THE GLEAMING TOWER OF HOPE

I’m waiting for the bus by the Water Tower today. I miscalculated times and then ended up at this strange bus stop because I didn’t want to run.

I had a friend who used to call it the ‘gleaming tower of hope’. Every day on his way home from work along the motorway, he’d see it catch the sun on the horizon and it would remind him that home is ahead and work behind. I don’t think he liked his job too much, based on the speed he used to drive away from it every afternoon.

It was built in 1932 apparently. For those of us who live here, it’s formed part of our skyline forever. There are black and white photos of my Mum in school uniform standing in her garden with the Water Tower looming in the background. When I was a kid, we’d pass it on the way to ‘Savacentre’, and my Grandfather used to comment on how you can see it from almost all roads into the town.

It was there when I did my first driving lesson too, looking exactly the same, gleaming in the afternoon sunshine above the houses, while my instructor was being sarcastic about three point turns.

And this morning. It’s glimmering in the sun. A man cleans the windows of the Water Tower pub next to it, and there’s a late summer breeze in the air while I wait for the Number 15.

It feels a bit like a holiday morning. Just beyond this row of houses, there might be sea, or cliff tops, or rolling hills. All that’s missing is the cry of seagulls. Oh, and the fact that I know that the sea is nowhere near of course. Though today, on my way to work, I kind of wish it were.

My friend was right. It is the gleaming tower of hope. But only really because that’s where home is. And home will always be home.