On The Edge Of Darkness

By Chris Maynard

In the late 1930's Britain is still haunted by the horrors of the Great War whilst facing the prospect of a new conflict with a resurgent Germany, now ruled by the Nazis.  It is a society where everyone is expected to abide by an unspoken code of societal norms within a pernicious class structure.  Nevertheless when war comes everyone is expected to do their bit whatever their backgrounds or beliefs.

 

Robert Matthews is a likeable rogue who has a toxic relationship with his father and a mundane job. He is rebellious and unreliable until he finds a new purpose in the army. When he meets Lily he falls in love but his commitment is tested when she reveals her past to him. However his biggest test will come in France where his regiment fights a vicious rearguard action against the advancing German army as Hitler's Blitzkrieg drives the British Expeditionary Force back towards the sea.

 

Banished to work in her uncle's shop following an affair with an older man Lily finds friendship with Em, which leads to an active interest in the Women's Rights Movement.  Despite her misgivings she falls in love with Robert but she carries a heavy burden from her past that she suspects is destined to come between them. As the prospect of war becomes more inevitable she volunteers for military service and is destined to play a key role in some of the most significant action of the first months of the conflict.

 

Coming from a working class family in London's East End Tom finds work as a bricklayer despite showing at school that he is unusually gifted. He also realises from a young age that he is attracted to people of his own sex and it is a secret that weighs heavily on him.  After a brief relationship with a distinguished older man he returns to his working class roots and is drawn into a world of socialist political activism. When he is called up he pleads his case as a conscientious objector and is assigned to the Army Medical Corps. He finds love amidst the chaos of war as the British Expeditionary Force retreats in disarray towards Dunkirk.

 

On The Edge Of Darkness is the first book of a trilogy spanning the years of World War Two and follows the lives of these three young protagonists. It is a story of love and loss at a time when Britain faces perhaps its greatest challenge as a nation.  Despite society's intolerance and inequality people from every background will stand together to show extraordinary courage in the face of a threat to everything good that their country stands for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Maynard
• Release date: Mar 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215505441

Book preview

‘The great masses of the people . . . will more easily fall victims to a great lie than to a small one.’

Adolf Hitler: Mein Kampf

Part 1: Storm clouds gathering

I

Lily’s eyes watered in the bitter wind but she refused to dab them with her handkerchief, determined not to give him the pleasure of mistaking it as a sign of emotion, the time for all that having long since passed. She was glad she had worn her thickest, woollen coat. Even so she held herself with her gloved hands clutched across her chest, trying not to shiver. The wind whistled across the open space of the station concourse picking up brittle, decaying leaves, their bright shades of yellow and orange now turned a sombre brown. The leaves skittered this way and that until finally settling into a pile that gathered against the far wall.

‘Now Lily, I think I will head home,’ he said, handing her the tickets. He was dressed formally, as always, in his dog collar, ‘ready to do God’s work’ even though the sun had only just risen. No one could be in any doubt about his proud position in the local community. ‘Give my regards to your Uncle George won’t you.’

She felt that there was something else he wanted to say but, after a moment’s hesitation, he just shook his head, turned and walked away. Since the age of five he had been the only parent she had known. When she’d needed him most he had turned his back on her, ashamed. She wondered when she would see him again and it occurred to her then that she wasn’t sure she really cared.

The announcement over the Tannoy was muffled, barely audible at all against the elements, but she knew that all the trains travelling south from Chiswick stopped at Clapham Junction so she made her way to the southbound platform. Despite her father’s insistence that she travelled light she had packed as many of her possessions into the old suitcase as she could. It took both hands to lift it and she had no idea how she would manage when she reached her destination. The rest of her things were in a large box, which he said he would send on in due course.

