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yunhsuanhuang · 1 year ago

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Blood Of My Blood | Y.H. Huang

All of a sudden you realise that you have been caught up in something ancient and vast and beyond your comprehension: far older than the stones of the house you grew up in or the roads the Romans laid through this land in their frail attempts to tame it.

A girl and a boy set out on a journey across the UK, searching for answers and a place to call home.

Inspired by Sweet William's Ghost (Child 77). A companion piece to Bone Of My Bone, inspired by Fair Margaret (Child 74) but can be read separately. Not very good, but kept up for archiving purposes.

He took her by the lily-white hand And bid him company, He took her by the middle so small Saying, “Follow, follow me.” She lifted her underskirts one by one Just about the knee, She went over the hills on a cold winter’s night In a dead man’s company.

Sweet William's Ghost, Lisa Null

As if the night can’t get any worse, even your Oyster card has turned against you. The screen of the turnstile blinks back accusingly as if it knows you don't belong here. White and red, white and red. Invalid. Invalid. Invalid.

You glance over to Arthur. He's having the same problem at his own gantry. The businesswoman behind him makes a point of staring at the clock. He gestures to you, and together you slip out of the queue.

You wind through the rush-hour crush until you find a corner where you don't have to scream to be heard. Arthur leans back against the dingy tiles and says, “I thought this would happen.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Tell me in advance the next time we wake up in a freezing alleyway drenched in blood.” You don't mean to snap. You're just stressed out of your mind. Cellphones stolen, the memory of a whole week gone, twenty tube stops away from home. (Not to mention that your breath isn't fogging the air, but you've got bigger problems to deal with right now). Who wouldn't be stressed?

Your older brother, apparently. “I wasn't referring to that. We've watched our share of horror films, and we know ghosts can't easily interact with the real world. Remember when you tried to hail that taxi just now?”

“There could be a million reasons why the taxi driver didn't see us. Besides, this isn't the time to talk about ghosts!” you gesture out at the station, your voice rising. “In case you haven't noticed, we're practically stranded in Whitechapel—”

You notice her scent before her voice: both warm and honey-tinged. “Not a ghost, love.” You spin, coming face-to-face with a young lady—or at least, you assume she is; you can't quite tell. The fine, aristocratic bones of her face and her emerald-green eyes remind you of those ancient oil paintings: the ones that, when you stare at them too long, seem as though they're staring back.

You tug at the worn edges of your coat and take a step back. “Who are you? Why were you listening to us?”

“You could call me anything you’d like, but I’d prefer Charlotte.” She has a pleasantly lilting accent; familiar, though you've no idea where you could have heard it before. “And as for the second question, I could have tasted you from Paris, really. Turned just last week, weren't you?”

When neither of you responds, Charlotte (a name that sits strangely on her—you wouldn't have guessed it at first) puts a gloved hand on yours. It feels like ice. Just the weather, you tell yourself. “Listen, love. Get yourself to Easter Head as soon as possible. That's the most important thing you could possibly do.”

You do a bit of mental geography. “But that's so far away from home,” you say, dumbly. “We can't just run off to the northernmost part of Scotland on a whim. Mum might be worried. Pa won't know where to find us. Why do we even need to go there, anyhow?” Arthur hovers over you, ready to wrench Charlotte's hand away. His face is pale. In a split second, he's turned from jokester into protective older brother. “If what you say is true—”

“You would be surprised how far from home you could get without ever leaving London.” She leans in, her pink lips almost brushing your ear. She lowers her voice to a whisper. "You're lucky to be alive, but the real hunger's still to come. Promise me you'll get yourself to Easter Head, won't you?"

Pressed up against the grimy tile wall, the only thing you can do is nod.

Charlotte pulls back and smiles. It's a sad sort of smile. Her teeth are sharp as knives and spotted with crimson. Before you've the time to be shocked, she's already gone, leaving only a tube ticket in your hand and the tiniest of pulls, low in your stomach.

The still air of the cramped train carriage smells vaguely sweet. Roses? Honeysuckle? You should know this. Once upon a time, you spent every Sunday afternoon squelching about in the vegetable patch, but now all your memories of your past life feel like hand-me-downs.

A stop passes. Then another. It's only at Islington that you realise the scent isn't coming from any kind of flower. A woman presses her cellphone between her ear and shoulder. In the ghostly yellow light, veins pulse beneath the pale curve of her throat. Bruises red as wine peek out the collar of a man's down jacket. A brown-skinned boy who can’t yet be in primary school clutches his father's leg, rainbow scarf hanging loose.

This isn’t supposed to happen yet, is it? This can’t happen to you. Something fierce burns in the pit of your stomach, working its way up to your throat and seizing your breath. In the middle of the divorce, you'd refused to eat for a week in the wild, childish hope that it would convince your father to stay. That week you thought you'd understood what hunger meant. You didn't, you couldn't. Everything pales in comparison to this.

In the back of your head, Charlotte grins and says the real hunger’s still to come.

Arthur looks over at you, eyes wide. He pats your back a few times, except it’s really more of a slap. It doesn't help much. You appreciate the effort, anyhow. “You okay there?”

You bury your face in his coat, and he ruffles your hair with a warm hand. You feel a bit silly, but at this point, you don't really care. “I don’t want to be a monster,” you say. You’re a person, you want to protest, you doodle in history lessons and dance to Adele on the radio when no one’s looking—but you know better than anyone that what you want isn’t necessarily what you get. The girl who did all that’s long gone. You’re not quite sure who’s taken over her body.

