Heynecheclyff

The soot begrimed gray stone buildings bordering St. George Square glistened from the wind swept rain that had soaked the Huddersfield district for the past two days. And, now the clouds are lowering again and the top of Castle Hill, across the Colne River, between Almondbury and Berry Brow, is no longer visible, a portend that the storm will not pass soon.

The clock above the entrance of the London and Northwestern Railways West gate Station, on the north side of the square, shows 3:10 in the afternoon Darkness, premature even for this time of year, is fast approaching. The street lamps, as they flicker on one by one, do little to dispel the gathering gloom.....the lights at the entrance to the George Hotel, an imposing five storey structure and the closest hostelry to the station, offers the only real sense of warmth and harbour from the tempest.

An electric tram comes rattling along John William Street from the west, its single head lamp glowing through the veil of rain like a cyclopean creature from the deep, stops at the intersection of John William and Northumberland Streets. A single passengers alights. After raising his umbrella he proceeds haltingly across the intersection and enters through the outside, public entrance of the George Hotel's Tudor Bar.

The bar is empty except for the barkeeper, who sits absorbed in the sports section of the Manchester Guardian, behind the bar. He looks up at the commotion at the public entrance, but from the dimness of the illumination, at the further end of the room, is momentarily unable to identify the patron who had entered.

The elderly man who enters is in his early 60s. medium in stature, and some 12 stones in weight. Overall there is an impression of intelligence, capability, and humour. And, even with a halting gait caused by having to use a crutch to support a left leg, which terminates just below the knee...he moves with a fluidity of motion. ...the barkeeper recognizes him and laying aside his paper, stands up and give greeting.

"Hello Harry. We haven't seen you for some time now. What brings you to town on such a bloody awful day?"

"Hello yourself. Right if I didn't have to meet the 5 o'clock from Liverpool I wouldn't have ventured out......"

"...How about a spot of rum to warm you up, you look chilled through."

"That'd set me right. I think I'll settle here by the grate to get the chill out-a my bones."

Their thoughts were rudely interrupted with the opening of the door from the lobby, and the entrance of a well-dressed younger man. "Afternoon gents. Miserable out ain't it!"

A mumbled agreement from Harry; from George, "God awful. What's your pleasure sir?"

"A pint of your local ale I think," then turning to Harry, "may I join you sir?"

The newcomer pulls up the offered chair and sits down. "Norman, Norm Cartwright's the name. I'm a salesman for the Hoskin Shoe Company, and newly assigned to the northern counties. This is my first visit to Huddersfield, a nice enough place from what I've seen so far. Does it often rain like this?"

Harry chuckles, "oh now and again Norm, but not always as hard or as long as this. By the way I'm Harry Hinchcliffe, and the chap presiding over the bar is George...."

""Hinchcliffe, that's an unusual name Harry. Where do you come from?"