by Dominic Luke
‘A lot of them aren’t really companies at all, sir. They’re just fancy catalogues and grandiose schemes which come to nothing. But even the ones that do get off the ground often struggle. They’re run by engineers, you see, when a man with a head for business is what’s required. You’d have no trouble making a motor company pay, sir.’
Uncle Albert laughed. ‘I daresay. I daresay. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Look before you leap, that’s my motto.’
His words were cautious but Dorothea could tell that her uncle’s interest had been aroused. She wondered with a leap of excitement if Uncle Albert would go so far as to buy an autocar of his own. She had a great interest in autocars. Henry’s enthusiasm had rubbed off on her. It rubbed off on most people eventually – except the die-hards like Colonel Harding. But Uncle Albert wasn’t a stick-in-the-mud of that sort. He was careful, yes. Prudent, yes. But once he got the bit between the teeth, there was no knowing what might happen….
‘There’s Windmill Hill,’ cried Henry, pointing ahead as Bernadette negotiated a humpbacked bridge over the canal. ‘My home – Hayton Grange – is at the foot of the hill.’
Dorothea sat up, eager to see where Henry lived, but the house was invisible: tucked away in a fold of land, perhaps, or hidden by the clump of trees that Henry called Grange Holt. The hill, on the other hand, was plain to see, round and green, steep sides rising to a flattened crown. The white sails of the mill were etched against the cloudless sky.
On the other side of the road, to the left, fields sloped gently down to the shallow valley where the canal meandered, mostly out of sight. In the distance, a thin grey line of smoke spiralled up into the blue.
Dorothea watched as the hill slid away behind them. Bernadette chugged and coughed. They were climbing a slight incline and, ahead, the outlying buildings of the village came into view – her village, as she thought of it, Hayton. The squat tower of St Adeline’s was now in sight, but rising higher than the church, billowing into the late afternoon sky, the spiral of smoke had grown rapidly to a grey-black column which was being flattened out high above into a canopy like a great grasping claw.
For some reason, the smoke struck fear into her. ‘Uncle? What is it?’
‘I’m not sure, child. A chimney fire, maybe.’
But he did not sound convinced and even Dorothea could see that there was far too much smoke for that.
Bernadette nosed into the village. Dorothea had never approached it from this direction before, but she soon got her bearings. There was the school and the smithy and the Post Office, all grouped round the duck pond and the Jubilee Oak. Three roads met at this point: the road from Newbolt along which they had just come; Back Lane to the left; and School Street straight on. In School Street she could see a crowd of people milling around – women, children, the elderly (most of the men would still be at work at this time of day) – all pointing, gesticulating, calling to each other. Smoke was billowing over the rooftops. It was casting a shadow over the village, bringing more people at a run from near and far.
Henry reached for the break lever and brought the motor to a stop outside Brittens’ Bakery (Nora’s mother often took her Sunday joint to be roasted at the bakery; the Brittens, in some complicated way, were relatives of the Turners. Dorothea knew all this and more from listening to Nora).
‘What’s happening? Where are we?’ asked a sleepy voice. Richard had woken at last and had sensed that something was amiss.
‘Just a little blaze, I think. Nothing to worry about,’ said Uncle Albert. ‘All the same, I’ll have a quick word, see if there’s anything I can do. If you’ll take the children home, Fitzwilliam?’
‘Of course, sir. Then I’ll come straight back.’
‘Good lad, good lad. Well, off you go.’
Uncle Albert swung out of his seat, jumped down from the motor, went striding up the street. Fearless, thought Dorothea, but sensible too. He would set things to rights.
Inspired by a feeling she could not quite put her finger on, Dorothea found herself scrambling out of the motor and making a leap for the ground even as Henry was manoeuvring to turn round. She stumbled, regained her balance, hesitated. Would Uncle Albert be angry if she followed him? And what about Nibs Carter? You’d better not come round here again, or it’ll be the worst for you! Did his threat still hold after nearly a year? But this was the village – her village – and what harm could come to her with Uncle Albert at hand?
Standing tall, shrugging off the protests of Henry and Richard, she marched up the street. There were allotments on her right; on the left was a row of tiny sandstone cottages. Ahead of her, a knot of people had gathered in the middle of the street round the tall and imposing figure of Uncle Albert. Dorothea joined the edge of the group, hanging back lest her uncle see her. A beady-eyed old man was talking. Dorothea recognized him as Noah Lee, Nora’s grandfather, whom she’d seen last year at the wedding. She remembered that she had not liked the way he stared at her.
‘It’s one of the hayricks, Master Brannan, in Wilmot’s yard. That’s where it started. And with this breeze fanning it, it’s spread to the stables. Most of the horses are in the fields, but there’s two that are lame – they’re trying to get them out. They’ll need to hurry. The fire will take hold in no time, in this wind.’