“You’ll never be one," he promises. It rings false, though, and he senses it, switching topics with ease. “To your left. Bloke in red. That's my book, isn't it?”

You sit up. Peering out into the dense crowd, you spot a man in a turban and eye-searing maroon trousers, paperback in one hand, and grab rail in another. From this distance, you can only see a sliver of the title, but you already know what it says. Margaret of the Roses, by A.R. Millwood. The man’s eyes are glued onto the page. "It's still such a strange feeling, isn't it?" Arthur whispers. "Maybe I'll spoil the second book for him."

You laugh, tension lifting off of your shoulders. "What, and let a stranger read it before your own sister?"

"I'll show you a chapter when we get back, I promise."

When we get back. It's a comforting thought. After this whole mess is over, you’ll take tea and scones with Mum and Pa and Arthur, laughing and talking about nothing at all. The afternoon sun will stream through the windows. The redness on your lips will just be cranberry jam, ripe and sweet from the bushes in your garden—cranberry jam, that's all there is.

There's something scribbled on the wall of the women’s restroom at Victoria Station. For a moment you’re sure you’ve forgotten how to read until you realise it’s written in reverse. You turn to the wall mirror, and there it is. Stark black cursive right where your reflection’s supposed to be. Eat and thou shalt be filled, it says. Genesis 4:9.

You're both terribly lapsed Catholics, but when you tell Arthur about this he cocks his head to the side. You try to ignore the curve of his throat. “I really don’t think that’s the original bible verse.” He searches his coat pockets for his phone, then curses under his breath when he remembers that it’s gone.

“There’s a bookshop near the station,” you offer. You'd seen it on the city map while you were looking for the ticket office. “We can go look it up.”

He glances outside at the bustling shops below. A person dressed in black holds on to their hat to stop it from flying away in the wind. “You sure? It’s just graffiti.”

“It seems as though it’s significant, don’t you think? Charlotte said something about hunger. Maybe they’re connected. You never know.”

He agrees, so you head up the worn brick steps into the cold night air. You really wish you had your trusty tube of lip balm, but you've got about ten shillings between you. (Arthur's bank cards don’t work; corpses can’t use credit, it seems.) you’re not sure what you'll have to do to get to Scotland. Will you have to sneak onto trains? Hide in baggage compartments? Hitch rides with strangers? It’s both thrilling and terrifying at once.

String lights hang above you like stars. Every shop window shouts winter sale, 10% off, come buy, come buy. They're all still too expensive for you, but you're not here to shop around. The pavement's packed with travellers, and after you dodge a laughing family walking ever so slowly you realise with a jolt that after you lost last week there are only three days left to Christmas. Thinking of Mum spending the holidays alone makes your heart— or the place where your heart used to be— squeeze a little. Nobody deserves that, despite what you may feel about her. You resolve to get back to Sutton by Monday.

As you enter the bookshop, Arthur's face lights up. You've never been much of a reader, always preferred real-life to made-up stories, but his happiness is infectious. He points you to the clearance bin, where you blow the dust off the first bible you see. Leather bound and decades old, it's heavier than you thought it would be.

When you crack it open (for a split second fire runs up your veins), a piece of paper flutters out. Arthur lunges to catch it and freezes. He blinks a few times, rubbing his eyes. “You bloody genius, it's a train ticket. A first-class cabin on the Caledonian Sleeper. Going to Glasgow!”

“For Christ's sake.” You slam the bible shut and toss it back into the bin. Under your gloves, your palms tingle.

“Christ indeed.” Arthur squints at the ticket. “It’s leaving in five. C’mon!”

You grab his hand and run.

Above the patchwork fields of Lancashire, the sky’s vast and edgeless, a far cry from the small pale square you only caught glimpses of between the council blocks. Snow blankets the rolling hills. You’ve never been this far away from London before.

Out here, you can finally catch your (metaphorical) breath, but as you turn over the events of the night in your head you're left with more questions than answers. What are you going to tell Mum? What's waiting for you at Easter Head? How'd they even know you would pick that exact bible out? (Who's they?)

Arthur must notice you're on edge because he sets his newspaper down and ruffles your dark curls. “I’m sure we’ll be fine, baby sis,” he says. “I'll tell you a story. Perhaps it'll calm your nerves.”

“A bedtime story? Arthur, I'm in the sixth form.”

“No one's too ever old for a good story. What do you want to hear?”

You look at him, face half-shadowed in the darkness. Outside the last stars must be fading away. Your stomach growls low and sharp; a beast rattling at the bars of its cage. What do you want? To eat, to go home, to keep your family close to your heart. “Tell me about Margaret.”

It’s an old question. An old ritual. Invented back when you were barely ten and hiding under your blanket as glass shattered downstairs, ages before Arthur set it down on paper for the world to read. But the book that was published isn’t the one you spun amongst yourselves during those endless nights. That tale’s yours, and yours alone.

You already know how it ends, of course. But will it hurt you to live in the story, just a little while more?

Arthur's voice slips into his old, South London-tinged cadence. It reminds you of the way a bard would have spoken, the audience huddling around the campfire and hanging off his every word. “There was once a fine lady named Margaret, and none in the land was braver than she. One summer day in the apple grove, she met a gentleman who she had never seen before. Both Margaret and the stranger were curious about the other. They stopped on their journeys to listen to each other speak, and this is what the stranger asked of her…”

Arthur found the Polaroid under a potted plant in a Costa Coffee. (You learnt the hard way that you couldn’t taste coffee anymore, which was honestly the most depressing thing that's happened so far.) The picture was so blurry and dark that you could barely make out the engraved words on the pub sign, fastened onto a soot-stained brick wall. Keeper & Tiller, c. 1113. The place didn’t seem to be on a single map, so you resorted to wandering aimlessly along the winding backstreets and hoping you would somehow stumble across it sooner or later.

