Memories
The miners of my home town would dump the earth, mud and dirt of the mine onto a pile not far from my house. The pile grew and grew until it was taller than three houses stacked together. Before I was born these mines were closed and over time nature nurtured this mound – grass coating it like a skin and greenery growing up the sides.
As a child this hill, Nelson Hill, was visible from my living room. To me the hill seemed like the highest point on earth. It loomed large over my world, like the Eiffel Tower might for a kid in Paris.
One winter, when Nelson was wrapped in snow, a boy rode a sledge down the hill. He smacked into a tree on the way down and for a long time after his death a sign warned off future sledgers.
While out walking the dog my dad frequently tried to make me go to the top of Nelson. He said if I fought my fears, “grasped the nettle”, I might undo what he said was an “irrational” fear of heights. And one day he succeeded in getting me up there – I slowly creeped to the top, one hand gripping my father’s hand, the other held down on the group, maybe to remind myself I hadn’t begun to float away. I still remember the view from the top. The world looked so vast and I felt so small.
This did nothing for my fear of heights. I refused to go back up there. It was a fear that appeared in me out of nowhere, not instilled by any event, and years later would disappear without explanation.
Years later me and my friends would walk aimlessly around town. We’d look through shops even though we had nothing to buy; knocked on the doors of houses of people we had no great desire to see. Killing time. One day we walked up Nelson – the fear was still there but, around people whose opinions I cared too much about, I made sure not to show it. I was more scared of slopes than drops; all the way up I felt like my body might transform to the weight of a feather and be swept into the air then plummeted to the ground in an instant.
We returned the next day. Sitting on the top. Chatting. Taking in the view. Observing the glow of the town lit up at night. And we came the next day. And the day after that. I can’t remember how long we kept returning for. We never planned to, but the boredom drove us up there. Many nights, for a large part of my youth, ended atop Nelson Hill. And now, when I think back to those years, I think of the quiet atmosphere at the top of the hill, the cool breeze, only ever half quelling our restless boredom.
The party started mid-afternoon. We awkwardly stood around the garden, consigned to small groups with no mix of genders. James knocked over a can and with the sentenced “spillage is lickage” began to lick up lager from the table and the grass. I sipped at cans of cider and lager, not yet sure if I liked the stuff. A girl, unable to stand, told everyone she was going to be sick. I went inside and brought her out a glass of water but she denied needing it.
The sun set and people began to crowd inside. I started to sway and slur. It was a looseness I’d never felt before, like a ragdoll being pushed in every direction – the first time I’d been drunk. I remember the party tinged with the golden blur of night time lights. It was the first good party I’d been to – by which I mean the first “party” I’d been to not to end up as a small group of only guys sat in someone’s bare sitting room seeing who could down the most cheap cider.
People ran in and out of the house. Dan threw up outside on the road and people crowded around to take pictures of his sick. God knows why. Ross and me did press ups outside until we were nearly sick. Friends, stumbling passed, told me how many girls they’d necked. They were racking them up like points on a tally.
I wandered into the kitchen and over to where Ross was talking to a girl named Helen. Ross made some small talk then wandered over to another group. Helen and me exchanged no words – we’d never spoken before. I don’t know what she saw of me in that moment. Later I’d probably delude myself into thinking it was the charm and good lucks of a confident youngster. But she probably saw what I really was: a gawky, anxious teen who’d never even kissed a girl. She grabbed me and started to kiss me. She swung my body around and slammed me up against the fridge while her tongue circled around in my mouth. Ross said my arms were flailing about in the air.
The hours went on and the drunken state of the party went from merry to leery. My memory here blurs. Dan sat in the toilets while a girl felt around in his pants. Jordan sat on the sofa crying and only stopped when Siobhan kissed him. Niamh’s parents were called as she could hardly stand and was evacuating the contents of her stomach.
