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The Potency of Loneliness
Forgiving the unforgivable while the balance of the mind is disturbed
Saturday morning. Twenty-two-year-old Frankie Dunbar lay fully clothed on a single bed, staring at the nicotine-stained whitewash on the ceiling. His feet rested on the wooden footboard lest his boots marked the faded yellow counterpane and tested the temper of Mrs Haddaway. Old Podmore, the lodger in the next room, was seized by one of his regular coughing fits. The noise annoyed Frankie, who was listening for the sound of the postman.
The agitated young man was of slim build and stood five foot eight in his boots. A fringe of light ginger hair sat above a boyish face, freckled around the nose. Conscious of his youthful looks, he once tried to make himself appear older by cultivating facial hair, but the growth was less than robust. His attempt at a beard had been so feeble it was the cause of much ribbing from his colleagues at the office of a shipping company where he worked. While the beard was a work in progress, Frankie’s workmates gave him the ironic nickname Grace, after the famous cricketer. He abandoned the project, and he now has a threepenny shave twice a week.
When the coughing abated, the silence was broken by the clip-clop of horse hooves on the cobbled street outside. A shouted command from the driver caused the horses…
