Tales From A Harrogate Caravan
Chapter 21 — Back to Belle Isle
← Karl Swainston / Tales From A Harrogate Caravan
The next day we moved out of the flat and away from Harrogate and back to Leeds and the bungalow; one day too late for Faye.
Moving back to Belle Isle and the bungalow was hellish. The place was badly underdeveloped and it wasn't long before creditors had sniffed me out and unannounced knocks and court demands began to bang and drop through the door. But Alex and the two dogs were still intact, and within a few months, I began to be thankful that Fate had played a hand in preventing the sale of the property, and I still had a home.
***
I mentioned Brian earlier in the tale and of how he had been a good friend of my dad, Anna, Bernie and me. Since I’d moved away from Leeds, I’d lost touch with him, but now I was back in Leeds I decided to go and visit my old friend. I'd known Brian for nearly forty years. Knocking on the door of his run-down council house, I noticed a care worker busying around through the window. I knocked on the window to get her attention.
'Yes, can I help?' she asked, opening the door.
'I've called to see Brian. I'm a friend of his and was just passing.'
The care worker was convinced I was genuine, and she stood aside to allow me to enter.
Brian was stooped over in one of those pensioner chairs with wings on the side. He looked very frail and was sipping some soup. He was now in his late seventies.
'Hiya, Brian. How ye doing?'
'Who are you?' he shouted, as he caught sight of me.
'It's me, Brian, Karl.'
'Who's he?' he continued, looking at the care worker.
The care worker gestured with her finger towards her head and twirled it, without Brian seeing, of course.
'He had a fall yesterday, didn't you, Brian?'
Brian continued to sip his soup, and the care worker took the opportunity to inform me that Brian had severe dementia.
I noticed a picture of Anna and me on the windowsill, a lovely one Rebecca, my daughter, had given Brian.
I stood up and pointed to the picture. 'Look, Brian, it's me, Anna's husband.'
'Oh, it's you. How's Anna?' Anna and he were the best of friends. 'Don't you and Bernie go losing her money now?'
We talked with difficulty for the next ten minutes or so, and I made my excuses and left. I took one last look at Brian, a friend of four decades, who'd now forgotten me; and there, in his place, was an old man, now empty of memory, sat vacantly sipping soup with a bored nurse standing by.
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About Karl Swainston
Karl Swainston is a writer and storyteller whose work is forged from a life lived across the North of England and far beyond. Growing up on a Leeds council estate in the 1960s, Karl's journey was anything but linear. By the age of thirty, he had already lived a dozen lives: from the rigors of grammar school to a degree in Latin, a stint as a fishmonger, a period of discovery living in Marseille, and a return to the hustle of London. Whether working as a postman, a builder, or competing as a county-level chess player, he was, above all, an avid reader—constantly documenting the world around him. This restless spirit continued into his professional life. Karl later taught in Bradford, where he ran a specialist unit for 244 of the most excluded students from across the region—young people whom even the local Pupil Referral Units could not accommodate. Working alongside his old friend Malcolm, Karl spent his days navigating the volatility of Bradford's most aggressive and dysfunctional teenagers. Throughout his life, Karl has been an avid runner and has always shared his home with a rotating cast of beloved dogs and cats—companions who have been constant witnesses to his work. As a writer, Karl's range is as expansive as his history. He works across a wide breadth of genres, including fiction and short stories, autobiography and memoir, biography, non-fiction, and metaphysical writing, as well as providing sharp commentary, opinion, analysis, and essays. Whether writing about his years managing the Harrogate Arms or offering insights from his current adopted home in South East India, where he lives in a simple village with his dog, Bambi, Karl's voice reflects the full, untidy, and deeply human breadth of life. He continues to draw on the rich, decades-long tapestry of his experiences to tell stories that matter, proving that no matter where you live, the human story remains the same.
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