24 December 1968 morning
Part 2
Harry threw back the bedcovers and got out of bed. He tiptoed across the freezing cold lino to the window, leaving the light off. He pulled back the curtain and peered from his first-floor bedroom out into the street.
It was still dark outside. But Harry could see a figure in the shadow standing at his front door. A woman.
In his still semi-sleep state, Harry only half recognised the figure. Then, as she looked up to his bedroom window, the streetlight illuminated the woman’s face. Jean Fletcher, the newsagent from the shop next door. What was she doing banging at his door at this time of the morning?
Harry let go of the curtain, pulled on his dressing gown and made his way downstairs. He fiddled with the front door lock and opened the door.
‘What’s all the noise Jean? Have you seen what time it is?’ asked Harry, even though he didn’t know what the time was.
‘I’m sorry Harry, I thought you would be up. It’s half-past six.’
Harry would normally have been up, but his disturbed sleep had made him sleep in.
‘I slept in. Anyway, what’s going on? Come in for a minute out of the cold.’ Harry stepped back to let Jean in. He noticed she had thrown her overcoat over her shoulders and had her slippers on her feet.
‘I’m sorry to call so soon,’ said Jean again. ‘But I was after a favour.’
Harry wondered what favour Jean could want first thing on Christmas Eve.
‘The paper man’s been but he has only delivered half my order.’
Harry felt like shrugging his shoulders because he couldn’t see the problem.
‘I rang the depot,’ said Jean, continuing her story. ‘They said they would send the rest, but it would be lunchtime before they had a driver free to make the delivery.’
‘So…?’ said Harry.
‘That’s too late. My customers will have been and gone by then. There will be hell to pay if they don’t get their paper. Today’s my busiest day of the year. Everyone wants a paper for the TV pages over Christmas.’
Harry looked at Jean as she rambled on.
‘I can’t wait until lunchtime for my order. I told them I’d go to the depot and pick it up myself.’
Realisation dawned on Harry. Now he knew where the conversation was heading.
‘So, I was wondering, if you’re not busy with something else. Would you look after the shop for an hour? I’ll pay you for your time of course.’
‘Yes, I think I can manage that.’ It was a straightforward decision; he had nothing planned for the day. It would give him something to do.
‘I could shut the shop,’ said Jean. ‘But the news spreads if the shop is closed, and they go somewhere else.’
‘And today’s your busiest day,’ said Harry, nodding.
Jean pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders. Maybe she thought it was colder in the flat than it was outside. ‘Since I’m off out in the car,’ said Jean. ‘I could do with a trip to the wholesalers, just for a couple of things.’
‘It’s fine. I don’t mind.’
‘Thanks Harry, you’re a lifesaver.’ She looked Harry up and down, still in his nightclothes. ‘I’ll give you ten minutes, is that okay?’
Harry nodded, and Jean disappeared back down the street to the shop.
A little later, Harry, suitably dressed, arrived at the newsagent shop. Jean was standing behind the counter with her coat on and her handbag threaded over her arm.
The small space inside the shop held everything you’d expect in a newspaper shop. Shelves ran around every wall, holding newspapers, magazines, and books. The small stand was in the middle of the floor, with more books and a small selection of stationery items. Pens, pencils, notebooks. A stack of 1969 diaries stood waiting to be bought. Cigarettes, tobacco and sweets filled the wall behind the counter.
‘You know how to work the till don’t you?’
Harry was familiar with the till. He had helped in the past on more than one occasion.
‘I’ve put the float in the till. You shouldn’t have any problems.’ She stepped round from the counter and Harry shuffled around to replace her. ‘No tick, I don’t care if it is Christmas.’
Jean left the shop, and a couple of minutes later, Harry’s first customer arrived.
The man picked up a paper from the stack on a shelf and crossed to the counter. ‘Twenty Benson’s,’ he said as he nodded towards the shelf behind Harry.
Harry picked a packet of cigarettes from the shelf and put them on the counter. The man handed over some money and picked up his purchase. ‘Keep the change for the paper lads,’ he said as he turned to leave.
