Someplace North of Here

By CH Lowe

For George, the UK city of Newcastle Upon Tyne is a foreign country...

George has made his way to the Big City, hoping to find a life more fulfilling than the one he left behind. But this town is very different place to the island 'paradise' he once called home, and manhood, as he will discover, is about more than doing a day's work or frequenting the local pub.

From boutique to bargain basement, stylish apartment to squalid houseshare, and happy ever after to the reality of falling in love, nothing is what the Boy expected. As George takes his first tentative steps on Tyneside, he meets a colourful cast of characters - from Ella, born in Shenzen but Geordie from her Vivienne Westwood heels to her perfectly coiffed crown. Then there is Lawrence, the older Man, who will challenge George to confront his own sexuality at every turn.

The lives of all three will be irrevocably altered as day-to-day existence in this constantly changing city forces them to make some tough choices.
The grass is not always greener on the other side, and life, even in this City, with its patriotic black and white stripes, is never so straight forward.

It kept me reading till the early hours! Highly recommended !!
- Tracy Shayler, Amazon Top 1600 reviewer

'An earthy, passionate, and fast-paced coming of age story that sparkles with wit and humour and vividly captures life in modern-day Newcastle'
- E. Newrick

“Someplace North of Here” by CH Lowe is a beautifully written book... a very enjoyable read, and it should not be missed.
- Bibliophile Book Reviews

The English is high quality and the writing is smooth, with above par editing.
- Author Vivek Rajan Vivek

The book is a compelling tale of George's journey from his hometown to the big city.
- Author Susanne Leist

• Language: English
• Publisher: CH Lowe
• Release date: Sep 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301280230

CH Lowe

I am the author of Somplace North of Here, a little book with a lot to say on growing up and getting a life. That my friends is easier said than done, in the harsh reality of the real world. If you like satires, romance, coming of age stories and compelling reads, then this book was written for you, enjoy.I am currently working on my new novel The Satanic Mills, which is set in a dystopian super city, in Gran Britannia of 2050. It will form part of the Satanic Mills series.

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Someplace North of Here

Author

C.H.Lowe

Text copyright © 2013 C.H.Lowe

All Rights Reserved

Someplace North of Here

By C.H.Lowe

Smashwords Edition

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition imposed on ANY subsequent purchaser.

The right of C.H.Lowe to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

All characters, characterisations and events in this publication, other than any already existent in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to persons both living and dead is purely coincidental.

Cover Design by Colin Alexander

The Angel of Someplace North © Colin Alexander 2013

Coming Soon by C.H.Lowe

Someplace South

The Satanic Mills

Chewing the Cud

Table of Contents

Prologue

The Residence at Stratford Drive

The Work

Tyneside’s Rahs

The Burning Machine in Cell Four

Working all night at the Pub

How Are You?

Admitting You’re Gay!

No Sex Tonight

See You Later

A Shopping Spree

All Good Things ‘Nice and Naughty’

Gateshead

This House is not my Home

Communication is not possible

The Glorious Eagle

A Private Room

Living it up on Tyneside

Jesmond, A Metro and a Gosforth Penthouse

Dating a Friend

Geordies fine dining at Oak

Bum Funnelling

Weeing like a Kid

World Headquarters

The Urban Idyll

Doing it Wrong

Getting It Right

Epilogue

Geordie to English Dictionary

Prologue

A Boy leans against the stucco wall of the rooftop terrace, eyeing his best friend Matt suspiciously. Matt appears to be pulling out a whole lot of boxing equipment from a sports bag. It is a cause for concern. Matt stands at over six foot to the Boy’s five foot eleven, he weighs over 100 kilos to his 70 kilos and, well, he is muscular and manly. The Boy has the body of a boy. Matt’s arm could quite possibly pass for one of the Boy’s legs. His calf muscles when compared to Matt’s biceps are like a spindle compared to a newel post.

The Boy, George, had always been a guiri, a foreigner, and this particular English expat is known to the locals as el Inglese. He is unable to articulate himself in their indigenous Spanish, as are many of the other Brit expats, for if he turned to any one of them and said ‘no seas un guiri’, they’d all look dumbfounded as if he spoke Swahili not Spanish. And what did it actually mean not to be a guiri?

The Boy surmised it meant ingratiating oneself with the locals, learning something of their culture. Like his friend Matt, standing opposite, dressed in brightly coloured sportswear as they did. He could slip seamlessly into the colloquial dialect as easily as he spoke English. It also meant not behaving like you’re on a never-ending holiday in the tranquil Island Paradise that is Tenerife.

