When I mentioned to Michael at the café that I was off to Plymouth again, I could see him begin to gaze into the past (How can you do that? We can’t time travel, but it’s the only way I can describe the look that came over him. Like looking at a boat on the horizon, only backwards). Anyway, Michael grew up in Plymouth, a long, long time ago, worked in the dockyards, then the Navy, before finally leaving for a life as a pub owner, and eventually washing up in Brighton.
“What you doing down there then?”
“My sister’s place is in Oreston, I’m looking after it for a few days”
“Oreston, where’s that?
“One of the suburbs, mouth of the Plym.”
“Ah, you mean OrESTon (I’d pronounced it OReston) ooh that takes me back. You need a translator if you’re going down there!”
“Why not?”
“No, no… I don’t know who’d be left. Went out to Oreston often enough as a boy though. There used to be boat yards and docks everywhere, Devonport, Plymstock, as well as Plymouth itself, all along the coast, all been merged into Plymouth now I suppose, those that are left. We were bombed a lot during the war, but those German buggers couldn’t aim very well so most the time it was the city that got hit. We’d go up on to the hills at night when the bombers came and watch Plymouth burn. If a school got hit we’d all cheer! Bombs don’t come down vertically you know, no one realises that. They come down at an angle, like this… Jennycliff still there?”
“Yes, I’ll be spending some time up there. Got a good café.”
“Ah”