With every step, it becomes more and more clear that you’ve made a terrible mistake. It’s begun to drizzle, and gaps between the cobblestones have filled up into miniature rivers. The stillness is only broken by the whine of a police siren or the sudden slam of a door. Your hunger sits back on its heels, waiting to pounce.

The city seems curiously abandoned for this time of day. No harried businessmen, no drunkards wrapped in blankets. There might as well be no one else in the world except for you and your brother. He hums All I Want For Christmas Is You as he walks, skipping around puddles. Moments like this, you almost forget he’s older.

This is when you notice the scent.

Sickly, cloying sweetness, thick as mist. The beast in your stomach roars, and without thinking, you take off in a run. Arthur shouts, but you don’t listen. Everything else has fallen away. The streets unfold in your mind like a spider’s web, and you know at once where you’re meant to be. There’s nothing you’ve ever been surer of. You turn a corner, slide to a stop. Rainwater splashes up behind you. There it is. Young and scrawny, half-moons under its eyes. Veins thrumming underneath its skin like the roots of an old oak tree.

Its bottle of pop hits the ground, sending shards every-which-way. You close in. Saliva pools in your mouth. Pressed up against the rough brick, the skin at the back of its neck scrapes off. The smallest drop of blood, red as cranberry jam, bubbles up. Its skinny wrist is fragile in your grasp. Once upon a time, you were never this strong, but things have changed, haven’t they?

It swears and aims a few half-hearted kicks at your chest. You barely notice. There's a ringing in your ears you can't escape. The air is filled with rain and honey, rain and honey. The rotting Victorian buildings tower around you and your prey: a ruin, a trap, a circle of cairns. Its neck, too high to reach, pulls and pulses. It’s neither logic nor morals but sheer overwhelming hunger that sinks your nails into its bony shoulder to pull it down to your level, that draws your teeth ever nearer to its skin, that—

(The figure has a familiar face. Perhaps it might even be your own.)

You wake to a sky full of stars and lips raw from biting. Midges have settled on your face. Long grass tickles the back of your neck, finds its way up between your toes. When you were young you used to lie in your garden just like this. From that angle you could almost imagine that you had slipped into a world of giant things, a world not meant for you. But this isn’t your garden, is it? You pull yourself upright and find your legs are numb beneath you. There’s dried blood on your sweater, but perhaps that was always there. Around you, there’s no trace of civilisation as far as the eye can see. The wind rushes through the bushes, making them cry out like new widows. For the moment it’s the stormy ocean, dark and wild under a weathered pier. Ready to surge up without warning and eat you whole. Where are you? How'd you get here? Last you remembered, you were passing through Lancashire—

the shops in Westminster—

somewhere once upon a time, in a land far, far, away—

“Breathe easy, baby sis.” Turning, you discover your brother next to you, and you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. If Arthur's here, nothing can really hurt you, can it? He reaches over, brushing your curls away from your face. Wildflowers have been strung through his hair—bluebells and saxifrage—and leaves spill out of the sleeves of his coat. His fingers are ice-cold. “Are you ready to tell the story yet?”

You want to say I don't know what you mean by that, but the lie gets stuck in your throat. Finally, you cough, “I'm not a good storyteller, not like you are.”

Arthur laughs a little and runs a hand through your hair. “Try your best. The only thing that matters is that it's true.”

Time unspools in your hands like a ribbon. The stars and moors and winds all hold their breath, waiting for your tale.

So there I was, privately seething as I wandered through Sutton at half-past-one in the morning. It was far too cold and far too late for any sane person to be out, but I just had to get a breath of fresh air. I was planning to pace up and down the pavement for a bit, gather my thoughts, and then I would go back home to set the story straight with Arthur. I couldn't find it in myself to forgive him just yet, though.

We had been catching up over a cup of tea in the kitchen—he had only just returned from uni for Christmas, and I was pleased as punch to see him again. While I was busy gloating about how I'd once bought a week's worth of groceries with five pounds, he had interrupted to suggest that I move in with him until I turned eighteen. I was meant for bigger things, he had told me, not for cleaning up mum's sick and working dead-end jobs to pay for her vodka.

At first, I couldn't believe my ears. My brother's always been collected, mind you, but he was never cruel. Not like this, anyhow. Of course, I had protested and made it clear that I wouldn't abandon Mum, not for anything. Family was forever, after all, and it wasn't as if I had much to look forward to when I left school. We couldn't all be geniuses. He still didn't understand, and that was when I lost my temper.

'I want to keep this family together,' I said, very slowly, 'but it seems I'm the only one here who cares about that.'

Arthur looked as if he'd been slapped. I fled the house.

I was angry, and I was cold, and I hadn't eaten a decent meal for the better part of a month. The dole really doesn't pay for much, you know. Naturally, the girl carrying the crate of fruit caught my eye. She was tucked away in a sleepy side street, far from where the crowds were, but I didn't much care. I went to her anyhow. Something in that crate called to me, the way a story pulls you in and doesn’t let you go until it’s done.

The girl was tall and elfin, skin pale as the moon. I wondered how she'd come by such fresh fruit in the dead of winter. She only smiled—no, smirked, her teeth all gleaming white— and offered me a crabapple. I raised an eyebrow. The fruit seemed perfect, gold and glistening in the dimness. Too good to be true. ‘It's laced with cyanide, isn't it?'

