02-27-2021, 07:33 PM
(This post was last modified: 02-27-2021, 07:38 PM by Joseph Blacke.)
Accepting the gift of herself, Joe moved his hands further down her body and allowed his fingers to appreciate the curves of her form.
"Joe..." she continued to whisper his name
"JOE!" came a shout in a distinctly unfeminine northern accent.
Fantasy was cruelly ripped away from him and Joe found himself back in reality. He was at work, surrounded by crates, barrels, and the bustle of commerce and industry. He blinked trying to recover his senses rapidly.
"Mister Meekford wants you in his office, right away. Bring yer cap."
The young clerk in the outer office did not meet Joe's gaze and seemed very interested in his current task.
Joe fastened his top button and his jacket before he entered Meekford's office. Joe did not remove his cap. He knocked gingerly.
Muffled permission to enter was given from behind the frosted glass. Joe opened the door to reveal modest office with a desk, several chairs, and a records cabinet. Three walls held paper route maps on ceiling mounted rollers and framed pictures of bygone railway scenes. The other wall was dominated by windows that looked out over the station.
A large, well-built, man with fiery red hair and matching beard stood in the corner of the room looking out of the window. He wore a fine darkly coloured three-piece suit and gave Joe the merest of glances as he entered.
"Joseph Blacke, sir. You sent for me?" Joe asked nervously.
Seated behind the battered, yet tidy desk, Meekford was an older gentleman with thinned features, delicate spectacles perched a roman nose, a long-receded hairline.
"Close the door, Mister Blacke." Meekford ordered, and Joe complied. Joe had known the man for years, the formality of his request alarmed Joe greatly.
Click
"You needn't sit down, Mister Blacke."
The man at the window turned away sharply from the window and bore down upon Joe.
"I'll handle this Meekford. Do you know who I am laddie?" He didn't expect an answer. "I am Sir Hugh Bell. Managing Director of the North Eastern Railway."
Shite.
"A letter landed on my desk this morning detailing conduct so vile, that I had to come over see for myself what sort of a man would treat a payin' passenger in such a fashion. I didnae want the Chairman to deal with this."
Carrington that fuck'. Dear God send a thunderbolt to strike me dead, this instant. Joe's face went ashen, his hands clammy.
"Quickly man! Don't keep me waitin' feer an explanation!" little droplets of spittle clung to the red whiskers around Bell's mouth.
"Well.." Joe hesitated.
Wait!
The fear inside Joe was suddenly replaced with anger.
That cocky little shite had written this note. No! That little man-boy Carrington, used poorer men for sport and treated her, - treated Pearl - worse than fish bait Carrington could mess me, Joe, about. Fine. but he needed to leave her alone.
His resolve stiffened with the anger, hardened with cold fury. He would get a kicking for this.
"Sir, Mister Meekford, the story is this...." and Joe recounted the events of that night from his point of view. When he had finished, he placed his hands at his side, unsure of what to do with them.
"So, you're saying that you were merely assisting the passenger, this Miss Carrington, and were assaulted by her brother? Robert Carrington -The man who wrote the letter?"
"Yes sir. I was doin' my duty assistin' Miss Carrington. She appeared most distressed at that moment, sir. I feared for 'er safety bein' near the rails, like."
"So, the suggestion of physical contact is..."
"True, sir. In that it happen, but I feared for 'er safety. I was tryin' to be like the Bible says, a sam-mar-rat-tin." Joe stumbled over a word he didn't use often before continuing. "I tried to explain to Mister Carrington, but 'e would hear nowt and then accosted me in an ungentlemanly manner -."
"Mister Carrington is a shareholder. And you are an employee lad. That's dangerous talk." Bell countered.
"But it's the truth!" Joe's voice rose nearly to a shout. The scotchman glared at temerity of the young porter.
"If I may Sir Hugh," Meekford interrupted. "How long have you been with the NER, Blacke?"
"Since I finished school, sir, 6 years." Joe answered regaining his composure somewhat.
"Indeed. It says here that you are considered a reliable sort. I understand your father, he, is also with the company?"
"Aye. 22 years I think."
"Then, Sir Hugh, might I suggest in light of the long service this man and his family have given to the company, that we show leniency in this case? Perhaps a transfer away? Until things have calmed. I believe there is an opening at Whitby West Cliff?"
Sir Hugh pondered for a moment. That moment seemed to last an age. Hope.
"It would seem," began Sir Hugh "to be Mister Carrington's word against Mister Blacke's. If what yea say is true, Blacke, your conduct does you credit. but -
Sir Hugh seemed to stare at the pastoral railway scenes.
"The man who wrote this letter is a shareholder, and he knows other shareholders. If I ignore the shareholders, then it'll be more than just one man that loses his livelihood. I'm sorry Meekford, but there are bigger concerns here. I'm thinking of the business. Mister Blacke, your services are no longer required by the North Eastern Railway."
Hope dashed.
Sir Hugh was railway royalty. How do you argue with a king?
"That settles it then. Thank you Mister Blacke, see the clerk for your final pay. That will be all."
