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uwandapieceofme · 2 years ago

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South Shields

My arrival in South Shields came after a long day on a long-delayed train, stalled for three hours as snow began to fall and people’s kids grew agitated, moving anxiously along the aisles. It was the first of April and I was officially setting off into unknown territory, going to a place I wanted far too desperately to be, my emotions coldly ignoring the logic my mind tried and failed to impart upon things.

When we finally pulled into the Newcastle train station, I was desperate for air and freedom of movement. I exited the train and sat for a minute on a bench, to collect myself, before sorting the next leg of my journey, taking the Metro from the station to South Shields. I kept my eyes down as I navigated to the escalators, confused about which platform I was supposed to be on, going back and forth like a mindless idiot, following others I hoped knew better than I where they were going and how to get there. I pushed my way into an already-packed carriage, standing awkwardly with my back to a pole, overly-conscious of the bulk of my backpack, which kept bumping other passengers. The carriage slowly emptied, people pouring out at St. James Park, so I was able to find a seat, eyes fixed to my phone’s navigation to ensure I didn’t miss my stop. I didn’t; it was the last one before the train turned around, back towards the city. I shouldered the uncomfortable weight of my bags and made my way to the main street, headed for my guest house.

My first feeling of being there was relief, at the near prospect of being alone, then the need to look like I knew where I was going, lest I be taken advantage of, and then excitement, because I’d made it. There was a world of possibility ahead of me, represented in the face and voice of a stranger to whom I was far too emotionally attached, who seemed to lurk round every corner, luring me with bent finger towards Gregg’s for my first ever sausage roll.

When I reached my destination, I was all too happy to lock myself away. I threw my bags on the floor, changed into my pajamas, and turned out the lights, keeping my window open to hear the noise of people milling outside the bar across the street.

Waking for breakfast, I made myself moderately presentable, and headed nervously downstairs, for a full English breakfast in an empty dining room. Hungry and energized as I was about the prospects of the day, I polished off everything on my plate, along with a cafetiere of coffee and a bowl of porridge. As I ate, I watched This Morning, which was playing on the TV, trying to keep up (as though staying informed might ward off my feelings of inadequacy and foreignness) as they debated the rise in energy prices and discussed the number of stabbings in Middlesbrough. My host remarked on my gastrointestinal gusto and inquired after the day’s plans, before disappearing into the back to wash the dishes. I returned to my room and prepared for the day.

I hadn’t packed very much, but even what I did have seemed excessive, when I had to lug it from place to place. My wardrobe at that stage consisted of a 3-pack of black Calvin Klein t-shirts, a navy floral skirt made of thin fabric (which unbeknownst to me, was fully transparent when the sun was shining on it), a pair of black linen pants, and a grey and black patterned wool sweater. In addition I had two sports bras, several pairs of socks and underwear, a pair of short waterproof boots, and a pair of Vans hi-tops.

I wore a shirt, pants, sweater, and Vans out for my walk along the beach. The sun was shining beautifully bright, though it was also a bit chilly, so I had to hug myself against the wind. The cold worsened when I reached the beach, walking along the water’s edge as the wind buffeted me, Ellie Goulding playing in my ear, difficult to hear over the noise. I was happy and at peace, walking all the way down to the guard station, and then up past a hotel and a boating club, finding myself stopped at the edge of a block of short, white apartments. I turned around and made my way back, hating how slowly I trudged through the sand. I followed the promenade to another beach, less peopled and also colder, bereft as it was of the sun’s warming rays. Someone threw a ball for their dog. A couple of daring women body boarded in the freezing water.

I was in a noncommittal search for a bathroom, as I was needing a pee, though not yet bursting. I turned and made my way back, following the road this time, realizing quite unhappily as I went that I’d walked much further than I’d thought. It was getting colder by the minute and I’d still not found any toilets (not helped by my freakish need not to be seen looking for things, or at things, or walking up to the wrong things and having to turn around, ashamed). Then the freezing rain started. It lashed my face painfully. I used my hands to cover myself as best I could. I had a mental image of people in films who shield themselves from a downpour by holding a newspaper over their head, only I hadn’t any newspaper, and if I had, I probably would have been too self-conscious to hold it aloft.

In due time, I came to a park, with a pond full of swan boats and a miniature railroad track. Along the track was a covered bench— presumably, the boarding area— and I sat under it for a minute, hoping to wait out the weather. I cupped my hands and brought them to my mouth, breathing on them to warm them. I rubbed them together, anything to get the feeling back in my fingers. God, I had to pee, and I was fucking cold!

