We met in the tram shelter, at the bottom of the hill in Roker. Huddled in the driest corner, we talked, listened and laughed; managing to ignore the January storm that raged around us. He pointed to his house and, fighting the elements, dashed out into the rain.

“Knock at my door anytime,” he called. The howling wind tried to blow those words away, but I held onto them tightly.

The weather had calmed down before the tram arrived. So had my heartbeat.

I planned another meeting in the tram shelter. This time, the January weather was on our side. We sat down in the same corner, now holding the warmth of the weak sun. Again, we talked, listened and laughed. I had no regrets about having knocked at that front door on Roker Terrace.

We helped each other off the green, rotting bench and left the Grade Two listed building.

Slowly, we walked towards our home of 60 years.

A Grade One relationship.


Originally published: Pen to Print