‘Is that what this is? This whole existence is just a holiday?’ he laments. With a melancholy sense of foreboding he surveys the horizon; lunar-like clumps of volcanic earth, compacted over millennia to resemble mountains. Wind rustles his sun-bleached hair. The burning sun, irritating flesh and mind alike, has warmed the terrace to over 30°C, yet the Boy still feels cold.

It is springtime and the bat pups have pollinated the cacti, whose lime green spines are mottled with newly formed picos. Everything seems to flourish here; the plants, the locals and the expats. Yet his own life is cause for concern, as he waits for it to begin in earnest. But for now, here’s his friend intending to box with him. He loosens a pico with a thick spike, squeezing out the fleshy membrane, taking his fill of the blood-red flesh which reminds him of the taste of a watermelon. His mother addresses him sharply from the spiral staircase, ‘Why are you eating my fruit plants?’

‘I’m famished and I could not wait till your dinner party to get something substantial to eat.’ Cacti, picos and everything else in the apartment is for décor, not use. Just trinkets to adorn the family abode, more confirmation of her Britishness. A place for everything and everything in its place, yet the Boy did not belong here, of this he was certain.

His Mam, standing on the top rung of her wrought iron spiral staircase, notices Matt is wearing sparring pads and a head guard. More worryingly, so now is her son. Well, at least they were not his own, he did not own anything of that nature, not like the boys he hung around with. If there is anything she knows of her son it is this, he’s no fighter. ‘You guys okay?’ she asks, the question is plural but her meaning singular. Is her son okay? No Mam, he is not. But she doesn’t wait for an answer, just turns and heads into the inner sanctum of her grandiose apartment.

So the Boy must stand up for himself. A strange notion comes over him; this would be the last time he’d have to stand up to Matt’s critical scrutiny. It was a disquieting feeling, the idea that he no longer cared what his best friend thought of his sensibilities. ‘You gonna stand up for yourself?’ Matt asks, edging towards him, and closing the gap between them on the sundrenched rooftop terrace.

‘Aye,’ he says, although he’d never uttered the word before now.

Matt is slightly intoxicated, his equilibrium is compromised and his steadfastness imbalanced.

They are about to have a sparring match in the heat of the day. The sun is so bright it bleaches out all scenery. There is no shade to be found anywhere; it is after all the Island Paradise.

The emptiness alarms George. He can see nowhere to run or take cover should the need arise mid battle. There will be no reprieve.

Sure, he had donned sparring pads and felt the force of Matt’s relentless digs before now. He had once had to remove his left sparring pad, and shake his hand fervently, dismayed by how much it hurt, the red patchiness spreading across his palm. The gloves he now wears have similar discolouration and he wonders if any of the maroon patches are dried blood. ‘No use crying over spilt blood,’ the Boy realises.

The onslaught begins swiftly. The music blares from his Dad’s 70s style boombox, which looks like it took a starring role in some ghettoised R&B video. The tracks sound like a DJ set from some forgettable gay scene ghetto of the day. He wishes to camp it up, sway, or mince confrontationally. The fight begins in earnest.

‘Humph,’ Matt exhales a sharp breath, sending a jab towards the Boy’s temple, following through with a swift overhead right, impacting his jaw.

‘You carry on and you might get hurt, mind,’ the Boy threatens.

‘Yeah, I bet!’ Matt is jabbing him, forcing him backwards. Matt may be superior in strength and size but he’s dangerously slow.

The Boy draws him back, luring him into a false sense of security. The dalliance continues for some time. Then it happens, chance favouring the Boy.

‘You must do better than that, mate. Forget I’m your bud. I’ll try to really hurt you, you know.’

‘Oh, Matt, you already have – more than you know,’ he thinks.

Instead of Matt, he pictures a random assailant, a bully, and his ears begin ringing to the imagined sound of faggot, faggot, fucking Mary. Matt throws a fake jab, falling short, with no real power. He follows up with his overhead right at full force, devastating if landed square on. The Boy anticipates it before it happens; Matt’s every move plays out like a rehearsed sequence. His opponent is focused but overambitious, his ultimate downfall. Matt misunderstands the Boy’s purpose. He deliberately omits to block his fake jab, seeing it in front of him, not an inch from his face. ‘Duck and step,’ the Boy whispers to himself.

He drops his left shoulder hard and fast, and creating an inverted arc, moves his body a small step to the left. Matt realises his error but cannot alter his momentum. Twisting his torso, the Boy’s balance is centralised. Perfect equilibrium allows for a spring in his step. He releases, and propels his left arm forward with lighting speed, tightly balling his fist at the last minute as it comes crashing down on Matt’s face. Immediately he follows through with his right, pushing Matt’s left fist straight into his own nose. If only he could smash him back to the first day of their acquaintance he would have said at once, ‘I’m a Jaffa, you know’. Only then he would not be expected to do things like this, boxing. He loathed it with every fibre of his being. The Boy backs off instinctively but he is too slow.

