“Charlie! Is that comin lad or is tha just gonna stand there gawpin?”
The memory vanished at the sound of Joe’s voice. The dream gone as abruptly as it had ended in reality. He was no longer 25 he was 35, it was 1914 and he was back where he had started on the streets that led from the foundry toward the city centre.
“When’s she due?” Joe pressed, as they crossed the street to walk past the brewery.
Charlie turned his head and glanced at the ruddy cheeks, noticeable even from beneath the engrained dirt gathered in black lines stretching from the corners of Joe’s eyes. “About a week or so…Who can tell”. His voice bitter and distant, his thoughts elsewhere.
They continued walking in silence past the red brick walls of timber yards, cutlery makers and tool works; the lighter industries filling the gap between the heavy expansive steel works and collieries over the river Don and the broad, teaming streets of the city centre.