From Scarborough to Manchester with Love
I am thinking of my friend, she lives next door to me, here in Scarborough. We are all effected by the news and by events.
Even us Bottom-enders down here facing the old harbour wall (it is buried behind buildings now. Where areas are exposed by new development limpet shells are found scattered where long ago fishing hooks were baited). The current harbour is a little further away from us.
There the two harbour bays hold around three hundred boats. Not boats as in the Royal Navy meaning of the word, which is submarine – they are the only ‘boats’ in the RN btw . There are none of them in the harbour – well, not that we know of. Although I do recall a whale visiting for a few days once.
The late husband of my friend and neighbour skippered a pleasure cruiser which is based here.
Long before his time (just after a time he was a twinkle probably) the Caronia turned to use by the RN.
The Dunkirk spirit they talk about, and few realise it was a massive retreat. Britain was against the occupied areas including Europe and all the way to chunks of Russia I think. It went bad. We were stuck on the beaches. That’d be our whole army gone. The call went out. Every tub n yacht n cruiser answered. Over they went, filled up, back again, and yes, back again, and again and again and again. That’s the Dunkirk Spirit.
Imagine the Coronia and her sister ship the Regal Lady as full as an escalator. Over and over again. Over those full-on seas. Taking fire.
Them two ships, right now in the bombing age, are just a short walk from where the call came in that a young man wrapped in nuts and bolts had blown himself up; close to my neighbour’s kin.
Scenario. Next door goes to sleep. Her daughter is holding her daughter. I am asleep. The world is full of news. There are deaths. Indoctrinators are reacting. Viewers are crying. Ambulances are racing. Relatives are distraught. My neighbour wakes up and hear news. We are relieved.
68 children die in Syria.
Something like that.
I only know that I have recently moved into a street with a history of something as simple as fishing; as simple and as rugged and as dangerous and as basic as fishing is worth caring about is about people.
I know that now.
We are crying down this street. And we are lucky.
And I haven’t even told the story yet.
I plan to give my neighbouring family something by celebrating the history of this street we live on.
The history of Quay Street will be a soon blog.
Quay Street is any street. Run. No, they will be in with guns next. Duck. No. they will be setting more bombs. Wonder. See people leap off the balcony. Run. There is blood everywhere. Run. Be fenced in. Be led down the path to a place to be. One in the morning, at last in the hotel, the young one says, ‘You are injured.’
It is just the blood of the brushing past death places. We will be OK, try sleep. A later morning, hear your young child say, “Will there be bombs at our school when I go?”