Matt retaliates and a rift the size of a chasm opens in their friendship right then. The Boy suddenly understands that standing up for himself means he needs to be away from Matt’s shadow. He is too desirable and to imagine them both as anything other than friends is to invite folly. Akin to Icarus daring to fly into the sun, if the Boy dared to utter how much he loved Matt his waxy corpse would melt away and he’d be burned alive.

Matt flexes his pectoral muscles. His chest heaves slightly under his electric blue vest top and the Boy feels an unexpected arousal he cares not to acknowledge. Matt sees it but doesn’t make any noticeable sign that he’s flattered by the attention. Inside he is smiling. But it is not enough.

‘I’m leaving!’ the Boy blurts. He trembles at the enormity of his decision; even though he knows he made it not just because of what had happened on the terrace. ‘I’m off too!’ Matt shouts, misunderstanding, and vacates the roof.

Rather than drive himself mad, acknowledging the guilt that must lie at his feet for causing the rift between them, the Boy lends his Mam a hand. They both scrub the porcelain floors of the apartment until they gleam as brightly as the noon sun. In a flurry of domesticated accomplishment, all necessary preparations for her dinner party are complete. Nothing left to chance. Then, no longer a charwoman completing her household chores, Mam runs her reddened fingers under the faucet.

The dinner party would be a success. Her guests would surely not want for anything. Decent bottles of Faustino Rioja are decanted and left to air sufficiently until the right time. Tureens are procured for the poached salmon rilletes and the beef Wellington, and cut glass champagne coupes are filled with rich, saccharine, dark chocolate mousse. The Eton Mess is prepared in such quantities it could sustain the three hundred plus residents of the complex with a double ration.

Guests soon file in; ladies and their chaperones. As they are his mother’s friends, they are his by default. The mood is light and the tone of conversation pleasant in that droll manner, telling of the esprit de corps; all expats must rejoice in one another’s company. The meal is consumed in a flurry of dishes; the Boy looks on wondering where so many plates, saucers and polished cutlery came from – surely not the apartment-sized kitchen, only three metres square.

Never mind the dishes though, he gapes open-mouthed at the delicacies, speculating not where the money came from but why it had been spent to create such a lavish meal. There are bloody imported Yorkshire puddings and puff pastry, purchased at a higher price than the bloody fillet of beef. The chocolate bars melted down to make the mousse cost even more than the glass coupes it is served in out here, in the Island Paradise.

Some take their share and make do, appreciating the delicacies and the apparent effort. Some guzzle with delight, eating more than they should. Others nibble, self-conscious about the intimate setting. But ultimately all is eaten, down to the very last baton of carrot.

No doubt everyone is fearful of where the next edible meal will come from. Meaning: when will we eat proper food again? Meaning: when will we eat British food again? Meaning: I cannot stomach tapas or paella any longer. You see, that is part of the esprit de corps too. Seemingly every Brit must not be seen to indulge in the local delicacies; unless back in England, where they gorge on tapas and the like, paying three times as much for it. This hypocrisy affects the Boy.

Soon discussions become banter and the guests’ high spirits provide a welcome diversion for the Boy’s Mam. Not so for him, as every expat assumes they have the right to interrogate him over his future plans. ‘What will you do with yourself? What are your plans for the rest of your life? Don’t you want to make something of yourself?’ they ask.

He cannot bear the scrutiny, so he retorts, ‘Maybe I should go home to England.’ The home he barely remembers.

His Mam is seemingly deep in conversation in the corner of the terrace but he has no doubt that she is eavesdropping. She leans on two walls for support, gently swaying from side to side. Sure enough, she intrudes on his conversation, turning to face the Boy. Her falsetto can only be matched by the chirping sound of the bat pups which squawk endlessly in the night, comfortably nestled in the Canarian date palms fringing the pool. Rather than discouraging her guests’ impolite enquiries, she adds to the Boy’s discomfort. ‘And will you leave? Finally become a Man? Will you really leave the Island Paradise? Or will you just carry on much the same as usual?’

‘Yes, I will leave this Island Paradise and go home,’ he says, the corner of his mouth lifting in distaste. ‘If not at once, then soon. I cannot go on like this is a holiday that will never end. I want to experience something of life,’ he declares, though he’s ignorant of the hardships life would shove on him. He has not a clue where home is but thinks it best he try England: Tyneside. But for now, he is planning to frequent Veronicas, party till the early hours, and perhaps salvage something of his friendship with Matt.

