Writing Scraps

Appendix. Varley Place | Part 1 | Aborted Draft

Appendix. Varley Place
Fox-Trot-9

[Summary: Trevor Jennings and his two companions, Arthur Lashman and Steven Dwyer, travel to a secluded country house called Varley Place for rest cures and to get away from life for a while. While there, all three men must come to grips with the horrors of their past.]

Part 1

On the edge of Platform Twenty-Three loitered a solitary figure wrapped up in an ulster and bowler hat, looking morosely at the barren tracks of the station, his one portmanteau lying by his feet. All was silent, except for this man's soft footfalls echoing through the empty halls of air within the terminus, as he paced back and forth in his musings. After a time, he slipped his hand into his coat and pulled out a pocket watch and viewed the dial.

Nine minutes to 10:00 p.m. Already an hour late, he thought to himself. What's keeping them? I wonder if . . .

He thought to inquire with the station master if the ride got cancelled but thought better of it. No need to argue with a man that disputed his very train ticket at the gate. Instead, his thoughts drifted for the moment on more personal matters, as he recounted the climax of his life like an old broken phonograph. Tears welled up his eyes at these thoughts, thoughts that churned though his insides, wracked at his nerves and kept him awake under his bedsheets during the worst moments of his—

He squinted, willing the thoughts away.

Once he regained himself, he took off his bowler hat and ran a hand through his grizzled hair. His face was pale underneath the dim incandescent lights, his cheeks hollow, his eyes tired, and his forehead lined from deep and gloomy bouts of introspection. Anybody who chanced to meet him would think him on the brink, ready to quit this life with one leap into eternal sleep.

Again, he looked at his watch and resigned himself to five minutes of boredom tugging at his nerves, till another set of footfalls disturbed the silence.

The man looked in the direction of the commotion. "Hullo, there!"

"Are you by any chance Mr. Trevor Jennings?" came a deep voice amidst the shadows, the voice of the man who had disputed him.

"You already know who I am, sir."

"Then allow me to offer my gravest apologies, Mr. Jennings," the station master said, walking out of the shadows like a phantom.

Jennings regarded this portly specimen of humanity with a tinge of disgust, already winded from his walk, the kind of man that spent most of his time behind an office desk ordering others to do the legwork. He said, "Good. But I've been waiting here for over an hour. Do you know when the train will arrive?"

"Don't worry, Mr. Jennings. The train will arrive shortly," the station master said, bending over his knees to catch his breath. "I swear, they need to make these platforms shorter for a change."

Or maybe you should lose a few pounds, old boy, Jennings thought. "Well, at least I won't have to wait for much longer. But what's the holdup? It was supposed to arrive an hour ago."

The man then stood up and eyed his fellow man in the face, grinning in a show of good will. "It's nothing too bad. In fact, the tardiness might have a silver lining. I just got word over the phone that the train made two stops before here. One at Norwich Station and another at Stowmarket Station."

"Those are far. Who could they be?"

"Don't know. Thank God we didn't run into any delays along the way; but look on the bright side, Mr. Jennings. At least, you'll have company when you board her. By the way, is your distention Varley Place, by any chance?"