My kiss had won me a brief moment of celebrity. I was stood outside the kitchen with Jonny and Tom. Helen was in the kitchen. They both told me I should go and neck her again; I said she could hardly stand. I went up to her anyway and asked if I could kiss her again. “But I like someone else” she said. “Oh. We could just kiss for a little bit?” I said. “Ok” she replied and started to kiss me again.
My answer to what is the worst pain you have ever felt? is a sunburn. Around age 16. I’m sure some explanation is needed.
I had few holidays as a child. My bedroom window faced out to one of the flight paths of Newcastle airport. I’d lie in bed imagining where each plane was escaping to. Imagine the heat of the Spanish Sun and the African Sun. And by association I underestimated the British Sun.
It was the middle of a summer – a rare occasion when the whole group were together outside of school. Someone brought a speaker so we sat listening to Radio 1, making occasional excursions into the sea. I declined multiple of sun cream.
At the end of the day faces surrounded me to stair and recoil. They said I was tomato red. Every part of me – back, chest, face, neck. Not all of us could get a lift back so Ross, James and me walked home. From Blyth Beach to the centre of Cramlington – giving the sun another hour to cook me.
When I got home I threw up. The shade of the indoors crisped against my flesh; I had to strip down to shorts so the clothes wouldn’t rake against my skin. When my dad returned that night I was statued in the same spot I’d been in all day, hardly able to turn my head – I must have looked aluminous red in the darkness.
I struggled to sleep because my front back and sides were all burnt. I managed about an hour of sleep a night. The burns elicited a sharp stabbing pain across my body, like pins and needles acted out with burning knives.
The pain stayed on me for about a week. The days felt long. My parents went to work and the emptiness of the house only amplified my pain somehow. I’d shout and yell and I’d cry. I’d pace through the house, hit the walls. One day I screamed so loud my dog shat himself.
Midweek my skin began to peel. A layer surrounding a whole limb would peel off all together. I was shedding skin like a snake. The pain slowly began to transform into itchiness. My mother gave me cream to dab over my body to combat this. I was watching an old film late at night when my skin began to peel – I ran upstairs to get the cream but while applying it it spilled on the floor. The glugged when it hit the floor. The floor was a mesh of cream and discarded skin. A beautiful mess.
As a child this hill, Nelson Hill, was visible from my living room. To me the hill seemed like the highest point on earth. It loomed large over my world, like the Eiffel Tower might for a kid in Paris.
One winter, when Nelson was wrapped in snow, a boy rode a sledge down the hill. He smacked into a tree on the way down and for a long time after his death a sign warned off future sledgers.
While out walking the dog my dad frequently tried to make me go to the top of Nelson. He said if I fought my fears, “grasped the nettle”, I might undo what he said was an “irrational” fear of heights. And one day he succeeded in getting me up there – I slowly creeped to the top, one hand gripping my father’s hand, the other held down on the group, maybe to remind myself I hadn’t begun to float away. I still remember the view from the top. The world looked so vast and I felt so small.
This did nothing for my fear of heights. I refused to go back up there. It was a fear that appeared in me out of nowhere, not instilled by any event, and years later would disappear without explanation.
Years later me and my friends would walk aimlessly around town. We’d look through shops even though we had nothing to buy; knocked on the doors of houses of people we had no great desire to see. Killing time. One day we walked up Nelson – the fear was still there but, around people whose opinions I cared too much about, I made sure not to show it. I was more scared of slopes than drops; all the way up I felt like my body might transform to the weight of a feather and be swept into the air then plummeted to the ground in an instant.
We returned the next day. Sitting on the top. Chatting. Taking in the view. Observing the glow of the town lit up at night. And we came the next day. And the day after that. I can’t remember how long we kept returning for. We never planned to, but the boredom drove us up there. Many nights, for a large part of my youth, ended atop Nelson Hill. And now, when I think back to those years, I think of the quiet atmosphere at the top of the hill, the cool breeze, only ever half quelling our restless boredom.