In the distance Lily could see the train approaching down the long straight track that preceded the station. It arrived alongside the platform with soot and steam billowing into the early morning sky. Somehow she managed to lift the case into the carriage, setting it down beside her as she found an empty seat in the aisle. The first stage of her journey would take just fifteen minutes so she kept her coat on, glad for the temporary respite from the cold. As she sat there she ran her fingers over the faded gold lettering stencilled on to the leather bag below the handle. They were her grandmother’s initials and it reminded her again how much she missed her. She knew things would have been so different if she had still been alive when everyone else stood in judgement of her.

When she arrived at Clapham Junction the list of destinations on the timetable was daunting. Finally she found the platform number for Oxted. At Oxted she would need to change again for the branch line that would take her to Westerham. First she would have to climb the steep staircase to the gangway that ran above the station, connecting the platforms. She steeled herself to lift the bag, ready to struggle against the descending tide of faceless businessmen, who paid her no regard at all as they hurried on their journeys, heads down.

‘Let me help you with that miss,’ said a young man, tipping his cap and reaching out to take the suitcase from her as he emerged from the crowd.

‘Thank you so much,’ said Lily, as he lifted it easily and took the stairs in great strides, so that she struggled to match his pace.

‘There we are miss,’ he said, setting the bag down. ‘Always glad to help a pretty young lady,’ he added, before disappearing back into the crowd.

This small act of kindness lifted her spirits and she found herself smiling at the compliment, despite herself. She was sure that the young man had winked at her as he turned away and she felt the colour rising in her face.

When she joined the train to Oxted the carriage was much quieter. She watched as the rows of terraced houses, dark with soot, quickly gave way to open countryside beyond the window. Great oaks lined the fields, their mostly leafless branches extending like skeletal arms into the grey sky. In places there were areas of standing water from the relentless rain of recent days and beyond that, lush green fields, boxed off by rambling hedgerows, and punctuated by occasional farm buildings and cottages. She imagined families huddled around warm stoves, tucking into hearty breakfasts, before heading off to school or to work on the land.

Lily’s attention returned to the carriage and she found herself drawn to the headline on the newspaper being read by a man, seated a few rows away. Supreme Peace Effort Begins read the headline in bold letters and she could just make out the smaller font below, which set out Mr Chamberlain’s four aims for avoiding war with Germany. A sub-heading on the front page suggested that Mr Churchill had threatened to resign. Her father was a great admirer of Mr Churchill. She remembered him saying that he was the only politician prepared to stand up to Hitler. Just as she was about to look away the man peered at her over the top of the newspaper. He smiled as he caught her eye. She had seen that same hungry look in men’s eyes before and quickly returned her attention to the well-thumbed copy of ‘Wuthering Heights’ that she had been reading. There was something about the spirit of the Bronte sisters’ writing that she admired and now she felt she could empathise with the plight of some of their heroines even more. She could feel the man’s stare, continuing to assess her, and she realised she had read the same sentence several times. It was a relief when he alighted at the next station.

She was increasingly aware of the appraising looks that men gave her. At first she thought it was her awkwardness that drew their attention. Her long limbs made her feel self-conscious. She had always been a bit of a tom-boy growing up, with little interest in the pursuits that the other girls her age enjoyed. Of course, the time she’d spent with the Professor changed everything. She still couldn’t manage to think of him as Richard, despite the intimacy they had shared. She blushed as she remembered the acute embarrassment she’d felt when he’d told her how attractive she was, amused by her discomfort. Working as his secretary, exposed to the worldliness of the University, had opened her eyes, her naivety shattered by his boldness. It was clear that he valued her unusual talent with numbers and for the first time she had enjoyed conversations with an adult on equal terms. But she had already expended too much energy thinking about the past. She would be glad if she never set eyes on him again. It was time to move on.

By mid-morning, after another change of trains, she finally arrived in Westerham. However, standing on the platform she realised that she didn’t know the way into town or how she would get there carrying the heavy suitcase. As the few passengers that had alighted there began to disperse, she was left alone, clutching the letter with her uncle’s address. She was about to approach the stationmaster to ask for directions when a scruffy young man appeared around the corner, red-faced and sweating.

