Constant Lovers

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Richard Nottingham crossed Timble Bridge as the bell in the Parish Church chimed seven. The morning air was July warm, and the low water in Sheepscar Beck slipped quietly over the rocks. He stopped for a moment, feeling a gentle joy in life. For a few small minutes at least, everything could be right with the world. No crime, no anger, just the sound of the stream and the quiet chatter of birds up in the trees that shaded the bank.

All too soon, once he walked past York Bar and up Kirkgate, Leeds would envelop him and life would return. The noise and the full, heady stink of the city would rush in like a wave. Once again he’d be Richard Nottingham, Constable of Leeds. After such a long winter of cold, ice and deaths, this summer of 1732 was exactly what people needed, placid and peaceful. He lingered, loath to go, his hands resting on the wood of the trestle, letting his thoughts wander. Finally he turned, pushed the fringe of hair back from his forehead and walked into the city.

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