“Wiggins had interrupted his talk about Jack Krael to envelop his nose in a handkerchief. Fortunately, Jury himself was negotiating the turn or one of the Covent Garden porters would have been separated from his handtruck. Wiggins continued his sad litany of loss. “I know how he feels, sir; it’s all going; might as well say good-bye to the lot. Just imagine what this place was like back when dockland was a hive of activity.” He spoke of that time as if it had been centuries ago, not decades. “I ...remember,” said Jury. “You’re not that old, sir. Now it’s just all those trendy little shops.” Wiggins replaced his small aspirator — he’d sworn he was working his way into asthma — and continued repining the loss of the past. “Apricots from South Africa, figs from Italy . . .” He sighed. “The pea-shuckers, incredible, they were.” Jury smiled at Wiggins’s extolling a past that one day of living in would have had him flat on his back. No matter how colorful, there was filth and squalor, and no mass-produced charcoal biscuits.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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