Dog feet scuttle across the frozen towpath, barges trapped by the ice and two girls squeal with delight at their limping mutt. It obviously did something sickeningly cute. Their long thin cardigans flow and flap while their heads seem to remain still, cement like with the amount of make-up pasted across their young fresh faces, eyes black and cheeks unnaturally rosy.
I cast my gaze over the Aire valley, the sun slowly setting in the cold evening air, almost as if it wants to stay just a while longer. Purple and pink clouds are hidden behind that awful landmark that is Bradford and Bingley building society and the Damart tower. The factory now turned into flats look so grim, not as prestigious as they were meant to be. Covered in black marks even though it got sandblasted when being refurbished. Strange how new things can look so ugly in such little time. Everything’s covered in snow, the hills above, the trees, the path ahead and my old school. It looks so much purer, cleaner, yet the bypass reminds me of where I am. Five miles from Bradford. Bingley. Part of the urban sprawl where, the sky constantly glows orange at night and where it’s common practise to spit on the street.
I begin to escape that sense of disappointment as I head down a narrow farm track, children screaming with joy as they slide down the farmer’s sloping field. A slow moving stream frozen over and cows in the bottom meadow. Tom’s claws continue to make their scuttling noise. I call to him to come back while Jack Johnson sings about some far away tropical beach.
He’s a little bugger! He always gets within a metre of me then runs away almost immediately. I grab at the scruff of his neck, my reactions quick and leash him. It’s only so he doesn’t scare the cows. He’s definitely more scared of them than they are of him. A reject sheep dog. That’s why I love him, he’s a lovable coward.
We continue on, walking up the 5 rise locks. The snow icing over creating a death slope for any walkers that may be unaware. Probably the majority in Bingley. Two builders walk my way, typical steel toe capped boots and paint and plaster spattered overalls. Hair unruly, their skin smoke damaged with huge crevice like wrinkles, furrowed brows, their hands covered in calluses.
We reach the top, panting. I’d stormed up the steep hill, I’d eaten a lot that day and was conscious that Christmas was on its way. I wander past my dad’s allotment, the untidy and handmade sheds looking so homely and familiar, old sprout plants crippled by the recent frost, bean poles standing bare. Soil compact, weedy, nothing of value. The dark street looms ahead, the steep hill I used to race my brother up on bikes. An old lady gives a delivery boy directions.
I take a left crossing Beck Lane onto the close I grew up on. My headphones get knocked off by some low branches protruding from an unkempt garden. I stand in an awkward position, trying to hold tom and place them properly with one hand. It doesn’t work and I look up to see Will. The weird boy who lives at the bottom of the road. Deep inset green eyes pierce the cold night air and sting me like a harsh ant, his skinny body shivering in just a long sleeved shirt and jeans. I feel embarrassed and force an awkward smile, he exchanges a turning of the corner of his lips, sucking deep on the cigarette he holds so tightly, almost bathing in its warmth. I rip the headphones from my head and place them around my neck. A blue football catches my attention with a patch of grass surrounding it. The rest hidden by the remaining snow. Dad isn’t back yet. I walk up the drive and back into the house. Warmth and smiles.
