It was only my second week in accounts. I was the new boy – soon there would be another, and they would be the one taking the orders:
‘Two sugars, No milk.’
‘Three sugars, extra milky.’
‘Nothing for me, son.’
The stained, wooden tray wobbled as I carefully weaved through the sea of filing cabinets. I spluttered as I placed a cracked Silver Jubilee mug on the edge of Mr Heaton’s desk. A muffled thanks barely penetrated the fog as an ivory pipe rattled against his yellowed teeth.
Mr Williams and Miss Foster laughed and giggled as I approached. He was married, happily they said. She was barely out of school – younger than me. Thinking back, it seemed so innocent; now it’s all so different.
The office closed in 1994 – it was turned into luxury flats within six months. Those of us still working there were moved to a new place in the new industrial estate on the other side of town.
Mr Heaton passed away last summer. His days wrapped in fumes eventually taking their toll. Mr Williams remains happily married – he’s now a grandfather of eight. Miss Foster left after just a few months. Heard she moved to Australia – I wonder if she remembers Mr Williams.
These words form my entry into this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction challenge.