They grew up in an ordinary little house, on an undistinguished road, leading into a rather mundane northern town. The house was one of three, built on the site of what had once been a farmhouse, with the last traces still visible in the back garden: a sandpit formed from recycled stone lintels. On one side of the houses was a cluster of semi communal areas: the church, the church hall, a playing field (memorably surrounded by barbed wire...blood goes such a long way...) used for fairs and fetes, scouting activities and general mayhem, and a set of old battered tennis courts, which only saw activity during the brief flurry of interest after Wimbledon season. The field and the tennis courts have been long built open, as the density of housing sprawled ever outwards, creeping steady across the countryside which once lay within an easy Sunday stroll.
It wasn't the best end of town. The larger houses, the posher schools, the people with money, they all lived on the other side of the railway tracks, or out in the surrounding villages. Nor yet was it the area of greatest poverty, situated on the outskirts it avoided the violence and riots of that unfortunate summer so long ago. More than anything, it was ordinary. A place to learn to cycle on half built new roads, to build campfires on the field, to feel so independent walking to school alone. All the essentials of life were to hand, with a school, a supermarket, a handy bus stop, and most vitally a public library. Heading further into the town centre, remnants of a historic past were hidden away in back squares and alleys, largely hidden by the concrete monstrosities that had materialised over the previous few decades.
The people were friendly in general, inclined to stop and chat. There was some traditional rivalry between schools, but no true divisions. Indeed, at major town celebrations, the various churches and groups would happily march side by side, and even celebrate the most major feasts together. It was not so much tolerance as obliviousness, simply not seeing the point in clashing. And remember, this was during the Irish troubles. Indeed, it was a point of some pride, amid the disgust, that both sides in the Irish troubles had allegedly threatened violence to a major celebration, which was thus scaled back, as Catholics and Protestants were happily walking in the same parade.
There were 2 children in that ordinary house, attending their mundane schools. They were raised to one major belief, that education was the key that could open doors. The boy learned it well. He headed south for university, and never truly returned north, living the life of a commuter belt professional. And the girl? She learned it too, but a few times she returned. For a year, to work in the hospital she remembered so well from childhood, spending the first day in a room named for the consultant without whom she might never have lived long enough to become a doctor. For a major celebration, when the fireworks turned night to brilliant day, and the town became a city. And one last time of late, without even stepping into the city, as one of the tiny cogs in the great wheel that will help what was once a grim polytechnic, and is now a reputable university, gain the advantages and prestige of opening a medical school.
It is good to have a chance to repay a debt.