‘Miss Lilian?’ he asked.

‘Yes, although everyone calls me Lily,’ she replied.

‘Mr Williams said to come and get you from the station. Got delayed on me deliveries or I would have been here when your train arrived. Saw the train coming from a distance but the truck wouldn’t go any faster up the hill. Let me take your bag miss.’

‘Thank you,’ Lily replied, greatly relieved to have the suitcase taken from her, as the young man gestured towards the waiting vehicle.

She stepped up into the truck, which was a rather bright green in colour and had the single word Williams, in black lettering, above the cab. At the rear was an open flat-bed with all manner of timber, tools and other hardware items, presumably still awaiting delivery.

‘My name’s Davey miss,’ he said, touching his cap as he did so.

‘Pleased to meet you Davey,’ she replied, as she settled back into the seat.

The station was on the outskirts of town and it would have been a long walk had Davey not been there to greet here. In fact she doubted she would have managed it at all. Westerham was nestled in a valley, beneath the North Downs. The town, surrounded by farms and woodland, was partly obscured by a shroud of mist. The mist was gradually dispersing but stubborn pockets remained. As they approached the town she could see the steeple of the church above the trees and then the first collection of old buildings as they turned the corner on the country lane.

‘Westerham Motors miss,’ Davey said, gesturing towards the showrooms on their left, with shiny new motor cars on the forecourt. ‘Owned by Mr Blackstone, a friend of your uncle.’

Lily could feel every bump as they crossed the rough surface of the road. It was made worse by a bulging spring, which threatened to escape the confines of the worn leather seat. She shifted her weight in an attempt to find a more comfortable position. As she looked to the west she saw a thick line of clouds, many shades of dark grey tumbling together across the sky, edging closer like some invading armada. She wondered if it was some kind of portent that these dark skies had followed her from home but she reminded herself that this was her home now. Overhead the sky was clearer and to the east she could see pale sunshine trying to break through. She made up her mind that the future would be brighter from here.

‘River Darent miss,’ said Davey, as they crossed a small, humped back bridge. He was clearly enjoying showing her the sights of his home town.

Lily caught a glimpse of the river as they passed over the bridge. Even at a glance she could see that the dark waters threatened to burst the narrow banks. The river was in full spate, bringing branches and all manner of debris with it as it came down from the hills. She could hear the water rushing beneath the stone arch of the bridge, despite the noise of the truck’s engine.

After a few minutes they came into the centre of the town. A row of old buildings, mostly shops, stood on one side of the main street opposite a triangular shaped green. On the green was a statue of a man, in what looked like a naval uniform, holding a sword aloft. Opposite the statue was a shopfront in the same bright green as the truck’s livery, with the words ‘Williams’ Hardware’ in bold black paint above the doorway. Davey turned the truck down a passageway at the side of the shop. Lily flinched as they went through the narrow space, which was just wide enough for the truck to pass through, before it opened up into a wide yard at the rear of the property. It was a well-practiced manoeuvre no doubt but she realised that she had held her breath as they passed through the narrow space despite the apparent ease with which Davey negotiated his way through.

‘This is it miss,’ he said, as the truck’s engine came to a clattering stop.

‘Thank you Davey,’ she said, as he opened the door and helped her down from the cab. ‘I don’t know how I would have managed without you.’

‘We’ve been expecting you,’ said a bull-like man, with a thick dark beard, as he strode across to greet her. He offered his hand, rather formally, and she recognised him as her uncle. The last time she had seen him was at her grandmother’s funeral seven years ago and he had seemed a much taller figure then.

‘Uncle George,’ she said, accepting his firm grip. ‘I didn’t realise I’d be coming straight to the shop.’

