I never saw his tears, my grandfather. It wasn't done where he came from. West Yorkshire men would only turn away. There was no place for the sudden stinging in one's eyes, the shudder in the chest, tightening at the throat. We were clawing boulders from the hillside with a mattock and a crowbar when he faltered, stodd a moment with the crowbar in his hand, his hair under his hat ringed with sweat, his breath a quickened gasp. That night I heard his footsteps in another room and from the doorway glimpsed him pacing, each turning in the moonlight forced a breath, a stiffness to his spine. Even in aloneness he would not bow to pain, but carried it upon his shoulders like a cross, his private Via Dolorosa, counted by the minutes and the hours of his steps.