MORNING SERIAL
THIS rushing current was normally a shallow stream into which the housewives of the slum streets emptied their garbage. A river which in summertime made passers-by hold their breath for fear of contamination. At that time of year the townsfolk made use of it as a disposal ground for unwanted cats and dogs. It was not unusual to see a swollen, putrefying carcase being carried slowly downstream under the bridge to find a deeper grave in the yellow estuary to which the river flowed, or to find a mysterious, foul-smelling bundle wrapped in a rotting sack wedged between the slime-covered stones, rusty cans and bits of junk that were tossed into the water.
So evil of reputation was the river that even though the town had been built around it, no one felt honoured to name it as Abermor’s river. No one claimed it with civic pride, save perhaps the beady-eyed, bold, black rats who scurried under the bridge where they fattened on the refuse, the offal from the butchers’ stalls in the nearby market and the grain blowing from the corn merchants’ warehouses.
The first turning to the right at the end of the street brought Ieuan into Prospect Place, a row of workers’ houses whose only prospect was a narrow road, pot-holed and bellying, which terminated at an open stretch of land made bare by the countless feet of playing children.
The houses were drab-walled, neglected and shabby. On the corner stood a tall, derelict building. Splotches of faded blue and yellow paint covered the pine end wall which once advertised the merits of Colman’s Starch and Monkey Brand Powder.
The house next door bore a sign over the doorway, “Fish and Chips,” and as Ieuan passed he caught a glimpse of the elaborately enamelled frying machine in the front parlour, the Latin phrase “Senatus Que Populus Romanus” transcribed to “Small Profits Quick Returns.” Farther along the street another front parlour had been converted into a business premises.
The small, curtainless window was crammed with second-hand Army boots. Five and six a pair.