“We’ll bring one of the big trucks,” the moving man said. “So you’ll need to keep some space in front of the house. That was four weeks ago, and ever since I’ve been working on the timing.
“They’re coming to put stuff in the truck on Tuesday,” I say to my wife, “and then they’re back first thing on Wednesday morning to finish loading and do the moving.”
“So when are you going to speak to the neighbours?” My wife asks. “Now,” I reply.
People don’t always answer the door in this neighbourhood, particularly if they’re not sure who you are. So when I see a camera on the door bell I grin at it stupidly until the door opens.
“You might have noticed,” I say, gesturing towards the sign outside the front of the house, “that we’re moving.”
“Yeah, I noticed. Why are you moving? Don’t you like it ‘round here no more?”
I’m momentarily perplexed.
“Well…” I say, “I’ve lived on here for fifteen years. That’s the longest I’ve lived anywhere.”
“So why are you moving then?”
The question has some logic - I need an answer that’s true and also makes sense.
“It’s a work thing.”
There is a distinct change of facial expression, eyes that had previously narrowed now widen, eyelids lift. If there’s one thing people around here understand it’s that employers are entirely unreasonable, but you still have to do what they say.
“Ahhh... So where are you going then?”
There’s a brief pause.
“Hull.”
“Oh. Well… good luck.”
Like so many neighbouring places, there is little love lost between Grimsby and Hull, nor indeed between Grimsby and Lincoln, or Grimsby and Scunthorpe. Lines of antipathy serve as boundary markers.
“So I’ve got movers coming Tuesday and Wednesday, any chance we could keep the space clear in front of the house?”
The eyes narrow again.
“We can’t park there,” a twitch of the head indicates their neighbours to the left, “apparently she needs to be able to get in and out.” I nod, sensitively. “So we’ll have to go over the road.”
“Ah thanks,” I say, “that’s really kind.”
“It’s alright,” she says. “You’re the one what’s got to move to Hull.”
I walk from our houses up to the shops and on the way I see Sam. Her face breaks into a grin.
“I hear congratulations are in order!” She says. “You’ve been ordained haven’t you?”
“You know everything,” I say, with a laugh.
“I saw your house is up for sale,” she says. “Do you have to move?”
“Yeah, my new job isn’t around here,” I explain.
“We moved here just after you,” Sam tells me, adding: “this is the best place I’ve ever lived.”
The year before Sam moved here her husband killed himself, leaving her and their six year old son. A nice kid, if a little prone to poor decision making. He seems to have calmed down now that he has a child of his own.
Sam and her son come from a different part of the town, she still visits friends there, and visits the church where she once went to youth club.
“They’ve got a big wall with all names of people who died,” she says. “My husband’s on there, and so’s my friend who drowned in the bath…”
“She was on drugs at the time,” she adds by way of explanation.
She plants a kiss on my cheek, “come and see us before you go properly,” she says. “I will,” I promise.
Driving over the bridge to Hull, the water catches the sun and, for once reflecting the sky, looks blue rather than brown.
“It seems like a long way away, doesn’t it.” I say.