New to this

Okay, I'm new to this blogging business so forgive me if this has hiccups at the beginning. I chose this forum in order to give people who are interested an opportunity to sample my writing so what better way to start than by posting a short story: This is called "Hope" and I hope you like it.



 HOPE

Rain was falling. Not heavy rain but that cold, steady, persistent drizzle that soaks everything and seems to go on for hours. That Sunday in March of nineteen twenty-seven was no day to be out and thirteen year-old Barry's patched hand-me-downs were thin and worn. He did have his dad's overcoat on though. It was an old coat, it was not fancy and it was several sizes too large but it was a good, thick, workman's coat that kept out much of the rain and the biting wind.
   There had been an added bonus with the over-large coat, a pack with two cigarettes and a book of matches in the pocket. Barry was smoking one of them now, enjoying the unexpected treasure as he crouched in the lee of the hut on the side of the railroad, waiting for a train to come by.
   His father would not miss the cigarette; he had probably forgotten them already. He had other things to worry about and besides, he should not smoke in his condition. Last night he had kept the whole house awake for the third night running with his incessant coughing and that was the reason why Barry was here. His mother had sent him out to scrounge around for enough coal to make a fire because she had sent word for the doctor.
   Barry had done this often enough before. It had become a kind of game. The coal hunt they called it but usually when he did it he was with a bunch of other kids. Today the weather was too bad for anyone else to be out and he was alone. He did not mind, there would be fewer to share in the spoils and, more importantly, there would be no-one to demand a share of his precious cigarette.
   He crouched in the wet, his hair plastered darkly to his head, rain dripping from his ears and nose and his right hand cupped around the cigarette to shield it from the rain. His left hand was tucked deep inside the coat as he hugged it to himself in an effort to retain some warmth in his chilled bones. Being sent out in all weathers on an errand like this was nothing new for him. He was an experienced scrounger. He knew where to go to get whatever he needed and he was sure that this would be the best place for coal. There was a long curve in the tracks as the trains came out of the station and occasionally those with full tenders lost some of the precious black gold as the engines canted a little on the bend.
   Barry already had three small pieces of decent fuel in the battered bucket he had brought with him but to start a fire and keep it going would take a lot more and it seemed that other scavengers had beaten him to it today.
   He looked up at the sky, the rain driving into his face and making him squint. It was hard to guess the time on a day like this, the clouds had been uniformly grey since he woke up in his tiny attic room. His growling stomach told him that it was time to eat but then, it did that most of the time. His breakfast had been a stale biscuit and a spoonful of gravy with a sprinkling of salt. It was not a substantial meal but it was a darn sight better than some people managed to get in those days of the depression. It was still not enough for a growing boy though, and what little there was he had had to share with his four younger brothers and sisters whilst his mother dozed, exhausted, at his father's bedside.
   He grimaced and looked at the three forlorn lumps of shiny, black, steam coal lying in the bottom of the bucket. A fire made from them was not going to be enough to keep a dog warm. He could hunt about and find enough scrap wood to fill the rest of the bucket but wood burned too quickly, if he could get rain-soaked wood to burn at all. To get it going his mother would need scraps of newspaper and some dry kindling and then, even if they could light it, it would be gone in minutes whereas a good coal fire would last for hours.
   Shivering, he and looked up and down the line. To his left the rails, shiny and rain sleeked, bent round the curve towards the unseen station and the town whilst to his right they went arrow straight until they vanished into a distant tunnel. They were empty and with a sinking feeling of disappointment he realised he was wasting his time. There was no more coal to be found along the edge of the track, he had already searched. He was frozen, the rain was running down under his collar and soaking his shirt and there were no trains running because it was Sunday.
   He sighed, grimaced again and, with slumped shoulders, turned to walk slowly down the steep embankment. He knew his mother would get mad at him for not finding what she wanted. It was not his fault there was no coal to be found but she would get mad just the same. She was always getting mad. It came from the worry of having five kids and a husband who could not manage more than the occasional day or two's work at best, spending the rest of his time in a damp bedroom coughing his lungs up. Money was always scarce and now she had to spend a precious dollar getting the doctor in to tell her what she already knew, that her husband was dying of TB.
Reaching the path at the bottom of the bank he turned towards the hole in the fence. Pulling the loose plank aside he was halfway through when he heard the distant whistle.
   It was a train. Not a big one, the note of the steam whistle was too shrill for that but it didn’t matter, the little ones sometimes came round the curve faster and canted over further. When they did, some of those whose tenders were newly loaded down with coal occasionally lost some of it in a glittering black avalanche that would cascade over the side of the bunker to bounce and roll along the edge of the track.
   Hopefully, he turned and began to scramble back up the steep slope. He could hear the wheels now, the wheels and the busy, self-important puffing of the pistons. It was a little engine, one of the ones that they used for shunting wagons about and he could tell from the sound of it that it was not moving fast. Barry reached the top and stood panting knee deep in last year’s soaking, dead grass and weeds as he watched the grimy, black engine come slowly round the curve.
   It was one of those that had a fixed tender and even from a distance he could tell that this was not full. Disappointment welled up in him again and the strangely heavy weight of the almost empty bucket pulled at his arm. The rain increased but he was oblivious to it as the engine reached, and passed, the apex of the curve with nothing falling from it.
   His shoulders sagged, the dirty little engine was puffing past him now. He could see the figures of the driver and stoker standing on the footplate, their features lit by the glow from the open firedoor. They were passing close and going slow. Sometimes train crews jumped down and chased kids but Barry wasn’t afraid. He was not very tall but he was strong and he had no doubt that he could outrun either of the men who were staring down at him as they chugged past.
   He shivered involuntarily as water dripped from his nose and he saw the driver say something to his companion and then laugh before he turned away to check his dials and levers. The stoker did not laugh though, his face was grim and his eyes held Barry's as he was slowly carried past. Barry could not tell what went through the man's mind. He could not imagine what the man saw; could not conceive the image of the thin-faced, ragged boy with the huge eyes who stood in a ridiculously over-large coat at the side of the track, holding an empty bucket.
   He could not feel the tightening of the man’s stomach muscles nor know of the lump in his throat as he looked down on the boy. He had no idea of the memories that his forlorn, rain soaked appearance recalled or how his eyes, desperate and despairing yet defiant and hopeful at the same time, tore at the man’s very soul.
   Barry just stood there and hoped. The boy and the man continued to hold each other's stare for a long moment as the distance between them began to increase again. Barry longed to call to the man. Longed to ask for help but he was proud, too proud to beg. So he stood and watched the little engine move away from him and he did not utter a sound even when the man twisted abruptly, slashed his shovel deep into the glittering black, rain slicked coal and, lifting it full to overflowing with the dark treasure, turned back.
   Their eyes met again and for a moment understanding passed between them, the man recognized the boy's need and his pride and Barry felt the man's understanding and his sympathy. Then the big stoker’s shovel twisted abruptly and the lumps of black gold fell to bound along beside the engine for a second before coming to rest on the edge of the long grass. Barry did not speak but his expression must have betrayed his gratitude, the fireman nodded gravely once and then turned back to stoke the boiler of his engine, his heart lighter having given a shovel full of hope.