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I wrote this for Christmas 2005 and thought that an airing fifteen years later might be fun. I took a bit of a liberty, I’m afraid…
I’d forgotten how steep the stairs are, how quiet the house can be, and how the stairs creak. It’s been many, many years since I was here, and things have changed; my circumstances are, how shall I put this, somewhat reduced.
The last time I visited, we celebrated. A meagre celebration to be sure, but a celebration nonetheless; we were never ones for the grand gesture, but we knew our business and this time we had surpassed ourselves. We had got where we were by sheer hard work and a passion for the detail in a closely written contract.
And we did well, very well, our company was a legend in the City.
I remember that it was cold that night, as cold as it is tonight.
My, my, but these stairs are steep; were they always so? The effort of the climb is drawing my breath in gasps. The irony is not lost on me as I wind my way up, step after step to the grand bedroom.
The snow was fresh on the ground and I remember clearly the crump, crump, crump of my footsteps as I walked the silent streets, the brandy fortifying my every pace. I remember the cloud of condensation from my breath swirling into the still night, and the patterns it made as it passed the flickering gas lamps.
I paid little heed, but soon snow was falling so fast that I could not see. And as I walked I became aware of the profound silence around me, the desolate muffled stillness of the darkened city. I walked and walked: time itself seemed frozen, and the faint glow of the lamps, dimmed by the blizzard seemed ever more distant.
One more flight up: there are cobwebs and dust everywhere; the carpets threadbare and unwelcoming. Every step onward wearies to the very marrow, but I continue.
Ah, the doors: heavy and dark-stained oaken just as I remember. Unchanged.
I cannot think now, how long I walked that night, but by and by the snow stopped falling and a mist set with that foul sulphurous smell that betokens a thickening fog; one of London’s best. And still I walked, and as I did so my mood darkened – influenced no doubt by the numbing cold that weighed like chains upon my shoulders.
I cannot say how long it was before I realised that which should have been obvious.
Yes, the heavy oaken doors with their brass handle. I reach out with numb hands, my breath catching in my throat as the hinges creak and the doors swing open.
I remember now why I have returned, as the voice in the darkness, tremulous and afraid addresses me and I reply…
‘I wear the chain I forged in life. I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to you?’
I’d forgotten how steep the stairs are, how quiet the house can be, and how the stairs creak. It’s been many, many years since I was here, and things have changed; my circumstances are, how shall I put this, somewhat reduced.
The last time I visited, we celebrated. A meagre celebration to be sure, but a celebration nonetheless; we were never ones for the grand gesture, but we knew our business and this time we had surpassed ourselves. We had got where we were by sheer hard work and a passion for the detail in a closely written contract.
And we did well, very well, our company was a legend in the City.
I remember that it was cold that night, as cold as it is tonight.
My, my, but these stairs are steep; were they always so? The effort of the climb is drawing my breath in gasps. The irony is not lost on me as I wind my way up, step after step to the grand bedroom.
The snow was fresh on the ground and I remember clearly the crump, crump, crump of my footsteps as I walked the silent streets, the brandy fortifying my every pace. I remember the cloud of condensation from my breath swirling into the still night, and the patterns it made as it passed the flickering gas lamps.
I paid little heed, but soon snow was falling so fast that I could not see. And as I walked I became aware of the profound silence around me, the desolate muffled stillness of the darkened city. I walked and walked: time itself seemed frozen, and the faint glow of the lamps, dimmed by the blizzard seemed ever more distant.
One more flight up: there are cobwebs and dust everywhere; the carpets threadbare and unwelcoming. Every step onward wearies to the very marrow, but I continue.
Ah, the doors: heavy and dark-stained oaken just as I remember. Unchanged.
I cannot think now, how long I walked that night, but by and by the snow stopped falling and a mist set with that foul sulphurous smell that betokens a thickening fog; one of London’s best. And still I walked, and as I did so my mood darkened – influenced no doubt by the numbing cold that weighed like chains upon my shoulders.
I cannot say how long it was before I realised that which should have been obvious.
Yes, the heavy oaken doors with their brass handle. I reach out with numb hands, my breath catching in my throat as the hinges creak and the doors swing open.
I remember now why I have returned, as the voice in the darkness, tremulous and afraid addresses me and I reply…
‘I wear the chain I forged in life. I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to you?’