October 2011
It was warm and airless, as usual, in solicitor Thomas Robertson's office. Some shafts of sunlight managed to filter through the dusty air to fall on the piles of faded documents spread across the heavy mahogany desk. Tom had never intended to preserve a traditional, some would say anachronistic atmosphere - but it would still be true to say that Dickens himself would not have felt out of place within these walls.
In quiet moments,which were increasingly more frequent these days, Tom would sometimes reflect on the progress of his professional career; from the early years of youthful idealism (Pro Bono Publico . . . and all that) with images of the day when he would reach the heights and become a well known, powerful and wealthy, Corporate lawyer.
Then, awakening from his reveries, he would look around him once more and see reality.
Although it would be a bit much to expect a modern computer screen to be blinking away in a gloomy corner, the 'I.T. System', if, by some stretch of the imagination, one could use such a term had, at least been updated in 1948 when, daringly, a secondhand Remington typewriter had been installed - and, with only a little oiling from time to time, was still giving sterling service; though, it must be said, only Gertrude Speckles, the trusty casual, part-time secretary was able to coax anything like an efficient performance from this device.
Tom sighed and looked once again at his heavy, gold plated pocket watch - the heirloom first owned by grandfather Robertson, and awarded, by the old G.W.R., in recognition of many years of faithful service to that prestigious organization (as was!)
Another hour to go, he thought, before the highlight of the morning; the appearance of the coffee and biscuits (being Tuesday it should be Ginger Creams).
After the welcome break ('break from what?' a small voice would sometimes interject) it was time to get on with the usual routine. A half-hearted perusal of some conveyancing documents; though the agency down the road very rarely made mistakes. Check a few court briefs, small domestics, the odd housebreaking defence, motoring transgressions etc. (yawn).
'I don't know Gertrude, life gets tedious sometimes; I suppose I look at hundreds of documents each month; but nothing interesting ever seems to come up. I'll die of boredom one of these days. I would't mind so much if I occasionally saw a client with, say, an interesting name; you know, a small break from the usual Smiths, Browns, Jones!'
'Well, sir (Gertrude was of the old school), I may be able to help you a little there - this was left in the front office yesterday.' So saying, Miss Speckles placed a large manilla envelope on the desk top in front of Tom. Adjusting his spectacles to a more comfortable position, he examined this new exhibit. A small, gratful smile began to cross his normally dour countenance as he read the heading; The Last Will And Testament Of Nathaniel Crudgington.