Chapter 5
The Past Catches Up
Ginger left Cramlington behind him and raced northward. The coffee had done its job and he felt refreshed and alert.
Once he had cleared Newcastle heading for Morpeth the landscape began to look more familiar. The sight of the small mining communities brought his earliest memories closer and he was forced to face up at last to what he was going to meet when he went back to his own village. His heart heavy, he turned off the main road north, with Walkworth to his right. Soon he saw the familiar twin towers of the pit winding gear standing out against the sky in stark relief. It was not far now; before he reached the coast he would have arrived at his destination. As so often in his childhood, a sea fret was rolling in across the land, shrouding the scenery in a ghostly veil. It seemed somehow appropriate for such a melancholy journey.
Ginger followed the twists and turns of the narrow road automatically. It had been a long time since he had last made this journey and never before at the wheel, but it did not seem to matter. At last he turned into the High Street and was surprised that it seemed so relatively unchanged. The sweet shop where so often he had stood on tiptoe gazing at the delights on display, knowing that they were beyond his reach in every sense, still seemed to have the same colourful array of confectionary in the window, a veritable Aladdin's cave for a hungry child. He took the second turning on the right and pulled up outside the familiar front door. Immediately the Bentley became a magnet for all the boys in the street. Before Ginger could get out the car was surrounded by admiring youths, jostling and pushing to get close to the gleaming machine. A woman emerged from the house next door and berated the rabble soundly. They hung back abashed but still curious.
Ginger got out of the car and looked for a likely lad to protect the car from the crowd now pressing forward again and forming a cordon around the vehicle.
One of the faces looked familiar; a small undernourished lad of about fourteen with very dark hair and eyebrows that met in the middle. Ginger beckoned him over. "Make sure nobody damages it," he instructed solemnly, indicating Biggles' gleaming machine. "Here's a half a crown. There'll be another one for you if it's still safe when I get back."
"Cor!" exclaimed the ragamuffin. He seemed to swell with pride. "Yes sir!" he exclaimed happily. "You can rely on me!"
Ginger smiled. "I'm sure I can, Geordie. That's why I chose you."
Leaving the boy looking astonished, Ginger mounted the steps and rapped on the door. The woman who had shooed the crowd away reappeared on her doorstep.
"I'm afraid you're too late, sir," she informed him regretfully. "There's nobody living there at the moment. You see, Old Hebblethwaite died a couple of days ago."
Ginger looked at her. "Yes, I know, Mrs Lamb," he replied. "You sent me a telegram."
The woman stared at him in amazement for a few moments, her mouth open. "Ee lad!" she exclaimed when she realised who he was. "I didn't recognise you! Bye, but you've grown!" she added.
Ginger smiled sheepishly. "I was only 15 when I left, you know."
"Come in, come in!" she insisted opening her door wide and stepping back. "Have a cup of tea with us!"
Ginger thanked her and stepped into the familiar parlour. As a child he had often sought refuge from his father's drunken rages in the house next door. Mrs Lamb's maternal instincts had been aroused by the motherless child. A motherly soul with a large family already she had taken pity on him and welcomed him to her brood. What was one more mouth among ten, she had often said as he had shared their bread and dripping in front of the range.
"Why, Ernie," she announced to her husband. "Look who's here – Old Hebblethwaite's lad, up from London for the funeral!"
Mr Lamb peered at Ginger as though he thought it was a joke. "Yon's not young Hebblethwaite," he insisted. "He's too clean and well dressed!"
"Hush!" exclaimed his wife as she ushered Ginger into their front room. He blushed as his erstwhile neighbour dusted off an armchair for him and brought out the best china. "I'm still the same person, you know," he reassured her. "Even if my backside's no longer hanging out of my trousers," he added with a grin.
"Nay, canny lad," she contradicted him. "You're a gentleman now. Anybody can see that," she asserted as she served his tea.
Ginger enquired after the Lamb family to find that the girls were married and the boys were working at the pit. The youngest boy had been killed in an accident with a truck when he was stone picking on the surface. He had just turned 14. Ginger reflected that if he had not broken away when he did, he would have been down the mine, too. He shuddered inwardly at his lucky escape.
In response to Mrs Lamb's questioning about where he would stay, he declared his intention of finding an hotel. Although he did not admit to it, the thought of passing the night under the same roof as his father's corpse filled him with horror. Sufficient unto the day the evil thereof, he told himself.
Having finalised the funeral details with his kindly neighbour, Ginger took his leave. Geordie was still standing guard over the gleaming Bentley. As promised, Ginger gave him another half crown because the machine was untouched. Eyes round as saucers, Geordie Stephenson stared at his booty and clutched it fiercely in his palm. "Get in," ordered Ginger. "I'll give you a lift home."
"You divven't kna' my hame," Geordie accused him.
"I know your name, don't I?" Ginger pointed out.
The lad thought for a minute. "Whey aye," he admitted grudgingly. "But it could have bin a lucky guess," he added defiantly. "There's plenty of us called Geordie in these parts."
"That's true," acknowledged Ginger solemnly. "But not many of them that live at 17 Collier Street."
The lad's jaw dropped open and he stared at Ginger curiously. "Do you want a ride or not?" asked Ginger as he opened the door and slid behind the wheel.
Quick as a flash, Geordie was in the passenger seat beside him, to the envy of the other lads. As they drove the short distance to Collier Street, Ginger was amused to see Geordie staring at him intently, working out the puzzle of his identity. As they drew up outside the terrace and Geordie jumped out, his mother appeared and berated him soundly for getting into a stranger's car as she glared at Ginger suspiciously.
Geordie laughed. "Nay Ma, he's no stranger. He used to live in Church Road," he gloated as he skipped into the house, clutching his half crowns.
"I've come back to bury my father, Mrs Stephenson," explained Ginger, raising his hat politely. "My name's Hebblethwaite."
If he had announced he was King George the surprise could not have been greater. Clearly Geordie's mother had not been able to discern the ragged dirty child in the smart, red-haired young man behind the wheel of the gleaming Bentley.
Muttering her condolences she tried to cover her confusion. "It'll be a good turn out at the chapel tomorrow," she assured him. "He had his faults, did your Da', but he had a lot of sorrow, and all."
Ginger nodded, silently acknowledging that perhaps his father's greatest sorrow had resulted from the birth of his only son. His mother had never really recovered her health after his birth and her death some five years later had left her husband inconsolable. No wonder his father had turned to drink, reflected Ginger, the black moods of depression exacerbated by the unremitting drudgery and danger of work underground.
It was with that sombre reflection that Ginger retraced his journey back to Morpeth and booked a room at the Queen's Head on Bridge Street. As he undressed and got ready for bed, he tried to concentrate on more current events. His thoughts were turning to how Biggles and Algy were faring in far off Linz when he drifted off to sleep.
