The train was late. Northern Fail at their very best again. When will the government renationalise the railways? Gordon Wright pushed past the schoolchildren dawdling in front of him, grimaced at a cyclist who should have been walking, not riding, his bike down the path to the road and set off on his customary trek home from work. For once, it wasn’t raining. No, then, it’s the scenic route today! The walk back to High Windows along the cinder track would make a welcome change from the main road. He took off his tie, symbol of the civil service for which he worked and so hated.  The squelch of his shoes showed him how wet the ground still was. Perhaps he could get into the garden this weekend if the forecast turned out to be true.

More trains passed, bringing the last cohorts of workers home. At least living in Holme Hill meant an easy journey to work in Leeds – and back. Someone in a red hooded tracksuit passed by. Wright looked at his watch – twenty past six in the evening – then turned off the cinder track and down towards the cricket ground.  He looked back at the jogger, but the athlete had disappeared; I should take up running again. He stopped to see if there were any vegetables or bits of fruit worth picking, but only a few sticks of rhubarb remained in the free-for-all public allotment. He mused on the fact that the people who most needed this gift of nature’s bounty were most likely to be stuck in front of the telly eating pizza and wondering how much more they could claim from the welfare state. He heard voices in the distance: young boys throwing stones at the chapel windows. Wright shouted at them, but they took no notice. He shouted again and they finally ran off when he threated to call the police and took out his mobile and started to dial – or at least pretended to. 

The sooner that building is converted to apartments the better! Ten years since it closed and what an eyesore it has become. How much will they cost? A bachelor flat – perfect! So near and yet so far away from mother. Is there time for a swift half before I go home?

Wright looked longingly over to The Bargeman. It would be good to call in and power down. Joan would listen to his moans about work and living with his mother. If only…

The Bargeman beckoned. It was even warm enough to sit outside by Upper Lock; to sit and feel the warm sun on his face.  Wright set off. He could always phone mother and say that the train was late. After all, he was going to be spending the whole long weekend with her. Thank God for paperwork! And the garden! She wouldn’t know that the train was late; couldn’t see the trains – hadn’t been able to see them for years. Wright took the mobile out of his pocket and looked down the contacts list: E for Elsie - Elsie Wright. He was about to press the green telephone button when his stomach tightened. She can’t see the trains, but she can hear; hearing as sharp as a piano tuner’s, that woman. A change of plan: Wright picked up pace; began to stride home.

He looked over at The Bargeman once more. He thought of Joan. There would be hardly anybody in at this time of day. They didn’t start serving meals until seven and business was slow on a Friday night. Nothing much ever happened in Holme Hill anyway: ‘the Rip van Winkel’ village of Yorkshire, the Post had once dubbed it. If there was nobody else at the bar, he could ask her.   See what she said. He suddenly felt tired. No, I can’t do it to mother. I ought to go straight home; she’s been on her own all day. He sighed then guffawed. I could have had a pint: all this time thinking about it. Wright stood for an instant longer, to give himself time to make the correct decision. He went home.

Except that he never got there; or rather, not when his mother was expecting him.

***

If he cut across the cricket pitch, he could save five minutes and not be too late. He was just at the boundary edge when he caught sight of Ted Gelsthorpe standing at the door of his old lock keepers’ cottage. Hmmm, the old bugger will start shouting any minute now not to walk across his beloved square.

Wright went the long way round the ground. There was no way that he was going to incur Gelsthorpe’s wrath. Gelsthorpe lived for that cricket club. Every day of the year, summer and winter, come rain or shine, he was out there doing something; cutting grass, mending fences, painting the pavilion. Perhaps he would be interested in partnering up with mother.

He waved as he walked. Gelsthorpe took the pipe out of his mouth as if to speak but then raised his cap in acknowledgement instead. A dark cloud now blotted out the sun; it had suddenly become colder. Amazing how quickly the weather can change in this country, Wright chuckled to himself. He looked around as it started to rain. Mother’s washing would be for it.

Wright began to jog towards the gate that led to Highgate Road. He could now see his mother at the window, her hands clutching the curtain. One day; one day I will be free… He looked back to see if Gelsthorpe was still watching him, but the groundsman had gone back inside now the square no longer needed guarding.

He had not noticed someone else watching him all this time. Not until now, that is. It seemed strange that on a warm day – despite the light rain – there was a man sitting on a spectator bench in thick overcoat, scarf, hat and – as far as Wright could make out – gloves; and not trying to go for cover now that drizzle had become shower and shower might well turn into torrent.

The man seemed familiar, but the trilby, muffler and dark glasses made it difficult to be sure. Wright motioned to his mother to give him five minutes while he investigated. He mouthed the words, knowing that she could lip read from the days when she worked in the mill and the sound of the looms made speech impossible.

‘Hello. Are you alright?’

No reply; no movement; nothing.

‘I say. Are you OK?’

Wright walked back down from the gate into the road and around to where the man was sitting.

‘Hello. Is it Rhys? Are you alright Rhys?’

‘It’s Gordon – your next-door neighbour. You’re going to get wet if you don’t get a move-on. Come on – I have an umbrella. Take it. I’ll give you a hand to get up and walk you home. Better look sharp – mother’s waiting and she’ll have my tea ready!’

By now, Wright was standing in front of the silent spectator. Even wrapped up as he was, and though wearing sunglasses, he could tell that it was Rhys Williams. Crotchety old bugger! Why be kind to him? He never has a good word to say about anybody or anything. And mother hates him.

Wright tapped the old man on the arm; then squeezed it. How brittle it felt! He looked at Williams’ face, tried to see if there was any movement behind the eyes. Nothing. Then he noticed the faint trickle of blood coming out of the corner of the mouth. Oh no! Wright grabbed Williams by the shoulders and shook him. But the body was limp; limp and lifeless. Then he took the hat and glasses off and unfurled the muffler. He did not notice the paleness of the skin. Why did I never go on that first aid course at work? What am I supposed to do?

Wright undid the collar, slapped Williams’ on the cheek.

‘Rhys – Rhys – it’s me. Gordon, your neighbour. Elsie’s son’.

At which point, Williams’ body slumped over and onto the ground.

Dead, without a doubt.