Goddess of the North by Georgina Kamsika

Author:Georgina Kamsika [Kamsika, Georgina]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-942111-68-9
Publisher: REUTS Publications

We’ve had an uneventful, but interesting journey so far. Lots of tales of childhood misadventures from him, me telling tall tales of what I might have done if I’d not sprung fully grown from my mother. After that normal, mostly human night out, this too feels right.

“Then, despite the fact Paul was better at scouts than me, anyway, and after they bent the rules to let him join, my mum was determined that I be the new cross-country champion for our church.”

“What was it like, at Catholic school?” I ask, keeping my eyes on the busy motorway traffic.

Michael opens his mouth to make a smart comment, but then stops. He takes a deep breath and starts again. “It wasn’t so bad, Mass instead of morning assembly, making up some sins to confess to the priest. Mostly, it just served to put me off organized religion.”

I nod, wanting to look at him, to see the white glow of his high moksha, his goodness, but I restrain the urge. “Religions are run by humans. They often get messed up from the original meaning.”

He nods, resting his chin on his knuckles as he looks out the window. “Yeah, I still think I believe in something, some higher power perhaps, just not in all the guilt the priests like to dish out. Oh, hey, accident signs.” His voice switches from thoughtful to work mode, and I glance at the sign next to the flashing lights.

Traffic accident up ahead, road calming in place from 33 onward. Poor traffic cops, stuck working the Tinsley Viaduct in this weather.

“33 to 34 is bad, anyway, down two lanes with the Meadowhall January sales traffic. The Parkway is down to one lane, too, so maybe nip under along Attercliffe?” Michael suggests.

“I can do that.” I nod, then I maneuver the car into the slow lane, ready for the slip road for exit 34. “Slightly longer route, but much more scenic.”

“If you think old, abandoned steelworks are scenic, then I guess so,” he says.

“I really kind of do,” I say as I navigate off the motorway and onto the quieter roads leading into Sheffield. “Sheffield Steel, Made in Sheffield—it all starts from here.”

We turn down Attercliffe, along a straight road lined on both sides by old factories. At one time, each of them produced steel or cutlery. Now, the majority are closed, or converted into office buildings.

“I wish I’d been around then, during the height of this city,” Michael says.

“Steel mills as far as the eye could see. Then Thatcher sold off British Steel, privatized it. Now, it’s owned by Tata,” I say.

“Tata? Never heard of it. It’s a shame it got sold.”

“Tata is a big, Indian multinational. It’s a shame, yes, but I’m happy there’s still some steel production in Sheffield at all.”

Some of the few remaining steel mills pass by on our left, while the right is dominated by one behemoth of a building. As we pass one end of the colossal Magna Center, Higgins points toward it. “Now that was a meaty steelworks.

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