She tossed the crabapple up and caught it. ‘If I was going to kill you, you would have a knife in your stomach by now.’

We both laughed. ‘You're a sceptic.' The girl leaned forward, strands of hair obscuring her face. She couldn't have been much older than I was. ‘I appreciate that. What's your name, poisoner?’

I'd never been one for romance novels, but at that moment I could have sworn there was a flutter in my chest, just like the old cliché. ‘I'm Charlotte.’

‘Charlotte,’ she repeated. When she said my name it felt as though the word was invented ju st for her to speak. ‘What brings you here tonight?’

‘Just wanted to get away from home for a while. Brother's being a right tosser, he is.’

The girl frowned. ‘I don't really understand. What brought you here? To this alleyway, to my fruits.’

All of a sudden my throat had turned dry. The flutter in my heart was morphing into something stranger. Even the air was sluggish and slow, like the air in a dream. ‘Hunger,’ I said, and I knew it was true.

I hadn't even noticed that I'd offered her my hand until I found myself holding the crabapple. It was heavier than I'd expected it to be. I wrapped my fingers around its glossy skin, bringing it up to the sliver of light that spilled towards us from the faraway main road.

The girl covered my hand with her own. It felt as though I had plunged my arm into ice, numb and cold, as she raised the crabapple all the way to my lips. I had had crabapples before, and I wasn't sure how in the world I could have misremembered their scent—rich and sweet as honeysuckle.

‘Eat and thou shalt be filled.’ I could see my reflection in her emerald eyes. ‘Eat, Charlotte.’

I tilted my head up and ate.

“That’s it,” you say.

Your brother only shakes his head. Through him, you can see stars dotted across the Scottish night sky, stars you could never have seen back in Sutton. You pull out some blades of grass and watch them scatter in the chilly breeze. The lines on your palms are stained with red.

But they’re not yours anymore, are they?

All of a sudden, you realise that you have been caught up in something ancient and vast and beyond your comprehension, far older than the stones of the house you grew up in or the roads the Romans laid through this land in their frail attempts to tame it. The story has been out of your control for a very long time. “You already know how it goes," you say. "Why hear it again?”

Arthur smiles. Pa always said that he had the smile of a hero, someone who would be immortalised in marble someday. Perfect, glimmering, spotted with blood. “To bring it back to life.”

I knew, then, that I had to go to Whitechapel. At the time I wasn’t sure why, except there was a tug low in my stomach that was pulling me there, past the traffic and the people down into the very heart of London. The thing about London is that it’s a city ruled by the dead. Every other pathway crosses over someone’s grave. Countless bodies lie in the night-black water of the Thames, threatening to rise to the surface. Even the sturdy walls of the old manor homes were built upon the bones of the coolies and slaves that gave this nation its great wealth.

Which is a long-winded way to say that the London I passed through after I’d been turned wasn’t the London that I’d always known. The electric lamps flickered and cast green light. Shadows pooled in street corners, vanishing when I got too close. The crowds seemed to be a mass of bones and flesh, a many-headed thing. I paid no attention to most of these, walking through the city in something close to a stupor. I couldn’t have told you my name, or the date, or much of anything.

When I finally arrived in Whitechapel, I found myself staring up at the sticker-covered glass of a curry house. Inside, groups gathered around still-steaming bowls, laughing and chattering away as if they’d nothing to worry about in the whole world. Next to the window, a family of four was devouring oversized portions of chicken tikka masala. The younger son, who couldn’t have been more than eight, was gesturing wildly as he spoke, his mouth still full of food. He must have choked on something halfway through because he stopped and began to splutter. His grinning older sister hit him on the back far more violently than she should have.

I kept standing there after they left, watching the neon sign turn from blue to green to blue again, long after the lights went off. The whole time no one had noticed me. I might have waited there until I froze if it wasn’t for the shout.

When I turned, I didn’t have a moment to react before the stranger tackled me. It might have been that I was weak, or he was strong, but either way I stumbled, nearly falling to my knees. The stranger pulled back, and for the first time, I recognised his face.

“I was so worried.” Lately, even his accent had lost its familiar storytelling tone. “Where in the world have you been?”

“I’m not home,” I replied. It was the only thing I knew to be true. I felt very young and very small. “Want to go home.”

He muttered something about going back to Sutton, but I didn’t want Sutton. Where would I be returning to? A small and dreary house on a street surrounded by other small and dreary houses. A little-used kitchen, filled with rubbish, stinking of vodka. A mum who wasn’t who she used to be, and a father who’d never come home. A garden that had been killed by the cold. My brother wasn’t looking at me, but ahead at what must have been the comforting mundanity of colourful shop windows. He couldn’t have seen what I had: blood thrumming through warm bodies, trickling through the dirt underneath our feet, setting every cell in my body alight.

Once upon a time, the two of us had huddled so tightly together under a ragged quilt that we seemed to merge into one. Our arms had been intertwined, my head pressed against his shoulder. In the orange glow of the flashlight, you couldn’t have told the two of us apart. We had been the sole inhabitants of a secret universe- at least until the sun began to rise. Now there was a chasm between us, widening moment by moment. He was a genius, I was not. He went away, I stayed behind. He was alive, and I was dead.

I tugged him closer to me, the fog of honey so dense you could slice it. For a brief and terrible moment, my brother smiled. Pa was wrong this whole time, you see. It wasn't a hero's smile. It was just my brother's, and that was all I needed.

