The Congregation by A.J. Griffiths-Jones
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
British (England - Yorkshire & Humber) British (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
Archie Matthews sat looking out of the train carriage. The landscape outside had changed from sunny winter skies to a thick, gracious Margaret that settled above the hills like a dirty sheet. He wiped the steamed up window with the sleeve of his woollen coat on, wished dearly that he'd brought a flask of tea for the journey. His packet of cheese and pickle sandwiches lay uneaten on the dividing table in front of him and the gentleman passenger opposite IDed them eagerly, Archie push them forward with one finger, healthy self, he sighed. I shan't see them. The man paused for only a second before taking the cellophane wrapper off and greedily biting into the limp bread. Archie shook his head and turned his gaze back to the scenery. He could see pockets of life, small villages, fields of sheep, sprawling dairy farms but nothing yet of the busy coal mining town to which he was travelling. The Clickety clack of the train in motion made him feel slightly nauseous, and he slipped an imperial meant from a small bag in his coat pocket, popping it quickly into his mouth before anyone else could raise an eye. Only another half hour and he would be arriving at his destination. He didn't relish the thought at all. In fact, it stood up a sense of dread inside him, a feeling with which he was becoming strangely familiar. As the train came to a jolting stop, Archie stooped to cheque that the name on the platform sign was the same as the one on the letter that he had been sent. Unfortunately, it wass. He quickly edged his way to the luggage rack and, in one swift movement, removed his heavy suitcases from where they had lain for the past four hours, his back a KT, a constant throbbing that never went away. But pride would never allow his fellow passengers to see the pain in his face. As the carriage door was opened by a smartly dressed porter, Aren't you stepped down onto the concrete and looked around. The station was agreeable enough. There was a small cafe, functioning ticket office, a waiting room, wash rooms and a left luggage office, all of the facilities that the modern day traveller could possibly need. He looked once again in the name of the town, displayed boldly on a black and white sign stuck to the red brick of the station wall. It was then that he noticed it for the first time. Coal dust. Reverend Matthews. A voice called I'm here to collect you. Archie turned instinctively touching his clerical dark colour out of habit. I'm wondering how long it would stay white in this black and city town.