the Einsturzende Neubauten album for me for a week now, but Virgin has sold out, so I’ll have to wait.
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