I smiled back, and my teeth sank into his skin. He tasted of cranberry jam.

There's nothing more to tell.

You killed him. You killed him—you, you, you, all along only always you alone—god, you’re a monster. You never wanted to be like your mother, destroying her family for her desires, but here you are anyway. You know better than anyone that what you want isn't necessarily what you get. It’s so ironic you could scream.

It's then that the verse comes back to you, pulled out from under layers of dust and years. Genesis 4:9. Where is your brother Abel?

You crumple. The long grass comes up to meet you, but it's softer than you'd expect, softer than what you deserve— Don't say that, love. You deserve softness. You're not a monster, understand? the skylarks sing. This time it doesn't ring false.

You loved him. He's always been part of you, just as you've always been part of him. You were born with the same blood, after all.

“Will I ever go home again?” you ask them, but you already know the answer. The Earth only sings it back to you, in your voice, Arthur's voice, and a thousand others besides. Your home's nestled between your ribs and written in the stars. No matter where you wander, there will always be someone to guide your path.

You realise, then, that the howling in your stomach has stopped. You doubt it'll ever start again.

Stumbling to your feet, the Highlands spread out in your mind like a spider's web. The pathway in front of you is as endless as the midnight sky. Smoke drifts up towards the sky from a village that's still nothing but pinpricks of light.

The wind ruffles your hair as you begin to walk. You don't look back.

#child ballads #beasts of blood and bone #writing #writeblr

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A former care home and Victorian-era cottage turned into premium flats, Willow Tree Apartments in Yate, Bristol has been fully refurbished and remodelled. Seeking to create a warm and natural interior that was in-keeping with the building’s heritage, contractor Rudge Brothers and James specified the Allura Dryback range from Forbo Flooring Systems for the project.

Formerly a care home from the early 1980s until 2018, Willow Cottage has seen many different uses across its 250-year history. Starting life as a house in 1766, owned by a doctor who ran a surgery from the ground floor, the building eventually became a care home in the 1980s after use as a Sunday school. Following the closure of the care facility in 2019, the property was bought by developers Fairholm Group, who chose to reinvigorate the historic building into nine new stylish apartments.

Rudge Brothers and James were employed to assist with specifying and installing the internal finishes, with Jim Heal, Director at Rudge Brothers and James, saying: “We were appointed by Fairholm to advise on some of the internal specification jobs, including the flooring. In this advisory role, we recommended that they install Forbo’s Allura Dryback Luxury Vinyl Tile (LVT) range for a number of the apartments.

“This product is our go-to as a company, we’ve used it many times on other projects and have never had an issue with it. It’s a hard-wearing, great looking and long-lasting flooring solution that offers an incredibly long lifespan. We instructed Fairholm to use the 0.7mm wear layer version as it would provide enhanced durability, perfect for busy family homes.”

As well as durability, acoustics was another priority, as Jim explained: “A combination of rubber and chipboard acoustic underlays were installed on this project, as reducing impact noise was a key objective. Forbo’s Allura has then been installed fully adhered in the lounge, kitchen and dining areas, as well as the corridors between each of the apartments. We predicted that these would be the most high traffic areas and as such, needed a more practical and hard-wearing solution, like an LVT.”

With the focus on creating stylish apartments suitable for modern day living, while simultaneously being respectful of the building’s history and heritage, design was also an important consideration. Jim commented: “To complement the rustic nature of the building’s exterior and Yate’s rural surroundings, we wanted a more natural finish for the interior and so chose Forbo’s Natural Timber effect from the Wood range. It’s a really nice neutral and classic wood shade that isn’t too bright or too dark for the space and helps to bring an element of warmth.”

James Adams, Managing Director at Fairholm Estates, said of the apartments: “Willow Tree Apartments has been a challenging and rewarding project. The old care home had a variety of existing floor structures and coverings, making this element of the project a bit of a puzzle. As a result of this, we subcontracted this work out to Rudge Brothers and James, who we’ve known and worked with for a number of years – being aware of the wealth of experience they possess.

“I knew subcontracting this aspect of the conversion to them meant we would be in safe hands and they did a great job installing Forbo’s Allura LVT, adding a high quality and warm finish to the apartments.”

The apartments are expected to be fully completed by the end of 2024, with a number of the new homes already under offer.

See the full Allura Dryback collection, here: https://www.forbo.com/flooring/en-uk/commercial-products/allura-lvt/allura-dryback-0-7-dr7/allura-dryback-wood/b0msgi#63535dr7 or find out Forbo’s other solutions for the private renting sector, here: https://www.forbo.com/flooring/en-uk/segments/private-rental-sector/pewwp6. Find out more about the apartments, here: https://www.fairholmestates.co.uk/

#Business #Business News #Forbo Flooring #LVT

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gotbath · 13 days ago

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Benefits of Installing a Steam Shower in Your Bathroom

When it comes to transforming your bathroom it is essential to choose the right bathroom fitters. In Hammersmith, homeowners seeking top-tier craftsmanship and innovative design turn to GotBath UK, a renowned company with a decade of experience in bringing visions to life. Offering a variety of services, GotBath UK gives you a vast array of options with regards to bathroom renovations, from minor upgrades to complete overhauls, making them a trusted name in the industry. Their website, www.gotbath.co.uk, provides further information regarding their offers.

One of the main features of GotBath UK is their comprehensive approach to bathroom fitting and design. With a well-established team of skilled professionals, they specialise in Hammersmith Bathroom Design And Fit, focusing on the unique needs of each client. Their bathrooms are both stunning and efficient as they have the perfect blend of practical functionality and aesthetic appeal. GotBath UK understands that a bathroom is a vital part of any home. All their projects are tailored to ensure that it meets the homeowner's preferences, lifestyle, and budget, providing truly bespoke solutions.