Harry rang up the sale and sorted out a few coins to pass on to the paper lads. What they would do with four pence between them, he couldn’t imagine.
The next customer offered a similar tip for the paper boys and so did the next. The pile of coins for the paper lads was mounting up.
An old jam jar stuffed with pens and elastic bands stood next to the till. Harry tipped them out and rooted around in a drawer for a pen and paper. He wrote a makeshift label “tips for paper lads” and stuck it to the front of the jar with a piece of tape.
He filled the jar with the morning’s contributions and placed the jar in the centre of the counter, then stood back and admired his handiwork.
The morning progressed, a dull grey daylight tried its best to brighten the day. It barely succeeded. Harry shivered every time a customer arrived and let in a stream of icy air. He wished he had asked Jean about a heater for behind the counter.
At about half past ten, Jean returned to the shop. Papers from the depot and supplies from the wholesaler filled her car.
She asked Harry to stay on until she had sorted everything out. He showed Jean his collecting jar. He wasn’t sure if she would approve. She might think it was like begging, but she loved it.
‘What a great idea, I wish I’d thought of it,’ she said. ‘It will be a little treat for them after the holidays are over.’
The rest of the morning passed quickly and just after twelve, Jean thanked him for his help and said she could now manage.
Harry felt disappointed; he would have happily stayed for the rest of the day. But no doubt Jean would close early, and he wanted to get to the shops to spend his wages from the morning.
Jean pressed some money into his hand and wished him a Merry Christmas. ‘Thanks again for your help,’ she said again.
Harry slipped the money into his pocket, wished her the compliments of the season and left the shop.
He made his way back to his flat to get his overcoat. That was when he realised he had had nothing to eat all day. Well, apart from a bar of chocolate and a packet of wine gums he had devoured in the shop.
He flicked the radio on in the kitchen and set to making beans on toast. He stood next to the cooker, watching the beans in the pan as they slowly heated. The beans released a hint of tomato into the air. It had been a pleasant morning, if unexpected. He enjoyed the time behind the counter, chatting with the customers as they bought newspapers and cigarettes. Capturing brief moments of their lives as they told him of their preparations for Christmas Day. He wondered if Jean had considered taking someone on in the shop on a more regular basis. It would be an ideal job for him, he could do with the extra money.
The beans bubbled, and he turned off the heat, then pulled toast from under the grill. He assembled his meal and took it to the table in the living room.
His meal finished, he looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was almost half-past one. The day was passing by. Tomorrow was Christmas Day. He thought about that for a moment. Another Christmas, another year gone by. He cleared away his dishes and went into the living room.
The Christmas card from his sister seemed to stare at him. Almost defiantly. He picked it up and looked again at the message inside.
They had fallen out years earlier. If pushed, Harry would have found it hard to say what the argument had been about. But the argument lay there between them, unaddressed and unresolved. A year went by and then another. Soon it was ten years. Each passing year, with its unspoken words, made reconciliation increasingly difficult.
He should write back. His sister had given him an opening. He would think about it. If he wrote to her, she wouldn’t get it for Christmas, but she wouldn’t mind.
He would think about what he would say when he was out shopping. He put the card back on the sideboard and headed out of the flat.
24 December 1968 afternoon
Harry turned onto Wellington Street and momentarily considered getting a bus across the bridge. He looked up West Street and there were no signs of an approaching bus, so he set off to walk into Newcastle.
It had been a wintry morning, and the afternoon was just as cold. A weak yellow light tried to add heat to the day but failed miserably. Harry shivered as he hurried onto the bridge and crossed the river. An icy wind blowing sideways off the river battered him as he made the short walk into the city.
There was a welcome respite from the wind as Harry walked in the Keep’s shelter. He weaved in and out of the last-minute Christmas shoppers as he continued his walk up to the Grainger Market.
