Sometimes the thickest gloves or the longest scarf would not make a difference against the icy bite of Birmingham’s dark winter mornings.
Arthur held his lighting stick as it bounced on his shoulder. His arm hooked between the steps of his faithful wooden ladder as he cut through the damp alley onto the main street.
He had braved almost thirty winter mornings and nights. Arthur felt it was his purpose to help his community to see in the dark during those bleakest of times. Once all the street lamps were lit on one side of the road he would cross over to the other side and start again. There were horizontal bars just below the lamp that held the ladder so Arthur could reach the glass lantern. The ladder had a narrowed top to rest comfortably onto the width of the bar. Once he had given life to the lamp it would form a glowing sphere of light that allowed you to read a book from nearly twenty feet away.
Every morning he would walk down Fisherman’s Lane and see a child at the upstairs window of one of the houses in a crowded row of terraces. She would smile and wave at him and he would smile and wave back. He never met this child and didn’t know her name but there was something familiar about her, it felt as if he had a grandchild that he had never met.
On one particular evening after dusk had settled, Arthur had finished turning the street lamps on; he had arranged to meet some of his fellow lamplighters at the local working mens club for a celebratory drink as Arthur was due to retire in a month. He was anxious about retiring. What was he going to do with himself? Arthur never married or had children, he came close once but it didn’t work out. Arthur still had plenty of life left in him, he could have gone for another thirty years if they had let him.
Arthur arrived and stood with clammy hands at the club’s beaten door, he wasn’t ready. He took a slow step towards the door but a gust of wind knocked him a few feet sideways down the road. He took this as a sign and kept going. As he walked towards home he didn’t look back and held his head low as he wore his brown flat cap and his hands sat in the side pockets of his worn blue pea coat. There were no gusts of wind before or after.
Arthur woke up the following morning. The Birmingham Post was rolled up with string outside his front door. He sat down for his morning tea and toast and removed the string from around the newspaper. The front page read in large bold letters:
‘GERMAN BOMB HITS LOCAL WORKING MEN’S CLUB: 11 DEAD’
The newspaper fell between Arthur’s fingers when he saw the photograph.
Arthur held his lighting stick as it bounced on his shoulder. His arm hooked between the steps of his faithful wooden ladder as he cut through the damp alley onto the main street.
He had braved almost thirty winter mornings and nights. Arthur felt it was his purpose to help his community to see in the dark during those bleakest of times. Once all the street lamps were lit on one side of the road he would cross over to the other side and start again. There were horizontal bars just below the lamp that held the ladder so Arthur could reach the glass lantern. The ladder had a narrowed top to rest comfortably onto the width of the bar. Once he had given life to the lamp it would form a glowing sphere of light that allowed you to read a book from nearly twenty feet away.
Every morning he would walk down Fisherman’s Lane and see a child at the upstairs window of one of the houses in a crowded row of terraces. She would smile and wave at him and he would smile and wave back. He never met this child and didn’t know her name but there was something familiar about her, it felt as if he had a grandchild that he had never met.
On one particular evening after dusk had settled, Arthur had finished turning the street lamps on; he had arranged to meet some of his fellow lamplighters at the local working mens club for a celebratory drink as Arthur was due to retire in a month. He was anxious about retiring. What was he going to do with himself? Arthur never married or had children, he came close once but it didn’t work out. Arthur still had plenty of life left in him, he could have gone for another thirty years if they had let him.
Arthur arrived and stood with clammy hands at the club’s beaten door, he wasn’t ready. He took a slow step towards the door but a gust of wind knocked him a few feet sideways down the road. He took this as a sign and kept going. As he walked towards home he didn’t look back and held his head low as he wore his brown flat cap and his hands sat in the side pockets of his worn blue pea coat. There were no gusts of wind before or after.
Arthur woke up the following morning. The Birmingham Post was rolled up with string outside his front door. He sat down for his morning tea and toast and removed the string from around the newspaper. The front page read in large bold letters:
‘GERMAN BOMB HITS LOCAL WORKING MEN’S CLUB: 11 DEAD’
The newspaper fell between Arthur’s fingers when he saw the photograph.
