EVERY STEP OF THE WAY
Reader Review:
Every Step of The Way. Loved it! Not the type of thing I would pick of the bookshelf so looked forward to it. Fell straight into it and like your style of writing. Gary Palmer, August 2010.
Shortlisted for the Harry Bowling Prize 2004
5th December 1952
Clutching her coat collar to her throat, Beth Brixham put on a spurt.
I have to keep going, I mustn't be late, she urged herself on, head bent, mindful to watch out for uneven paving slabs. If only I could run the rest of the way, but that would be stupid. It's impossible to see where I'm going. I might trip over. No way can I turn up for an interview with holes in my stockings and grazed knees. Let alone late. That just wouldn't do.
She groped her way along the perimeter wall of the gasworks, the only guide through the thick, impenetrable fog. The rough London bricks snagged at her glove, pulling at threads. The pavement along this part of Brentford High Street was narrow, enough barely for two people to pass; she feared wandering out into the road.
The mist had come down suddenly, turning rapidly from a damp haze into one so dense it blotted out all familiar landmarks, the tapering tower of the Victorian pumping station at Kew soon lost from sight. Somewhere across the street stood St Martin's Church with its stubby, hexagonal bell tower, but had she passed it yet, she wondered. From the church to the pumping station and Green Dragon Lane, her destination, too fifteen minutes' brisk walking. With the church shrouded from view, she had no way of judging how far she had come, how much further she had to go.
Shivering inside her coat, she couldn't ignore the dampness from the cold, December pavement seeping through the thin leather soles of her black boots.
"I need a new pair," she muttered. "These ones won't see the winter out. I have to get this job."
In an effort to keep at bay the sulphurous stench filling her nostrils, she pulled her scarf up over her mouth and nose, pressing it closer. It did little to prevent the acrid odour filtering through. The air around the gasworks always stank of rotten eggs but today it had a most peculiar smell. It made her eyes sting and had a ghastly, foul taste. Of tar and carbolic. The scarf's coarse woollen fibres irritated her cheeks, tickled her nose, made her sneeze. When she inhaled again, she realised the smell came not from the towering gasometer behind the high wall; it was fog itself that reeked.
Behind her came the sounds of heavy footfalls approaching. These gave way to the noise of a man's hacking, persistent cough.
Suddenly, the church clock bell chimed out, stopping her in her tracks. She counted in her head. Two. Three. Blast, I'm already late. I was supposed to be there by now.
"Hey, watch where you're going, kid," the man behind grumbled, bumping into her. His face hidden behind a trilby pulled down low over his forehead, he sidestepped into the road, coughing and spluttering into a handkerchief held to his face as he hurried on.
"Sorry," she called out but he had already vanished into the fog, the air falling silent. No footsteps. No coughing. Just eerie silence.
Every Step of the Way coming soon to a Kindle near you.