Those That Charm The Age

By Liam Collingborn

Set across the first decade of the twentieth century we look through the eyes of Peter Saxon, a middle aged man who has allowed the loneliness of being a modest merchant engulf him. When he meets a younger Irish woman by the name of Lila he becomes transformed by love and starts the worship the very ground she walks on. Unfortunately her abusive ex-husband and the ladder of fame in which she climbs are obstacles that he will have to accept in his pursuit of her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Liam Collingborn
• Release date: Sep 5, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386113072

Book preview

THOSE THAT CHARM THE AGE

By Liam Collingborn

1901

Precipitation, Procession, Personification

She took pity on me. Her pity manifested itself in many ways, but it is most fondly remembered through the way she held me. This began twelve years ago and in that time we exchanged marriage vows and conducted ourselves in the manners usual of a relationship; but aside from that, we were like no other. She had the marvellous ability to enchant anyone just by flashing a smile. I was lucky enough to be on the receiving end. A smile full of perfect white teeth. She was everything to me. Her name was Lila and she is dead.

The manner in which her untimely demise occurred is the subject of this account. Whilst I find no catharsis or consolation in writing down these events, I still without doubt hope that you shall gain an insight into the life and death of Lila, my rose, and come to love her as I still do. I feel the need to focus on her passing as this injustice proves the universe to be so cruel and calculating. By detailing how I saw her lying there, eyes open but lifeless, filled with fear and pain — you too will understand why I hate the creature that murdered her.

We met on second day of February, 1901. As a respectable shopkeeper, well liked amongst those who frequented my store in the middle of London, I donned the bowler hat appropriate for my status. This particular one was far too big for my head and slid down my forehead no matter how much I pestered it to stay put. However, being the only black one I owned, it had to suffice. A positive aired in that it covered the large bald spot created by an unsightly scar I was gifted with twenty years’ prior, during the second delightful conflict we had with the Afghans. Though if I had known that this was the day I would meet Lila Bard, I certainly would have done more to cover up the other less impressive features of my middle-aged body. Although she may well have fallen for me much the same, being such a kind woman. However, I would have liked to have tailored my black jacket to hide my sharp shoulders that stuck out at the side, doing little to compliment my height. I was too tall to get away with being this thin.

The wind howled through my open window, invading my one room flat situated on the edge of Shepherd’s Bush. The first show of rain had made itself welcome. Looking East I could already make out a procession of people clambering to get a space beside the road, despite the bitter chill of the winter’s morning. They wouldn’t be passing through for a few hours yet but I made my way out to join the huddling masses all the same.

I was saddened by the news, of course I was. The whole nation mourned. Yet I felt more of an obligation rather than a genuine show of grief as I lined up with the others. I was quite content standing at the back, by the Pearson family butchers. I was not one for spectacle. I did not feel the need to fight for a good viewing spot.

‘Morning Mr. Saxon!’ a shrill voice hooted at me. From the glass shattering pitch it resonated, I decided it could only be a grieving woman, or a child knowing my name, recognising me from afar. Being the proprietor of Mr Saxon’s Toys and Trinkets, I decided it to be the latter.

‘And good morning to you, son,’ I replied, unaware of exactly which customer it was due to my popularity with this demographic. ‘Shouldn’t you be with your parents? They’d want you close by when the procession comes around.’ He came closer at that point and I could see that his eyes had dropped.

‘No sir,’ he corrected. ‘I don’t have no parents. Miss Bard sent me to thank you for your donation at Christmas.’

I knew very little of the Bards, only that they were a very big family who took orphan children into their very big house and very big hearts. In my drunken generosity last Christmas Eve, I had sent over some of my worse selling toys, partly to clear some stock but