‘Your aunt thought it was for the best,’ he said. ‘There are lodgings above that haven’t been used for a while but they’ll do. Thought you’d like your own privacy whilst you’re staying with us.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, as he gestured towards the stairway at the rear of the shop, which had a separate entrance from the yard. She had hoped to be part of the family, enjoying the company of her younger cousins, but she suspected that her aunt was concerned she’d be a bad influence. Perhaps she’d never be able to leave the past behind. A resigned sadness threatened to overwhelm her but she was determined to make the best of things.

‘Here we are then,’ he said, setting her suitcase down on the floor. ‘Bathroom’s over there in the corner and there’s a small kitchen off to the side. The boiler’s a bit temperamental but it’s working for now. I’ll leave you to settle in and you can head down to the shop when you’re ready.’

With that he turned and headed back down the wooden staircase. Lily looked around at her new lodgings. It was all a bit bleak but she thought she could make a home of it with a few touches of her own. At least working as an assistant in the shop below would mean she didn’t have far to go each morning and perhaps she would enjoy having her own privacy as her uncle had suggested.

The suitcase practically sighed with relief when she opened it. It was crammed with all manner of treasures that she couldn’t bear to leave behind. It didn’t take long to hang her clothes in the old wardrobe and to place her smaller items in the drawers of the chest under the window. She took more time over her other possessions. Firstly a few of her books, which she placed on a shelf that seemed destined for such a purpose. She knew that her collection of books revealed an eclectic, perhaps even radical taste. A number of them were recommendations from friends she had made whilst working for him at the university. Amongst them were novels by Virginia Woolf, Winifred Holtby and Stella Gibbons.  There was even a copy of ‘The Grapes of Wrath’ by an American writer, John Steinbeck, which had caused great controversy across the Atlantic by all accounts. She had yet to read it. She had acquired the set of books by the Bronte sisters from a second-hand bookshop in Chiswick. Each one had a dark red, hardback cover with the novel’s title in faded gold lettering on the spine. They had a slightly musty smell from years of gathering dust on someone’s bookshelf but they were prized possessions nevertheless.

Then there was the picture of the mother she had barely known. Her grandmother had given her the photograph, displayed in a simple, ceramic frame. Lily could just about remember happier times playing with her mother in the garden of their house in Chiswick but these memories, if they were real at all, were elusive. In the picture, Lily thought that her mother looked sad but very pretty. She was dressed formally in a white blouse, with a brooch at the neck and with her hair held up neatly. There was something about her eyes that suggested an unusual intelligence and her faint smile gave her a kindly appearance.  She placed the picture carefully on the table beside the bed. Pride of place went to her old teddy bear. Simply known as Bear, he had been beside her for as long as she could remember. He was worn in places now and various appendages had been sown back on over the years. She placed him propped up against the thin pillows on the bed, instantly making the place feel more like home.

With everything unpacked she sat down on the hard wooden chair at the dressing table, where her aunt had placed a triple mirror, which folded in on hinges on either side. As she brushed her hair she noticed there were faint darks lines beneath her eyes, a sign of her lack of sleep no doubt. Perhaps it was her imagination but it seemed to her that her face had lost some of its youthfulness, although she had only recently turned twenty.  She could not see what it was that men seemed to find so enticing. Her nose sat evenly in the middle of her face, neither prominent nor unusual. There were no blemishes to her skin, though she felt it was rather pallid, due no doubt to a life spent largely indoors. Perhaps she might concede that her large brown eyes had a more striking quality but they were hardly worth all the fuss. She concentrated on fixing her hair, which resisted all attempts to settle into any kind of recognisable style after the hours spent beneath the woollen hat she’d worn on the journey.

