The Good Companions by J.B. Priestley — Read

It was deep dusk when Mr. Oakroyd's train arrived at Black Moor Junction. He could see the street lamps twinkling on the hills, and here and there trams crawling up and down like golden beetles. The train stopped several minutes at Black Moor, as it always does, and then, having lost all its enthusiasm, it slowly chuff-chuffed into the gloom until at last it came to a standstill in Bruddersford Station. Mr. Oakroyd stepped out, carrying the small suitcase that for some time had replaced the famous little basket trunk, and made his way to the exit with all the easy dispatch of a travelled man. He could dismiss railway stations with a glance now, having been so long and so far on the road, all the autumn and winter, from Sandybay as far up as Middleford. This was really the first time he had come back to Bruddersford since he began his travels, for though he had visited Ogden Street just after Christmas, he had only gone by tram from Luddenstall, and that did not count. He had often seen himself coming back like this, arriving by train and so on, having a bit of a holiday like, smoking a leisurely pipe in Woolgate long after everybody else had clattered off to work, slipping round to the Working Men's Club at night to tell some of the chaps where he had been and what he had seen. But now it was all different. This trip had a shaky and darkish look about it. As he crossed the end of Market Street to get into Woolgate, the great black tower of the Town Hall jerkly shook out the notes of Tom Bowling, a very melancholy tune on the chimes. Mr. Oakroyd had never admired it, but now he suddenly decided he hated it. How folk put up with such a din was a mystery.

"Here, lad," he cried, at the corner of Woolgate, " 'ave you got t'Evening Express? " Buying a paper made him feel a little more cheerful.