This is a story for a luxury bag website. Its intention is to introduce the Cultured Traditionalist (35–55) customer archetype. Also, it has to introduce the bag... It nods a great deal towards "Three Men in a Boat". 🤓
Nobody noticed fallen hero
The alarm went off at half past six, and Henry Alastair Blackwood was instantly awake. Today was the day. It looked like any other grey February morning, but he knew better. The delivery had to be made, and it had to be on time.
He dressed the way he always did on days that required discretion. A merino rollneck, the colour of old graphite, worn without ceremony. Last touch was his Northampton oxfords, bearing a faint scuff polished on the evening before.
A cup of English Breakfast with warm milk, a slice of toast, and he was almost set. Later in the day, Henry approved of the weather. It was doing its job without theatrics. He donned his loyal Slater, charcoal tweed. It made him almost invisible— it might look like it had seen several Novembers and a minor war, but it still remained respectable. He checked the inside pocket.
His Tissot “Lisboa” indicated 1530 hrs. He didn't check the time so much as confirm it.
Henry left his smartphone in the apartment and settled behind the wheel of his favourite Mercedes SL230 “Pagoda”.
Perfect condition. Low mileage. Clearly garaged since new. It sped off in a flash, and the journey was as smooth as a gentle breeze, lifting his mood considerably.
He was heading towards Brighton station, where he was to meet his contact and hand over the payload. He had about ten minutes before the train departed. Just enough. The handover was to be the most casual and swift of affairs.
The station clock looked as if it had seen worse mornings. He first went to the lockers.
He opened the locker.
The bag waited inside.
It did not belong there.
He removed it. The bag handles sat perfectly in his hand.
A passing porter gave it—and Henry—a wide berth. So potent, Henry thought to himself.
After another well-plotted minute, he was on the platform.
Henry looked briefly down the platform, less to see the train than to see whether everyone else expected it.
The man at the next bench was engaged in an animated telephone conversation with the entire station. Presently, the man cast a glance at the bag, stood up after a moment and moved along the platform. Henry wished him well but at a distance.
The train was announced as “slightly delayed,” which Henry accepted as the railway’s way of saying “indefinitely.”
His contact never showed up.
He might never find out what’s happened, but he is always prepared for disasters. No time to get rattled. Taking the bag home was simply out of the question. He needed to dispose of it quickly. Twenty-two minutes to the beach.
He arrived at the seaside. Normally, Henry would have savoured the tranquillity of this beautiful place. He found his favourite secluded cove with no people around. The sea was calm, as if inviting one to sit and reflect.
He took the opportunity and waited another quarter-hour for the sun to dip. He caught sight of the bag… Unusual yet strangely familiar, like a thing long forgotten. It felt soft yet reliable. It could have been his travel companion.
He walked with ceremonial gravity to the waterline. He had never allowed himself sentimental feelings, but today's occasion pushed him beyond his limits. He almost mourned as he consigned the bag to the waves.
The cargo was at the peak of its maturity—with a 200hp scent, ecclesiastical damp, notes of walnut and danger.
The Stilton, from Fortnum & Mason. A catastrophe if mislaid.
PS. A week later…