That would have to do, she thought, finally. She couldn’t put it off any longer. Although her uncle had said to take as much time as she needed to settle in she felt she must get started straight away.  There was nothing more she could do for now anyway. She made her way down the narrow staircase and back out into the yard. Davey and the green truck had gone she noticed. There was a separate door that led back into the shop, the one that uncle George had emerged from earlier. As she entered a distinctive smell greeted her, a mixture of freshly cut timber, paint and something else she couldn’t quite determine. The overall effect was quite pleasant. Some larger items were stored at the back and as she entered the shop itself she could see tightly packed shelves, stacked from floor to ceiling. A tall set of steps gave access to the items on the highest level. There was a long, solid looking counter down the rear of the shop, with a large cash register dominating the space.

‘There you are,’ said her uncle, when he saw her. ‘Have you managed to get settled in then?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ she replied.

‘Let me show you around the shop so you can see how everything works’, he said. ‘It’s been a slow morning because of the weather so we can talk between customers.’

Lily noticed that it was raining again outside and it had visibly darkened where the thick band of clouds she’d seen earlier had now reached the town. Through the large shopfront window she could see the few people that were in the high street dashing about, heads down or huddled beneath umbrellas as they walked briskly along the puddled pavements.

Over the next few hours she learnt how to work the cash register, which seemed determined to trap her fingers at every opportunity. She could see that her uncle took great pride in the way that the stock in the shop was organised and displayed. Part of her role was to ensure that items were continually brought forward to the front of the shelves so that customers could see them clearly. She would have to get used to the weights and measures, which he explained quickly. However, with her aptitude for numbers, she felt confident that she would soon master that. Outside there was a further display set out on trestle tables or simply standing on the pavement, covered by a wide awning. It would be her job to set this out each morning and to bring the various items back in every evening when the shop closed.

By early afternoon the clouds had cleared and the skies had brightened. Trade in the shop picked up quickly, mostly local housewives and the odd tradesman. Her uncle introduced her to some of the regulars, explaining that she was his niece and would be helping in the shop for now.  She found that her confidence was growing steadily as the day passed and she was able to manage a number of transactions on her own whilst he served other customers. Most of the customers seemed to accept her uncle’s explanation for her arrival at face value but not everyone was so accommodating.

‘Not that one young lady. The brand I always use,’ said a particularly cantankerous, older woman, pointing to the bottle on the shelf above. Mrs Bristow had raised her eyebrow sceptically when he’d introduced her. ‘All the way from London, you say? I expect you’ll be glad to escape the clamour of the city young lady. You’ll find that life happens at a slower pace in the country but we still have our manners.’

She didn’t have the gumption to argue that Chiswick was no more part of London than Westerham and she could see that taking up such an argument would only antagonise the old lady further. Besides she made no attempt to conceal a raised eyebrow and an audible tutting sound when her uncle explained her presence in the shop. Lily felt sure that Mrs Bristow suspected an ulterior motive for her sudden arrival in the town but perhaps that was just her imagination. Mrs Bristow left without so much as a thank you and Lily was relieved to see her go. However, most of the local people had been friendly and she felt that she could get used to the work.  She might even offer to do the books for her uncle but that could wait for another day.

‘Suggest you finish early today and get anything you might need before the shops close,’ her uncle said. ‘Your aunt has put some basic provisions in the kitchen so you might want to check there first. Here’s a key to the door in the yard so you can come and go as you please.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That’s very kind.’

‘You’ve done well today. Perhaps things will work out just fine, you’ll see.’

Lily was glad to take the opportunity to have a look around the town before it got dark. The High Street contained all the shops you might expect. Most of the businesses were in this first group of buildings on either side of the street, with the small, well-kept green in the centre. Beyond the green she could see the church, with its ancient spire reaching towards the heavens. Further along the High Street split in two, one road signposted to Croydon and the other continuing on to Oxted.

