THE LONGWALK HOME
The chapel was hidden on the west side of the station. Even as a child it had seemed far from large, just a single storey shrouded in the light morning rain. The potent rumble of a passing train would make it tremble, the tiles on its roof jumping up and down with a CLICKETY-CLACK . Inside, it was a bleak space. The sole rear window threw shadows across the bare walls. It smelt stale. Hymnals piled expectantly inside the front door were long- untouched, like food forgotten at the back of the fridge. That day, as with every other Sunday as far back as I could remember, I led my parents between the aisles to our brittle bench.The sixth on the left, I always knew it by its rounded edge and the gash below the adjoining armrest. My shoes scuffed the flagstones and I sat down. I sat at an angle, my head turned slightly to watch the space fill around me. Familiar faces drifted among the benches, stopping now and then to take prearranged seats. I was always glad that my parents and I were among the first to chapel, giving me the opportunity to watch this weekly ritual. I think it always reassured me, in some sense, that all was still well in the world. We were usually followed closely by the smiling couple, hand-in- hand, still without child; then the frowning man, his face creased like balled, crumpled paper and framed by wispy white hair.The Stanleys, a name I did know, wouldn’t be too far behind him. A form above me at school, their son Jim would acknowledge me without emotion from the middle of the pack. Other nameless faces would waft past, with the widowed Mrs Drake and her tottering, chattering daughter at the tail end. That particular week, however, the final visitor was unexpected.
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