***
The party started mid-afternoon. We awkwardly stood around the garden, consigned to small groups with no mix of genders. James knocked over a can and with the sentenced “spillage is lickage” began to lick up lager from the table and the grass. I sipped at cans of cider and lager, not yet sure if I liked the stuff. A girl, unable to stand, told everyone she was going to be sick. I went inside and brought her out a glass of water but she denied needing it.
The sun set and people began to crowd inside. I started to sway and slur. It was a looseness I’d never felt before, like a ragdoll being pushed in every direction – the first time I’d been drunk. I remember the party tinged with the golden blur of night time lights. It was the first good party I’d been to – by which I mean the first “party” I’d been to not to end up as a small group of only guys sat in someone’s bare sitting room seeing who could down the most cheap cider.
People ran in and out of the house. Dan threw up outside on the road and people crowded around to take pictures of his sick. God knows why. Ross and me did press ups outside until we were nearly sick. Friends, stumbling passed, told me how many girls they’d necked. They were racking them up like points on a tally.
I wandered into the kitchen and over to where Ross was talking to a girl named Helen. Ross made some small talk then wandered over to another group. Helen and me exchanged no words – we’d never spoken before. I don’t know what she saw of me in that moment. Later I’d probably delude myself into thinking it was the charm and good lucks of a confident youngster. But she probably saw what I really was: a gawky, anxious teen who’d never even kissed a girl. She grabbed me and started to kiss me. She swung my body around and slammed me up against the fridge while her tongue circled around in my mouth. Ross said my arms were flailing about in the air.
The hours went on and the drunken state of the party went from merry to leery. My memory here blurs. Dan sat in the toilets while a girl felt around in his pants. Jordan sat on the sofa crying and only stopped when Siobhan kissed him. Niamh’s parents were called as she could hardly stand and was evacuating the contents of her stomach.
My kiss had won me a brief moment of celebrity. I was stood outside the kitchen with Jonny and Tom. Helen was in the kitchen. They both told me I should go and neck her again; I said she could hardly stand. I went up to her anyway and asked if I could kiss her again. “But I like someone else” she said. “Oh. We could just kiss for a little bit?” I said. “Ok” she replied and started to kiss me again.
***
My answer to what is the worst pain you have ever felt? is a sunburn. Around age 16. I’m sure some explanation is needed.
I had few holidays as a child. My bedroom window faced out to one of the flight paths of Newcastle airport. I’d lie in bed imagining where each plane was escaping to. Imagine the heat of the Spanish Sun and the African Sun. And by association I underestimated the British Sun.
It was the middle of a summer – a rare occasion when the whole group were together outside of school. Someone brought a speaker so we sat listening to Radio 1, making occasional excursions into the sea. I declined multiple of sun cream.
At the end of the day faces surrounded me to stair and recoil. They said I was tomato red. Every part of me – back, chest, face, neck. Not all of us could get a lift back so Ross, James and me walked home. From Blyth Beach to the centre of Cramlington – giving the sun another hour to cook me.
When I got home I threw up. The shade of the indoors crisped against my flesh; I had to strip down to shorts so the clothes wouldn’t rake against my skin. When my dad returned that night I was statued in the same spot I’d been in all day, hardly able to turn my head – I must have looked aluminous red in the darkness.
I struggled to sleep because my front back and sides were all burnt. I managed about an hour of sleep a night. The burns elicited a sharp stabbing pain across my body, like pins and needles acted out with burning knives.
The pain stayed on me for about a week. The days felt long. My parents went to work and the emptiness of the house only amplified my pain somehow. I’d shout and yell and I’d cry. I’d pace through the house, hit the walls. One day I screamed so loud my dog shat himself.
Midweek my skin began to peel. A layer surrounding a whole limb would peel off all together. I was shedding skin like a snake. The pain slowly began to transform into itchiness. My mother gave me cream to dab over my body to combat this. I was watching an old film late at night when my skin began to peel – I ran upstairs to get the cream but while applying it it spilled on the floor. The glugged when it hit the floor. The floor was a mesh of cream and discarded skin. A beautiful mess.
Comments
Post a Comment