By the time she headed back most of the shops were closing. When she reached her uncle’s shop she saw that the pavement display had been taken inside and the large, dark green awning had been closed for the night. Davey and her uncle were out the back closing up the storeroom. They said their farewells and she found herself alone in her room above the shop. She placed the flowers she’d bought in an old milk churn, which she found in the cupboard under the sink. The delicate mix of pink, white and purple flowers gave off a sweet smell, reminiscent of summer days. Just their presence on the small table made the room feel more like home.  After a simple meal of ham and cheese with some of the crusty bread she had bought from the bakers she decided to take a bath. After much protesting the old pipes finally gave up some scorching hot water, which spluttered through taps crusted with limescale.  Following a long soak in the bath she decided to have an early night but before turning off the light she lost herself again in the passionate story of Heathcliff and Cathy on the wild Yorkshire moors. After a while she realised that she had read the same passage several times and she could no longer keep her eyes open. The first day in the shop, after the long journey, had taken its toll. At least she would have no trouble sleeping.

II

Robert left a rim of foam on his top lip for a moment, savouring the taste, before wiping the froth away with the back of his hand.  He was standing on the edge of the group, content to just watch and listen for now. It wasn’t that he was usually a peripheral figure amongst them, far from it, but the others had been drinking for a while and the conversation was in full flow when he arrived. The beer he sipped was warm and hoppy, reminding him of warm summer days in the countryside.

It was the usual crowd gathered at the bar. They’d known each other since their first days at school, growing up together in the small Kent town. This was the same pub where they’d watched their fathers drink when they were boys. Back then, the waiting around seemed endless, watching as his father downed pint after pint, the conversation becoming more heated the more the men drank.  Afterwards his father would be even more short-tempered than usual and Robert had learnt to keep his head down. Now that they were men themselves it felt natural for them to inherit the place as their own, for their generation to take centre stage.

Watching the others, it struck him that most of his friends now looked like younger versions of their fathers. He supposed it was to be expected. Besides he had lost count of the times that people had made similar comments to him. Of course, he wouldn’t acknowledge the likeness but he had to accept that he had inherited his father’s tall, wiry build, blue eyes and unruly dark locks. He ran his hand through his hair, as he often did out of habit. A visit to the barbers was overdue, he thought.

His latest failed relationship preyed on his mind, whilst he half listened to his friends’ conversation. For some reason he recalled an encounter with an elderly aunt. He could only have been twelve or thirteen at the time and hated being the centre of attention. The bird-like old lady ruffled his hair with her bony fingers, much to his annoyance, and proclaimed that he would break lots of girls’ hearts when he got older. It was fair to say that he wasn’t doing a bad job of living up to that prophecy already and he knew that it wasn’t something to be proud of.  The most recent relationship had got quite serious, or at least that was what Mary Stevens evidently thought. She tried to get him to make some kind of longer-term commitment in exchange for allowing a more physical intimacy to develop. When he told her that he didn’t think it was going anywhere, as far as he was concerned, there had been tears and a good deal of acrimony. He felt bad about it, of course, but he was just being honest after all.

The discussion his friends were having was becoming more animated and any twinge of conscience was forgotten as his attention was drawn back to what they were saying. They were talking about Hitler’s continuing rearmament programme in Germany, which had dominated the news for months. They expressed their views with a worldliness that their inexperience hardly warranted, something he was sometimes guilty of himself.  He supposed it was the over-confidence of youth, often enhanced, as on this occasion, by the added certainty that a few pints of beer tended to lend to what otherwise might be an ill-informed opinion.

‘This so-called ‘Munich Agreement’ is a complete betrayal,’ Jim Mitchell said, with all the gravity that an experienced commentator might have on such matters. He had a copy of the Daily Mail in front of him, which he waved at the others. Like all of the newspapers that morning, the lead story was all about Mr. Chamberlain’s accord with Hitler and Mussolini.

‘Exactly, giving up lands that was rightly taken from the Boche after the Great War is an insult to those who lost their lives fighting for King and Country,’ Fred Thomas said, quick to back up his friend’s opinion as he always did. He tried to catch Jim’s eye, looking for a nod of approval, which eventually came.

‘What do you think Robert?’ John Blackstone asked, bringing his friend into the conversation.