GotBath UK’s commitment to excellence is evidenced in its customer feedback. They offer a first-class bathroom fitting service in Hammersmith and the surrounding areas. and have been transforming customers' homes for over 10 years. Their 5-star Google reviews reflect their expertise and craft in creating stunning bathrooms in Hammersmith.

Homeowners are often overwhelmed when faced with all the options of remodelling their bathrooms. GotBath UK will simplify the process, as they offer a structured approach starting with a consultation, then the design, material selection, fitting, and finishing touches. This method not only ensures a smooth experience but also helps clients feel confident and included throughout the project. With the expertise of GotBath UK, bathroom renovations become an enjoyable journey rather than a stressful task.

GotBath UK provides a wide and varied range of design services beyond just fitting that will allow their clients to see their dream bathrooms come to life. Their skilled designers are adept at maximising small spaces, adding luxurious touches to large bathrooms, and creating layouts that maximise both function and style. Every bathroom is treated as a unique project, with our end goal to improve the quality of life for each client. Their keen eye for detail and design will ensure that each tile and accessory complements each other. This will help make bathrooms that are not just practical but also beautiful.

As Hammersmith’s go-to specialists, GotBath UK is trusted for its commitment to using high-quality materials and the latest design trends. Whether a homeowner seeks a sleek, modern look or a more traditional style, GotBath UK has the skills and resources to bring that vision to life. The company’s professional bathroom fitters have years of experience and, which ensures that the bathrooms that are well built and stand the test of time.

GotBath UK understands that each home is different, and so are the people living in it. Therefore, they emphasise a collaborative approach where clients are encouraged to share their preferences and ideas. This results in a custom-designed bathroom that reflects the clients taste, that also adding value to their home. For those looking for reliable, experienced bathroom fitters Hammersmith, GotBath UK’s approach to Hammersmith Bathroom Design And Fit offers a seamless blend of design and functionality, delivering results that exceed expectations.

The GotBath UK team works diligently to ensure that each project is completed on time and within budget. By partnering with trusted suppliers and having skilled tradesmen, they are able to manage costs while maintaining high standards of quality. Known for delivering on promises and maintaining clear communication throughout each project their customer-focused approach has made them a preferred choice in Hammersmith and beyond,

For those looking to upgrade or completely remodel their bathrooms, GotBath UK provides an unbeatable service that combines skill, experience, and a commitment to client satisfaction. Go and visit www.gotbath.co.uk, to see further details on the range of services they provide. With years of experience, a dedicated team, and a strong reputation, GotBath UK stands out as the preferred choice for bathroom renovations in Hammersmith, transforming bathrooms into functional, beautiful spaces that enhance the home and the lifestyle of its occupants.

#Bathroom Fitters Hammersmith #Hammersmith Bathroom Design And Fit #Bathroom Installation Hammersmith #Bathroom Fitters Surrey #Bathroom Installation Surrey

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kaolinclaysupplier · 21 days ago

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Why Frits Manufacturers Prefer China Clay Over Other Raw Materials

In the ceramic industry, the raw materials used in production have a significant impact on the quality, durability, and appearance of the final products. Among the various raw materials, china clay has emerged as a preferred choice for many frits manufacturers, particularly those involved in the production of sanitaryware, tiles, and other ceramic products. This article explores why frits manufacturers prefer china clay over other raw materials, highlighting the advantages it offers in terms of quality, cost, and the production process. We will also take a closer look at the role of clay mining companies, the demand for china clay manufacturers in India, and its pivotal role in the sanitaryware production process.

1. Understanding Frits and Their Role in Ceramic Manufacturing

Before delving into why china clay is preferred by frits manufacturers, it's important to understand what frits are and how they are used in the ceramic industry. Frits are essentially a type of glass that is melted, ground, and then added to ceramics as an important component in the glaze. Frits play a key role in improving the quality of ceramic tiles, pottery, and sanitaryware by enhancing the surface properties such as gloss, smoothness, and color retention.

The production of frits requires high-quality raw materials, and china clay is a critical ingredient in this process. Known for its unique chemical composition and fine particle size, china clay imparts the necessary properties to frits that make them ideal for use in the ceramic industry.

2. What is China Clay and Why is it Important?

China clay, also known as kaolin, is a type of fine, white clay that is rich in the mineral kaolinite. It is primarily used in ceramics, paper, rubber, and paint production. The primary reason china clay is favored in the production of frits and other ceramic materials lies in its excellent properties, such as:

Purity: China clay is highly pure and contains minimal impurities like iron, which makes it ideal for producing high-quality white ceramics.

Plasticity: It exhibits good plasticity, which is essential during shaping and molding processes in ceramics.

Fineness: The finely ground nature of china clay makes it perfect for frit production, allowing it to mix well with other ingredients and ensuring a smooth finish.

In addition to its chemical composition, china clay has a high resistance to heat and is capable of withstanding high temperatures without deforming. These qualities make it indispensable in the sanitaryware production process, where heat resistance and durability are critical.

3. The Role of Clay Mining Companies in China Clay Production

The supply chain for china clay begins with mining, and clay mining companies play a vital role in sourcing high-quality clay that meets the standards required for frit production. These companies are responsible for the extraction and processing of china clay, ensuring that it meets the necessary specifications for industrial use.

