In these sudden crisis of our lives

In these sudden crisis of our lives when I went off with my father to Yorkshire, my mother sometimes took mu brother Cyril to her sister's at Ipswich ans left him there. When the two of us met again we would be astonished to see how long our legs had got and scarcely recognized each other's voices. Nine had the hard Yorkshire strain, he had the softer, politer voice of the south. Unlike myself ha was an affectionate boy and he observed more of the true situation in our home than I did. He was an easy victim and he early became a very bad stammerer. this vanished at our Aunt's house where he was the little gentleman, used to the drawing room, to servants and Edwardian niceties. When he came back to our rough and tumble, the sight of a table no properly laid and of rooms ill-furnished and knocked about by our life, made him nervous and upset. He taked in careful and elderly way at the time
 But now we were both leaving York for Ipswich in our own. The train ran through the empty landscape of the Fens lying under the wide skies that had moved the Norwich painters.We saw powerful Ely cathedral on its hill in that flat land and were in sweetly rolling East Anglia, the country of large village churches, monastic building and pretty white pargeted and timbered houses, some of the loveliest things in England. This region had once been rich when England's great wealth was in wool and before the water power and steam engine of the north had captured the trade a century before. Strange names like Eye and March excited me. I had read Hereward the Wake and knew of fanes and that 'silly Sufolk?meant holy Suffolk.
 I saw the reason for my brother's distinction when we got out at Ipswich station. We were met by a tall man of fifty who had a domed head like a large pink egg, fluffy white hair and a short white beard. He looked like a pious ram. Perhaps those mild blue eyes and red wet lips were rougish - as my mother often blurted out in cheery way -burt he had a slow considerate manner and the voice had the straying educated bleat.
Extract from the book “A cab in the door” by V.S. Pritchett