‘It seems to me that it’s a betrayal of the Czechs more than anything else,’ Robert said, as the others suddenly seemed to notice for the first time that he had joined them, making room for him as he spoke. He was aware that he was repeating the views he’d heard his father express. They might disagree on most things but he tended to assume his father’s political views as his own. ‘The problem is we aren’t ready for war and I suppose the agreement buys us time at their expense.’

‘I remember talking like you young fellas in 1914,’ said Mr. Baker, one of the older men, sitting alone at the bar. He was a veteran of the Great War and had evidently been listening to their conversation. ‘We should avoid another war with Germany at all costs but make sure we’re ready to fight all the same. I wouldn’t trust that Hitler fella as far as I could throw him.’

‘Perhaps we should be doing something now, to take some responsibility ourselves for being ready,’ suggested Charlie Hughes. ‘In case a war does come I mean.’ He was one of the quieter members of the group but when he did speak the others tended to pay attention.

‘What do you suggest?’ Jim asked.

‘There’s a Territorial Army Unit based in Maidstone. I’ve seen the recruitment posters down at the station. I was thinking of signing up,’ Charlie replied.

‘My dad would kill me if I couldn’t help out on the farm,’ Jim said, distancing himself from the idea immediately, and a few of the others nodded in agreement despite their bullish comments up to that point.

‘I’ll come with you Charlie,’ Robert found himself saying, although he’d barely given the matter any thought. A couple of the others agreed to do the same and there was a vague commitment to make the journey to Maidstone on the following weekend. It would remain to be seen how many followed through on this commitment when their Dutch courage had worn off.

It was Robert’s father’s idea to take a position at the National Provincial Bank. He’d had all sorts of grand ideas about what he’d like to do when he left school and it was fair to say that none of them had included working as a cashier at his local bank but somehow that was where he’d ended up. The work was mundane and he said as much to the Chief Cashier. With hindsight it was probably not the brightest thing to say, given that old Mr Wright had spent his whole career as a cashier at the bank.

‘If you don’t want to be a cashier why on earth did you join the bank?’ he responded, genuinely astonished it seemed that anyone would consider another path in life.

Robert had no answer to that really but he did know that it wasn’t for him. He found himself constantly watching the clock, as the days ticked slowly by. Perhaps there was much more to banking than this and he’d find his way eventually but for now he was conscious that his whole attitude to the job was becoming a problem. The Bank Manager, Mr Vaughan, made it clear that he needed to raise his standards. Of course, he didn’t speak to him directly but made his thoughts known through the sub-manager, Mr Fitzwilliam, a red-faced, chubby man, whom Robert found he couldn’t take seriously. 

‘Mr Vaughan has asked me to point out that the day starts sharply at nine o’clock,’ Fitzwilliam said when he called him over on Friday morning, just before the doors were due to open. ‘You are expected to be ready to start on time and to look the part. Perhaps a new pair of shoes wouldn’t go amiss as well.’

Robert was just over six foot tall and he sensed that Fitzwilliam felt intimidated, as he stood, towering over him, whilst being lectured about his need to step up to the standards expected by the bank. The sub-manager made up for his lack of stature by being even more pompous than usual. Robert looked down at his shoes and had to admit that they had seen better days. He listened to what the self-important man had to say, muttered something about trying harder and then went back to his duties. There was no point in arguing, as he knew they were right, at least as far as the expectations of the small world they lived in were concerned.  It was a relief when the doors finally closed at half past three that Friday afternoon and the weekend beckoned.

The following morning was cold and the heavy dew on the ground made the hems of his trousers damp as he made his way through the field using the footpath that provided a shortcut to the station. When he’d purchased his ticket and made his way to the platform only Charlie was there, despite all the bold promises made by the others.

‘Where is everyone?’ he asked.

‘Not coming I suspect,’ Charlie replied. ‘You know what they’re like, all brave words but when it comes down to it they follow each other around