Beverley, Hengate, by Andrew Reid Wildman

It reminds me of school, that first taste of fear and captivity, and so, so many years ago. I was born in this little market town, on the edge of Hull, though not quite part of the sprawl, marshes and fields defending the border; the air was scented with the sea as well as the hint of sheep and agriculture. Along streets such as this I walked with my mother, to a school house of red Victorian brick and hard surfaces, redolent of Dettol and boiled meat, of terrifying meals without mother, steam pudding and pink custard, tiny bottles of milk that curdled my stomach and smelled of faintly of sick. This was my world for I knew no other. Often we deviated from the route home, to Fine Fairs, where cardboard boxes were stacked high and sweets lived, or to Greens which sold toys. And then we returned once more to the 1930s snugness of Park Avenue, passing 1960s houses, for Beverley is layered in its stones and history, rich and anchored. I miss it, think of it often, and I paint it from time to time, to remember, to carve a little notch of eternity, to belong a little once more. This work is available for sale at, and prints and posters at


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