Albert boards the train in Bradford, going to London. He has a morning appointment.
Albert.
The day had begun in no particularly special way. It had, in fact, begun the way every working day had begun for the past ten years. Waking at four, spending twenty-three minutes in the bathroom, fifteen more at the breakfast table before collecting his briefcase from the safe at the back of the store, and making his twenty-minute walk to the train station where he boarded the 5:05 A.M. Pullman, leaving Bradford for Euston. There is no intoxicating success to consider as he rocks in his seat to the rhythm of the train, listening to the rasping of newspapers, and the intermittent coughing of fellow travelers. He simply absorbs himself in his usual practice of trying to ascertain what is on the minds of other commuters in close proximity.
The train pulls into its final destination at 8.16. Albert checks his watch.
Wearing a ponderous black overcoat and carrying his many times repaired briefcase, Albert is absorbed like a thief, jostled along in the wave of peevish people entering the vast city through Euston Station, The chill January air scented with brylcream, coffee, peppermint, and the overpowering decoction of old perfumes and aftershaves mingling with stale tobacco ash.
Albert listens to the irritated mutterings as the confraternity moves sluggishly toward the exit, where a large, florid looking man, puffy faced with strangely colorless eyes, collects tickets.
He walks briskly across the precinct of the station’s great hall, striding with purpose to a seating area beneath the great clock. It’s here he sits, again checking his watch, and opening his briefcase. From it, he removes two brushes wrapped in a yellow cloth, and a can of Cherry Blossom black shoe polish. These things he places on the bench before bending forward to untie the shoelace of his right shoe, which he then removes. He opens the can, dabs the brush precisely into the polish, and begins the ritual of cleaning his shoes.
Albert has learned that cleaning his shoes at home, only to have them trampled upon by irritable and impatient people, all trying to beat the clock, is an absurdity. Wrapping up the brushes and closing the lid, he again checks his watch. 8.28. He sits for a further three minutes to gather his thoughts. With trained practice, he shuts out the noise of the rush hour, and takes another moment to enjoy the aroma’s wafting in curls through the air, singling out the smell of fried sausages being cooked over hot coals by a vendor.
At 8.31, he leaves the station precinct into the Wednesday morning air. People, he observes, move cautiously, leaning forward against the fall of fresh snow, hats held fast with gloved hands, scarves covering misting mouths. He walks upright and proud and at 8.35 collects his morning paper from a ruddy cheeked, cloth capped seller. He neatly folds the newspaper before opening the briefcase against his lap, and places it neatly inside. The newspaper seller cheerfully voices the opinion that such a day is not a day for the living. Albert smiles, lifts a hand to salute his departure, and continues toward the taxi rank. The driver tips his hat in recognition. Albert climbs inside. There is no mention of destination. The driver honks his horn and pulls away from the curbside. Albert opens his briefcase, removes the newspaper, and sits it next to him. He then removes a whisky flask. After closing the briefcase, brushing the melting flakes of white from his shoulders to the floor of the cab, he turns off the screw. The sensation of taste on his tongue teases his need. He savors the warmth falling into his belly before taking another longer sip, and screws the top back before placing the flask reverently back in the briefcase, lying the newspaper flat on top and closes the briefcase.
When the cab comes to a halt, the driver turns to him. Albert pays over sixpence for the journey and steps out. He stands beneath the gate, straightening his coat beneath the notice: ‘H.M.P. Wandsworth’ Albert checks his watch. 8:45 a.m.
Two hours later, the train rattles its way back to Bradford through the late grey morning. Albert is sitting upright, absorbed in the game of wondering what people are thinking. An hour later, disturbed by the clattering of a train passing in the opposite direction, he stirs from a nap, opens his briefcase, removes the chrome and leather bound whisky flask, and drinks the remnants.
Lying flat among the shoe cleaning materials, a calf-leather strap, a white cotton hood, some government papers, and three crisp five-pound notes. He places back the empty whisky flask before snapping shut the brass clasps.
Across the aisle, a woman is holding in her hands the evening newspaper. The headlines are in large ominous black print.
‘Derek Bentley Hanged Today.’
Albert turns his stare back to the window, gazing out across the English countryside.
P.S.
Derek Bentley received a ‘posthumous pardon’ which was granted in 1993, and then a quashing of his murder conviction.
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A page-turning novel about a relationship between best friends that is interrupted because of betrayal , deceit, sexual promiscuity and pregnancy happens!
Rovella is a beautiful woman with a cold heart whom blames herself for an unfortunate old family secret that is literally ruining her life. This secret impedes a gorgeous woman from having happiness in her childhood, and throughout her life. Dark sec
Albert.