Joe nodded stiffly to Meekford and then to the scot. His jaw was fixed, his eyes dark. He was too proud to let them see a man broken by the bucket of shite they had just dropped him in.
"Joe..." she continued to whisper his name
"JOE!" came a shout in a distinctly unfeminine northern accent.
Fantasy was cruelly ripped away from him and Joe found himself back in reality. He was at work, surrounded by crates, barrels, and the bustle of commerce and industry. He blinked trying to recover his senses rapidly.
"Mister Meekford wants you in his office, right away. Bring yer cap."
The young clerk in the outer office did not meet Joe's gaze and seemed very interested in his current task.
Joe fastened his top button and his jacket before he entered Meekford's office. Joe did not remove his cap. He knocked gingerly.
Muffled permission to enter was given from behind the frosted glass. Joe opened the door to reveal modest office with a desk, several chairs, and a records cabinet. Three walls held paper route maps on ceiling mounted rollers and framed pictures of bygone railway scenes. The other wall was dominated by windows that looked out over the station.
A large, well-built, man with fiery red hair and matching beard stood in the corner of the room looking out of the window. He wore a fine darkly coloured three-piece suit and gave Joe the merest of glances as he entered.
"Joseph Blacke, sir. You sent for me?" Joe asked nervously.
Seated behind the battered, yet tidy desk, Meekford was an older gentleman with thinned features, delicate spectacles perched a roman nose, a long-receded hairline.
"Close the door, Mister Blacke." Meekford ordered, and Joe complied. Joe had known the man for years, the formality of his request alarmed Joe greatly.
Click
"You needn't sit down, Mister Blacke."
The man at the window turned away sharply from the window and bore down upon Joe.
"I'll handle this Meekford. Do you know who I am laddie?" He didn't expect an answer. "I am Sir Hugh Bell. Managing Director of the North Eastern Railway."
Shite.
"A letter landed on my desk this morning detailing conduct so vile, that I had to come over see for myself what sort of a man would treat a payin' passenger in such a fashion. I didnae want the Chairman to deal with this."
Carrington that fuck'. Dear God send a thunderbolt to strike me dead, this instant. Joe's face went ashen, his hands clammy.
"Quickly man! Don't keep me waitin' feer an explanation!" little droplets of spittle clung to the red whiskers around Bell's mouth.
"Well.." Joe hesitated.
Wait!
The fear inside Joe was suddenly replaced with anger.
That cocky little shite had written this note. No! That little man-boy Carrington, used poorer men for sport and treated her, - treated Pearl - worse than fish bait Carrington could mess me, Joe, about. Fine. but he needed to leave her alone.
His resolve stiffened with the anger, hardened with cold fury. He would get a kicking for this.
"Sir, Mister Meekford, the story is this...." and Joe recounted the events of that night from his point of view. When he had finished, he placed his hands at his side, unsure of what to do with them.
"So, you're saying that you were merely assisting the passenger, this Miss Carrington, and were assaulted by her brother? Robert Carrington -The man who wrote the letter?"
"Yes sir. I was doin' my duty assistin' Miss Carrington. She appeared most distressed at that moment, sir. I feared for 'er safety bein' near the rails, like."
"So, the suggestion of physical contact is..."
"True, sir. In that it happen, but I feared for 'er safety. I was tryin' to be like the Bible says, a sam-mar-rat-tin." Joe stumbled over a word he didn't use often before continuing. "I tried to explain to Mister Carrington, but 'e would hear nowt and then accosted me in an ungentlemanly manner -."
"Mister Carrington is a shareholder. And you are an employee lad. That's dangerous talk." Bell countered.
"But it's the truth!" Joe's voice rose nearly to a shout. The scotchman glared at temerity of the young porter.
"If I may Sir Hugh," Meekford interrupted. "How long have you been with the NER, Blacke?"
"Since I finished school, sir, 6 years." Joe answered regaining his composure somewhat.
"Indeed. It says here that you are considered a reliable sort. I understand your father, he, is also with the company?"
"Aye. 22 years I think."
"Then, Sir Hugh, might I suggest in light of the long service this man and his family have given to the company, that we show leniency in this case? Perhaps a transfer away? Until things have calmed. I believe there is an opening at Whitby West Cliff?"
Sir Hugh pondered for a moment. That moment seemed to last an age. Hope.
"It would seem," began Sir Hugh "to be Mister Carrington's word against Mister Blacke's. If what yea say is true, Blacke, your conduct does you credit. but -
Sir Hugh seemed to stare at the pastoral railway scenes.
"The man who wrote this letter is a shareholder, and he knows other shareholders. If I ignore the shareholders, then it'll be more than just one man that loses his livelihood. I'm sorry Meekford, but there are bigger concerns here. I'm thinking of the business. Mister Blacke, your services are no longer required by the North Eastern Railway."
Hope dashed.
Sir Hugh was railway royalty. How do you argue with a king?
"That settles it then. Thank you Mister Blacke, see the clerk for your final pay. That will be all."
Joe nodded stiffly to Meekford and then to the scot. His jaw was fixed, his eyes dark. He was too proud to let them see a man broken by the bucket of shite they had just dropped him in.