Clay mining companies often operate in areas where the mineral deposits of china clay are abundant, such as in regions of India, the UK, and parts of China. In India, for instance, the china clay manufacturers in India are well-regarded for their ability to supply large quantities of high-quality clay suitable for various industrial applications.

In India, the clay mining industry is an essential part of the country's economic landscape, with large deposits of china clay found in states such as Kerala, Rajasthan, and Himachal Pradesh. These areas are home to many of the leading china clay manufacturers in India, who have the capability to process and supply high-quality china clay to international markets.

4. Advantages of Using China Clay for Frits Manufacturing

There are several compelling reasons why frits manufacturers prefer china clay over other raw materials. Let’s look at these reasons in more detail:

4.1 Purity and Consistency

One of the primary reasons frits manufacturers prefer china clay is its purity. China clay contains a high percentage of kaolinite, which is a white, fine-grained clay mineral. This high degree of purity makes it easier to achieve consistent and uniform results in the manufacturing of frits, glazes, and other ceramic products. Since china clay is free from impurities such as iron or aluminum, it helps in producing frits with the desired aesthetic properties, such as a bright white color or translucency, without any undesirable discoloration.

4.2 High Plasticity and Molding Properties

The plasticity of china clay is another crucial factor that makes it highly desirable for frits manufacturers. During the frit production process, china clay is mixed with other raw materials and melted at high temperatures. Its excellent molding properties allow it to be easily shaped and molded into the desired form, which is essential for producing high-quality frits that will later be applied to ceramic products.

In addition to this, the plasticity of china clay also plays an important role in the sanitaryware production process. Sanitaryware products such as toilets, sinks, and bathtubs require precise shaping, and china clay facilitates this process, ensuring that the final product is smooth and free of defects.

4.3 Cost-Effectiveness

For frits manufacturers, cost is always a significant consideration when choosing raw materials. China clay is not only abundant in many regions, but it is also cost-effective compared to other raw materials. The widespread availability of china clay, particularly in countries like India, allows manufacturers to access it at competitive prices, reducing production costs.

Moreover, the china clay manufacturers in India are able to offer high-quality clay at lower costs due to the country’s well-established mining and processing infrastructure. This cost advantage enables frits manufacturers to keep their production costs low, which can be a key factor in maintaining competitive prices in the global market.

4.4 High Durability and Heat Resistance

The inherent heat resistance of china clay makes it an ideal material for the production of frits, which must withstand high temperatures during firing. This property is also essential in the sanitaryware production process, where products are exposed to extreme heat during firing. The high melting point of china clay ensures that frits made from it will remain stable and durable, even under high thermal stress.

In sanitaryware production, durability is paramount, as products must endure regular use and exposure to varying environmental conditions. China clay contributes to the creation of robust ceramic products that can withstand everyday wear and tear, ensuring that sanitaryware retains its aesthetic appeal and functionality over time.

5. The Sanitaryware Production Process and the Role of China Clay

The sanitaryware production process is a multi-step procedure that involves the shaping, glazing, and firing of ceramic materials. China clay plays an important role at various stages of the process:

Shaping: In the initial stages of sanitaryware production, china clay is mixed with other raw materials to form a smooth and workable paste. The plasticity of china clay ensures that it can be easily molded into the desired shapes, such as sinks, bathtubs, and toilets.

Glazing: After the initial shaping, the products are coated with a glaze made from frits. The frits, which contain china clay, provide a smooth and glossy finish to the sanitaryware products. This glaze also improves the products’ resistance to stains, scratches, and other forms of wear.

Firing: During the firing process, the china clay helps to maintain the shape and integrity of the sanitaryware. Its ability to withstand high temperatures ensures that the final product remains stable and retains its structural integrity even under thermal stress.

6. China Clay Manufacturers in India: Key Players in the Global Market

India has emerged as one of the leading suppliers of china clay in the global market, thanks to its rich deposits of high-quality china clay and well-established manufacturing capabilities. China clay manufacturers in India are renowned for their ability to produce large quantities of clay with consistent quality, making India a key player in the global supply chain for frits and ceramics.

Indian china clay manufacturers also have access to advanced processing technologies that allow them to refine and grade the clay to meet the specific requirements of frits manufacturers. This ensures that china clay produced in India is highly competitive in terms of both quality and price.

7. Conclusion

The preference of frits manufacturers for china clay is driven by several key factors, including its purity, plasticity, cost-effectiveness, and heat resistance. China clay is an essential raw material in the production of frits and plays a crucial role in the sanitaryware production process by contributing to the durability, appearance, and functionality of ceramic products. The role of clay mining companies and china clay manufacturers in India in ensuring a consistent and high-quality supply of china clay has further solidified its position as the raw material of choice for the ceramic industry. As demand for high-quality ceramic products continues to grow, china clay will undoubtedly remain an indispensable component in the production of frits and other ceramic materials.

#china clay suppliers #kaolin clay manufacturers #china clay

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shanebunting · 28 days ago

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…and off the back of the shiny new Apple Belfast, we say farewell to Apple Victoria Square. The first Apple Store in Northern Ireland.