Fine! I thought impatiently. I’ll go on! And so I did, trying clumsily to light one of my Marlboro Golds (damn things burn so fast and don’t taste right), for warmth, maybe, but also out of anxious habit. I felt like a criminal. People in this country smoke like chimneys, I told myself. I’d sat on a bench in a park in Birmingham watching parents puffing aggressively while they pulled their kids by the hand, or else pushed a pram. But this seemed a proper, family place. In any case, I felt like a lowlife dickhead. The snow fell and wet the paper. Coming out of this park, I realized I was right across the street from my home— as good as, since I’d given up my apartment to come traveling and had no permanent address elsewhere. I was elated. And miserable and cold and feeling totally out of place, drenched to the bone, dressed in unsuitable clothes. Outside the door to the guest house, I struggled to force the key in the lock, my fingers too numb. It took several attempts before I succeeded. When I made it to my room, I tore off my clothes, turned on the heat, and put the kettle on for tea.

When I’d warmed up, dressed in dry clothes, and dried out my sweater a little bit, I headed back out, this time making my way to the Shields Ferry.

Stepping off the ferry to North Shields was a dream come true. Tall brick buildings stood like battlements, protecting the town’s residents from unwelcome intruders. Letting my idiot nature get the better of me, I took a brief glance at Maps to determine the whereabouts of the pub I was going to, then put my phone away and set off. I missed it totally, coming up to a demolished building surrounded by fence and an auto shop beyond. I turned back, determined to find my way on my own. Can’t be that hard, I thought.

Deciding it was too early for a drink anyway, and knowing the pub was somewhere in the general vicinity of where I now stood, I set off to explore, gravitating toward the water and following the walkway away from the Fish Quay. I pressed play on Hypersonic Missiles, feeling somewhat guilty and more than a little freakish, trying and failing to rationalize my feelings to myself. The wind was brutal here, as it had been on the beach in South Shields, but slightly less violent. I made my way up to a statue on a hill and slowly circled the steps around it, before continuing on to the abbey ruins, skirting the outside as I was unwilling to pay the entrance fee. Someone’s dog was leaping excitedly through the brush just around the abbey and I smiled, offering a greeting.

I walked back the way I’d come, stopping for a moment to kill some time and try, unsuccessfully, to make some profound journal entry, something to make Sam Fender proud, if he ever read it, which he would, in my head, and never elsewhere. Still unsure of the pub’s location, I attempted again to find it without help from my phone, walking aimlessly until I finally gave in. Once I located it, I stood awkwardly outside, pretending to be busy texting someone on my phone, trying to pluck up the courage to go in.

There were two doors, one going to the left and one the right. I went in through the left, where I came upon a small dining area. A few large tables, and a couple of small ones along the wall. The room was mostly empty, except for a couple and three elderly friends. I took a small table along the wall, with a view across the service corridor to the bar. I sat awkwardly for some time, unaware of the protocol for ordering. I pulled out my journal and pretended to busy myself with my phone until it seemed an inordinate amount of time had passed and I still hadn’t been approached for service. Finally, someone saw me and asked for my order. I requested a pint of Bass, based purely on a poster I’d seen for it, and fish and chips, just to draw out the time, since I’d get through my drink quickly enough and wanted to settle in for a minute without getting plastered.

I kept journaling and texting my brother, as I waited for my food to come. I noticed the elderly trio casting glances in my direction, and caught their eye a few times. Two women— one with an immaculate white bob, and one with a pixie cut— and a man, thin, with a checkered button-down and a forest green windbreaker. At first I was sure their looks were hostile, pitying, or a combination. They knew I didn’t belong there, alone in a pub, scribbling in my journal like a socially inept weirdo. I was deeply self-conscious and insecure. But, I tried to bolster myself, I was also doing something new, among people, risking looking like a fool, because I wanted to. I wanted to take up space in that place and experience it.

As others filed in, and I tucked into my food, the booze doing its amicable work, their looks changed to amusement and kindness as if to say, “At least she keeps to herself.”

After the full breakfast that morning, putting away my fish and chips was a chore. I did my best to pace myself and take small bites, but the food was tasteless (despite the mass amounts of malt vinegar I doused it with) and I simply wasn’t up to the task. After a second pint (of which I only drank half, to remain somewhat stable), I left the pub, happily drunk, passing pubs and restaurants which were now beginning to fill up with the early dinner, fresh-from-work crowd. Despite the cold, the outdoor tables were all occupied by loud, overly-confident men and their made-up, well-pruned girlfriends. I lit another cigarette, feeling slightly sloppy and quite lonely.

For dinner, I went to Morrison’s for a chocolate bar, some crisps, and another bottle of beer, that I might get more thoroughly fucked in the safety of my own room. Before bed, I snapped some pictures of myself with my Instax, in a bid to boost my self-esteem, and penned a few poems, not very good and mostly about how shit and lonely I felt and how much I wanted Sam to love me. After journaling helped to turn my mood around somewhat, returning me to a more hopeful, self-compassionate outlook, I turned in for the night, feeling a bit guilty for not being out with all the other happy drunk souls who passed by my window.

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