The market was busy, its narrow alleyways packed with shoppers. He shuffled his way through the crowd towards the baker’s shop at the far end of the market. To his disappointment, he saw the bread shelves were bare. It was to be expected; he told himself. He was looking forward to a nice farmhouse or a cob, but no matter, he had enough bread to last until the shops opened again. Thankfully, the shop had an abundance of mince pies. He asked for six and then spotted a small Christmas cake. That would do nicely, and he added it to his order. He handed over some of his morning’s earnings and made his way to the off-licence across the alleyway.
A queue of customers filled the tiny shop, each person clutching a bottle. Sherry or spirits they had taken from a shelf.
Harry stood at the brandy section. His hand reached for a quarter bottle, but mindful of his wages from Jean, he switched to a half bottle. He paid for his purchase and stepped out of the shop.
‘Someone’s getting a nice present,’ said a voice from behind him.
He turned to face the voice as he guiltily slid the brandy bottle into his bag.
‘Jimmy Mathers, as I live and breathe,’ said Harry as he faced the voice that was still ringing in his ears. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Same as you,’ the man said. ‘A bit of last-minute shopping.’
‘I meant in the area; I’ve not seen you since you moved to London. Are you still there?’
Harry hadn’t seen his old army pal Jimmy Mathers for years. Not since they left the army. Jimmy had left the region to make his fortune in London. He hadn’t lived in the northeast for twenty years.
‘Yes, I’m still in London. I’ve retired now. I spent the last few years as a teacher.’
‘A teacher? You?’
‘Yes, I know, can you believe it? It’s the last thing I ever thought I’d do.’
‘So, what brings you back home?’
‘I’ve come home for a few days to see my sister.’
‘Oh, how is she?’ asked Harry.
‘Not so good. That’s why I’ve made the trip. She hasn’t been well for a while. It’s nearly ten years since her husband went. She never really got over it. It is all getting too much for her.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
A flush of red spread across Harry’s face. Was it embarrassment at his lack of attention to his own sister when confronted with Jimmy’s caring attention to his?
‘Well, never mind my troubles,’ said Jimmy. ‘How are you? Still living at that place in Gateshead?’
Harry nodded, feeling a little swell of pride acknowledging his loyalty to his hometown. The two men spent the next fifteen minutes catching up on the previous twenty years. The gloom of the day lifted for Harry as he reminisced with his old pal. A smile lit up his craggy face. An easiness with his pal he had forgotten.
It was getting dark outside. Harry could make out the darkening skies through the glass roof of the covered market. The temperature was dropping, and Harry felt a chill spread through his body. He shuffled from foot to foot to generate a bit of warmth.
‘Look, why don’t we have a proper catchup?’ said Jimmy. ‘A couple of Christmas drinks. What are you doing tonight?’
‘Tonight? Oh, I don’t know. I was planning on a quiet night in. Anyway, don’t you need to be with your sister?’
‘I’ve been here a few days and we are spending the day together tomorrow. One of her friends is calling around this evening. You will do me a huge favour if you give me an excuse to leave them to it. Let me get out of the house for an hour or two. What do you say?’
Harry paused for a moment. He wasn’t in the mood for a pal’s night drinking, but he might never see Jimmy again. He warmed to the idea. It would only be a couple of hours. Then he thought about his mince pies and bottle of brandy. They would keep. He had the rest of the holiday to get through.
‘Go on, where do you fancy?’ said Harry.
‘Anywhere, what about that pub next to where you live? What was it called?’
‘The Arches.’
‘Yes, that’s it. Is it still there?’
‘Yeah, still going strong.’
‘Okay. I think I can remember how to get to it.’
‘It’s just over the High Level, on the corner. You can’t miss it.’
‘I’ll see you in there. Is opening time, six o’clock, okay?’
‘Yeah, that’s fine.’
The two men said goodbye and Jimmy hurried off to get his bus.
Harry left the market and made his way back through the city towards home. It was raining, so Harry quickened his pace. It had been nice to see his old pal, and unexpected.
Harry had been dreading spending Christmas Day on his own, but now he had an evening with an old friend to look forward to.
Jimmy’s news about his sister had brought home to Harry his relationship with his own sister. It had forced him to make a decision. He would write to her as soon as he got home. ... to be continued.
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