I watched the sky change from a pale blue to a dingy grey as I came to the south end of town. This was so familiar. I had grown up not far from there. It was all coming back quickly, the streets and shops and little row houses. The factories along the waterfront stained the air and emitted a filthy, burning smell. As I wandered, the businesses gave way to small family row homes and before I realised my path, I found myself on the outskirts of my old neighbourhood.
I suppose it hadn’t been the worst place to grow up. When I was very young, before I knew the difference between people like the Grace’s and people like us, I happily played with the neighbour children, running the length of the canal, or at least from Cook Street to the alley behind David Sawyer’s house. Some of the children, i
