Dawn rose on my third floor walk-up flat on the coal-dusty

black back-streets of Newcastle.  The grubby windows, and 

the constant whine of coal elevators, were a continual 

reminder this was THE coalpit of Great Britain.

  

There were no white walls, only grey, and filthy red brick 

everywhere.  The pavements were always covered with grime, 

the people who walked them, always covered head to foot 

with heavy clothing to keep the unwanted soot paticles from 

adhering to their hair and skin, the little bairns almost 

unable to see from over the tops of their heavy knitted 

scarves, wound tightly around their necks and ruddy-complexioned

faces, their runny noses constantly causing the scarves to 

slip, and creating an even worse mess about their eyes and 

cheekbones, as they pushed the garment back up and over the 

cause of their discomfort, trying their hardest to keep them

warm and dry, so that their mums won't scold them for getting

their faces dirty, impelling the mums to spank them anyway, 

when they run, playing, into the sheets and towels they'd 

just hung out to dry, after standing over big metal tubs 

filled with water boiled from the kettle, doing the never

ending chore of scrubbing those very same linens, trying 

their hardest to remove the soil left by the bairns from 

the previous occasion, finally giving up, rinsing the fabric

in the wood barrel by the back door that all Jordy homes have

there to catch the rain water, so that they might wash the 

inky, black residue from their faces and hands, thereby 

allowing them to sit down to tea, freshly clean, enough, 

for them to enjoy the mashed potato supper their wives have,

invariably, cooked for them, the custard in the pots behind 

them, slowly simmering, filling their kitchens with its 

sweet, vanilla-milk aroma prompting the coalminer/shipbuilder

husbands to rush through the "mash 'n ..." in order to 

indulge in its thick, creamy, starchiness - thereby giving 

them the much-needed-energy, to go back to the coal-mines 

and shipyards once again.



Except from Berwick-Upon-Tweed

(submitted for publication 1979)



Copyright 1978, 1980, 1997

Christopher Wyndham Thomas



All Rights Reserved