Later that evening, sometime after the Boy’s departure, the setting sun casts a variegated wash of ochres bleeding into maroon across the balcony, stippling the indigo night with fire. The air is sweet from an overabundance of chilli plants and rosemary bushes. No one pays attention to it. One of the women, Felicity, chinks her champagne flute with her diamond solitaire ring. ‘I seem to be drying out, dear.’

Drying out is an apt description for not having a full glass of liquor in the free-flowing boozy lifestyle of Paradise. "I think you’ve had one too many, Felicity, and your glass is still half full,’ the Boy’s Mam says.

‘You’re mistaken, dear,’ she retorts, ‘It is, as always, half empty!’ Soon everyone has a refill in hand.

‘So life will continue much the same on this rock,’ Mam thinks, mulling over her son’s imminent departure. Tyneside, of all places! She wonders how he will achieve his aspirations, if at all. First of all, though, he would have to find a new home, someplace north of here.

The Residence at Stratford Drive

-The Hoose on Stratford Drive-

There it stands, dead ahead. There is nothing remotely imposing about the residence. It could not be any more different from the home he has just left, some 2,500 miles away. This backwater town may not be the Hell on Earth he often describes it as, but one can certainly see Hell from here. Whilst his friends are surely in thrall to the ‘island mentality’, never able to escape the confines of their island ‘paradise’, this Boy has made it out; not just out but back home to Tyneside, and most importantly to Newcastle. So here he stands on the threshold of his new life at Stratford Drive, Heaton.

He tentatively picks his way to the door down a sloping pathway, unaided by the uneven paving slabs, some of which have come loose altogether. Perhaps it is evidence of subsidence. Moss grows in the gaps between the slabs and the border consists mainly of weeds. At first sight, the property is certainly unprepossessing, and the Boy’s hesitant progress prompts Pamela, his godmother, to stride past him, insert a tarnished key into the lock, and pop the door ajar.

‘There, see. It’s not that difficult, is it? Now hurry up, it’s fresh out here.’ Pamela, the Boy thinks, may have missed her calling as a Mother Superior.

‘Okay, okay. I am just taking in my surroundings.’ He can’t resist adding ‘Looking for the best route of escape in case it’s unacceptable.’

‘Don’t be like that. I know it’s hardly the Hilton, but there are lots of students milling about and the High Street is quite lively.’

‘Lively? What sort of a description is that?’

‘You’ll find out for yourself, I think, when the Landlord decides to initiate you!’

‘I don’t see what’s so special about this mate of yours.’

The Landlord is Pamela’s work colleague, and she had spent more than a few evenings here listening to him complain about his ex-wife. She flatters herself that she has solved both the Landlord’s and the Boy’s immediate problems in one move; the Boy will have somewhere to stay and a responsible older man to keep an eye on him, and the Landlord will have company and an extra form of income. So she is in no mood to brook the Boy’s disobedience.

‘Oh, be quiet, spoilsport and get in here. You’ll be bum chums before you know it.’

‘I hope not quite so friendly.’ He guffaws at the absurdity of her statement, but his amusement is fleeting. Pamela is possibly the most animated person he knows, but at this juncture in his life he finds her suddenly less amiable and more annoying. Unaware of his feelings, she makes a sweeping gesture with her free arm and props the door open, ushering him into the hallway in her usual flamboyant style.

‘Come on, slow coach. This is your new home. Come and have a look around.’

‘All in good time. Are you sure this place is right for me?’

‘It’ll be fine. It doesn’t have to be your forever home. Think of it as a bolt hole for the time being.’

Forever home. Is she kidding? He hopes for more out of life than a room-share in somebody else’s house, then sighs, burdened by the real possibility that this is the best the world can currently offer him.

Standing in the hall, he is filled with a strange mixture of trepidation and excitement. He could simply place his belongings in the hallway, maybe against the wood-panelled wall, or at the bottom of the staircase, carefully positioning his holdall against the spindles. Or he could backtrack, take stock of how he came to be here with so few options. Perhaps he could persuade Pamela to take him to the estate agent instead so he could peruse the glossy brochures and discover a dwelling he would have an instant preference for.

He could sit comfortably, smartly attired, and peruse the new listings, demurely sipping on a foamy peppermint latte while rating the options. The property need boast one bedroom for sleeping, a second for guests and perhaps even a third for dressing. Although the dressing room could be waived in favour of an ensuite wash station of sorts, one similar of course to the one he had just given up. Deep down though, he knows that should they visit the nearest branch of Rook Matthews Sayer, the consultation would inevitably produce a similar outcome. He would still find himself standing in the