The locals called it ‘Stilly’ – a South Durham pit village where the pit was long gone but the community remained in the two-up two-down Victorian terraced houses.
And it was this sense of community that she pondered on as she sat surrounded by scattered children’s books and an appreciative crowd of mothers, their pyjama-ed children running in and out of the front door which opened directly onto the warm September evening.
The women mostly had grown up together, their mutual familiarity felt close and warm, their conversation easy and lacking the hidden agendas of the spiky-edged social sparring she encountered among the randomly assembled occupants of the new housing estates (more interested in the books too) and for a few minutes she was envious, recognising facets of sociability she knew was incapable of – a lack of nature far more than of nurture.
The book party was a good one – a genuine belief in the benefits of reading meant that money was more willingly spent there than in some areas, although as usual she’d not insisted on payment on the day, knowing that that would cause difficulties.
“Three weeks – I’ll phone you when the order comes” ... but as it happened she met the girl who’d hosted the party (the local stripper apparently – she was certainly an attractive lass) in town the day the order arrived.
“The money’s all got in, it’s in an envelope in the sideboard drawer ... but you’ll have to go and fetch it yourself because I took the kids and left him last week ... would you deliver my order to the Women’s Refuge.”
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