Flimby

A Memory of Flimby.

I cannot remember a time where Flimby did not feature in my life. My father was born on Ryehill Road, and my grandfather was born and bred in Flimby. It once was a pit village and my grandfather John Watters was an engineer, his father was the winding engineman. In my childhood my grandparents lived at 1 Sycamore Cottage, tucked away behind the brow and looking over Beckside. Beyond lay Flimby Woods that my grandma loved so much. What memories do I have? Climbing into the beck with my grandfather to follow it up into the woods, Lilian's shop, and sweets from what my granda called "the rubbish counter", walks along Pigs Lonnin, Jobby the farmer and his pet sheep, Flimby shore through the flooded tunnel under the road. On and on the memories flow - the smell of coal, whited steps, the wind, the Co-operative store, the bus to Workington. The wide sweep of road in front of the Pelican pub, a house on the right up the brow with a wooden cross in an upstairs window, where a child had died of asthma. A bungalow on the brow that even in my childhood still had a shop in the front room, that when my father was a boy belonged to his aunt. Walking down to the village, the launderette, the hairdressers where my ears were pierced at eleven years old. The click of the brass latch on the stairs door, the far parlour, Roly the butcher. My father's memories, my grandfather's memories intertwined with my own. Minnie Osborne and her tricycle. Ella with yellow hair and a red face. The accent I will never have. The train that my grandfather got stuck down a hole in the track during the blackout, a dog rescued from a well in the woods. Silver birch and laburnum in the garden. A secret visit to the village churchyard where my dad's mum is buried. My grandma's fire-scarred legs, the whited steps, the smell of coal. The pile of sulphur left to blow in the air when the chemical works closed - "Hold your breath, Sharon" as we rushed past. Sunburn from the wind on the shore, a photo in a yellow dress in the waves at the water's edge, worm casts in the sand. A place that I have no need to go to again, my grandparents have gone now, and we all moved far away from the whited steps and the smell of coal. I do not know if I belonged there, I was happy there though, it is imprinted in me, the smells, the sounds, my grandparents, the warped glass square in the parlour window, the smell of the cupboard under the stairs, the weight of the blankets as I lay half asleep. The night the barn caught fire and the glow lit the bedroom. The runner on the stair. My grandfather off to the Methodist Chapel that last time, lid shut, quiet in his contemplation, I stood numb with grief and the ministers' words: "When I were a lad I sat in them pews and I listened to John Watters preaching to me". Flimby by the sea.

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