Rain

The uneven dips in the cobblestone tarmac were overflowing onto the sidewalk with water colored rainbow by the petrol. I kept a brisk pace as my umbrella and upturned coat collar failed to keep me dry. I did my best to weave my way between the innumerable puddles. Apart from the one man I brushed shoulders with while passing the bollards at a corner, the streets were empty of pedestrians. A lone black saloon sped past which further aided in my drenching. I pulled my wool coat tighter about me and continued on.

In the quickening dusk, I turned onto an alleyway. I had reached my destination. A set of stone stairs descended to a thick, rough wood door braced by black iron. I gave the door three quick raps. After ten seconds, the door creaked open to reveal a little man with a thin wisp of white hair.

"Come in, come in!" he gestured with his whole frame. He wore a worn, stretched out sweater over a crisp dress shirt. I quickly accepted his invitation after folding and shaking out my umbrella. I entered to the heat of a crackling fire on the hearth. The man took my thoroughly saturated coat and scarf and hung them near the fire. I looked around me at the walls which were covered in shelves full of old tomes and volumes. The man followed my gaze, "I've had only a few years to collect most of these. The majority of my library was destroyed in a house-fire a number of years ago. A very sad day for a bibliophile such as myself… but come, you did not engage the rain and the cold to discuss dusty old books."

He led me over to an armchair by the fire, "Just a moment; I think the water is at a boil." He returned with a copper tea kettle and two mugs with tea. As he poured from the steaming kettle, the man said, "This is tea that I acquired on one of my trips to India. I have been saving it for a day such as this."

I took the cup and cradled it in my hands; allowing the heat from the fire and the tea to warm my bones. He took a seat opposite me in another worn armchair. His wrinkled face relaxed a little and he stared off in to space in his own musings. His left hand picked at a snag in the fabric of the armrest. An unconscious habit no doubt. I glanced down at my steaming cup and noticed the faded blue doilies that covered the armrests on either side of my chair. I smiled to myself.

"Where do you call home?" The man asked me.

"I have lived here in London for nearly six years now, but I still call Fordingbridge my home."

"Family there?"

I paused to take a sip of my tea. "Yes and no. I spent most of my growing up years there with my uncle. My mother lives in Lancaster."

"Mmm, I see."

There was a moment's silence again as we both took another sip of tea.

"What brought you into London?"

I set my tea to the side and thought for a moment. "I always wanted to live in this city. My mother sent me here for an education and I have been here since. Sometimes I wonder what I saw in all the busy streets and smoke filled air."

"And what do you do for a living? Mr. Drake?"

We both smiled, for that was the reason for my visit.