Another ‘Classic’ store bites the dust. And I think that’s what feels negative about the otherwise superior store we’ve gained on our small six-county country. The stainless steel walls, classic stone tiles, the light boxes and illuminated fabric displays showing off the latest and greatest glass and aluminium products are no more. Of the 500+ Apple Stores open today, some ~250 are still ‘Classic’ style. But they are rapidly disappearing. Narrowing this down further, the ‘two floor, narrow’ stores like Victoria Square - mostly also found in other parts of the UK and opened circa 2008 - are being replaced too. It’s not a format they stuck with for long and criticisms were often that the upper floor could get busy, stuffy and crowded very easily - and passing through the narrow ground floor during busy periods was equally as unpleasant - apparently. Not like the new, wide and often high ceiling as more natural feeling stores. Liverpool’s initial Apple Store was a slightly wider clone of Victoria Square - also opened 2008 - but was replaced in 2016 with a double height, triple width single floor store of the ‘Vintage D’ style. I personally suspected that Apple would never leave Victoria Square, and would move across the way to a similarly sized to Liverpool’s new stores unit. When H&M left their large unit, as well as River Island, I thought this would have been perfect for Apple. But as you’d guess, they were planning this far in advance of the latest retailer losses at Victoria Square.

So why did they leave? If not for lack of suitable space being available on time. Well, that is the most likely factor. I doubt the highest rents in Belfast come close to some of the rent they pay on their world class retail locations! My second suspicion is that perhaps Apple, being the ‘ethical’ and PR driven company that they are don’t want to be associated with the impending disaster that is the Victoria Square Apartments structural problems. For those of you who don’t know - 119 apartments were built above the shopping complex also opened around the same time. And all was well until a serious, serious structural defect was discovered. Apparently, the concrete used is up to 75% under strength, which has led to apartments being evacuated over safety concerns. Without a doubt, these things are going to have come down, because eventually.. they will fall down. And there is an unsettled legal dispute between the victims here (apartment owners) and the architects, engineers, constructors (Farrans) and they all couldn’t give a toss about the tenants… and the Northern Ireland legal system, as usual, is behind the developments of the rest of the UK, which would have had the problem settled long ago. ANYWAY, I can’t imagine Apple were as happy to turn a blind eye to this as the shopping centre management. Apparently the issues don’t affect the shopping area - but it won’t be a good look when they come crumbling down. And that’s not Apple’s fault, but they get blamed for all sorts! So who knows - maybe that played a part in their decision making. I can’t think of why else…

Though the Victoria Square store that’s in the process of being dismantled, in my view, is so much more elegant and superior in how it presents to the public, the Apple brand we all know and watched become this behemoth.

The new store is fine. It’s up there with any other luxury brand - like a high quality Mercedes dealership, albeit, better quality products. But for me, it just doesn’t feel like Apple. Not yet. Maybe it will grow on me.

There is just so much fascinating about the ‘Classic’ design. The fact that Apple owned the quarry that the stone tiles, how they marked and graded every single tile so it could be replaced with a perfect alternative if it broke. And who can forget, those glass staircases! Of which, a single step allegedly cost $11,000 to replace when they broke, and from time to time, they did! Those stores felt like standing inside a Mac. And just like the colour codes, neat lines and design inside your MacBook that you never thought about, it was also immaculately thought out and planned to an Apple standard. That includes the silly little things only Apple would do that arguably, weren’t really that practical or necessary, but added to the experience.

The new store has its quirks too, as documented by Michael Steeber, the angle of the curves in the wood match that perfectly of every modern Apple products curves! I tested this just yesterday actually, and sure, it’s a nice little detail. But it’s no glass staircase. The wood is high quality, but it’s not solid… the floor doesn’t even seem to be a real, poured terrazzo floor - though it looks like it is, just like the wood, I suspect it’s a high wearing easily replaced or maintained material - maybe even one Apple came up with. I’m not sure. But I know the wood isn’t solid, and might just be a veneer or something. It’s nice, but to me, it doesn’t represent the Apple of ‘my time’. The iPhone launches, the iPad introduction, the Watch, even Vision Pro - Victoria Square managed to see them all.

As Apple evolves, and starts focussing on spatial computing… political statement fashion accessories and I’m even hearing rumours of a plastic case cheaper Apple Watch… I do fear that maybe they have peaked and could, at any moment, begging to make decisions that aren’t as good as from the Steve Jobs era. Are they watering things down? Only time will tell.

I can’t buy a quality leather iPhone case or MacBook sleeve anymore. Apple don’t use the stainless steel walls anymore because, well, they’re seen as dated now. I get that. But they can’t use the stone from the walls of the 2015 onwards ‘Vintage D’ store design like in Liverpool and Apple Park itself because of their environmental targets and goals. That’s not a bad decision in the grand scheme of things. But by now, you catch my drift.

Anyway, check out those last two photos and the video. Do you see that? The tile floor is gone. Some metal piece removed and dented from the process. The old tables pushed to the side. And a stack of plasterboard walls ready to replace the stainless steel that was the making of an Apple Store, ready for the next, regular retail tenant to occupy the space. I wonder what will take its place.

We’re secure with our new Apple Store here - for many years to come. Short of political and sectarian instability, I can’t see that changing here. We’re lucky that our sole Northern Ireland store also attracts a substantial international footfall from the Republic of Ireland, which does not have an Apple Store and probably never will - not least until Apple has well and truly replaced and saturated its entire portfolio completely and begins to enter new markets once again, but countries like ROI don’t compare to the prospect of massive emerging markets like China and India, and sure enough, that’s where Apple are focussed today.

Farewell Apple Victoria Square - my photos might be the final look the world at large gets at the inside of this store. You’ve served us well through many product launches and the golden era of Steve Jobs final years and reports, to the last decade of Tim Cook’s rapid growth and expansion era. Here’s to the new store, but also to the memory of our pioneering, NI first Apple Store. A moment in Apple history for locals.

#apple #retail #apple store #Belfast #northern ireland #victoriasquare

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