Dorothea knew that Wilmot’s was a small farmhouse right in the centre of the village. People were pointing to a narrow entry, a gap in the row of little cottages, and she guessed that the farmhouse must be down there, set back from the street. Circling the group of people – who were all talking loudly now, eager to have their say – Dorothea moved to a position where she could look into the entry. She saw the farmyard beyond with a curtain of flame which must be the remains of the hayrick. To the right, wooden stables were smouldering; some of the timbers were actually glowing. Figures were darting back and forth across the yard, silhouetted against the blaze.
As she watched, a great cart horse suddenly appeared in the entry. A man in shirt sleeves was leading it by the mane, talking to it softly; but the horse’s eyes were rolling and it was snorting and stamping its feet, foaming. People backed away as it came cavorting into the street; but Uncle Albert stood his ground, nodding encouragement to the man leading it.
Noah Lee had stayed put, too. ‘The farmhouse is out of harm’s way, I should say, master. The wind’s in the other direction. It’s these cottages on the right that will be next, once the stables go up.’
‘Water,’ said Uncle Albert, ‘we need water.’
‘Here comes the fire engine now, master.’
Dorothea looked up the street, saw a burly man in a leather apron pushing along a box on wheels, helped by a younger man. A hose trailed away behind them. Dorothea recognized the burly man as the blacksmith; he came on occasion to the stables up at Clifton to shoe the horses. The other man was Young, his apprentice – the one who, according to Henry, was more interested in motors than horses.
As the cart horse was led away, the fire engine drew near. Uncle Albert strode forward, clearing a path for it, his booming voice rising above the tumult, taking charge. Order was quickly imposed on the chaos. The fire engine was set to work, Young busy with the pumping handle while the blacksmith took hold of the hose. Uncle Albert told him to direct the flow of water towards the stables. The hayrick, he said, was beyond saving now.
Next Uncle Albert gathered some of the villagers and sent them round to the back of the cottages where there were many ramshackle sheds and huts leaning one against the other and also against the stable wall, making a handy path for the fire. An effort was begun to try and demolish them. Out in the street, meanwhile, Dorothea found there was work even for her. She joined a long line of women and children passing buckets, basins and cans from hand to hand, bringing water up from the duck pond. It was precious little to set against the raging fire but Dorothea realized that the feverish activity served a second purpose – it gave everyone something to do. There were no longer people mill
ing uselessly in the street. Panic was being kept at bay.
The village was now under a pall, the very air thick and brown. The wind seemed to be strengthening. In the heat of the day, the gentle breeze had been welcome as they ate their picnic amongst the ruins of Lawham priory; here in the village it seemed entirely sinister, driving the flames before it, scattering sparks, whipping up the last bits of glowing hay from the rick. A fiery rain began to float down into the street and beyond.
Busy passing buckets along, Dorothea suddenly felt a heavy hand on her shoulder. She turned to find Uncle Albert there. She quailed, felt sure he would be angry that she had disobeyed him but he merely drew her out of the line and pointed to the flying sparks. Could she organize some of the youngsters, get them to chase the sparks and stamp them out? Could she do that?
She nodded vigorously and when he said, ‘Good girl!’ and patted her on the head, she felt herself grow in stature. Uncle Albert had singled her out, was relying on her. She mustn’t let him down.
It seemed to her only a few minutes later when she paused to catch her breath. She was tired, hot and sweaty and had a raging thirst. Her frock was streaked with dirt and ash; her new hat with the yellow ribbons (how proud of it she’d been that morning!) was limp and heavy on her head. She took the hat off, hung it on a fence post by the allotments. Mopping her brow, she looked round. A grey gloom had descended. Dusk was at hand, she realized; but she had lost all sense of time, could not say if one hour had passed or many since they had driven into the village in Henry’s motor.
The hayrick was now a smouldering ruin but the stables were burning fiercely. Sheaves of red and orange flame were leaping high, bright in the twilight. The wind was gusting strongly, blowing the flames almost horizontal at times. They licked greedily at the thatched roofs of the cottages. The cottages themselves were being hurriedly evacuated, people scurrying in and out with items of furniture, pots and pans, rugs and carpets. As she watched, to her surprise she saw Nibs Carter emerge from the middle cottage on the right of the farm entry, staggering under the weight of a battered old chest. He was pale, dark rings round his eyes – not fierce or threatening now; just a scrawny, rather frightened boy. Two wailing toddlers trailed after him, grabbing at his legs and getting under his feet.
Dorothea didn’t stop to think. She ran to help, taking the hands of the two little children and drawing them to one side. If Nibs recognized her in all the confusion he made no sign, merely threw the chest down in the street then dashed back inside the cottage. Kneeling, Dorothea tried to comfort the squalling children but she kept half an eye on the cottage door. Smoke was pouring out of the upper windows; wisps of smoke curled out from the doorway. When Nibs reappeared at last with a heap of crockery in his arms, Dorothea found that she had been holding her breath the whole time. It was hard to believe that she was so concerned for Nibs’s safety – Nibs, of all people! But everything was topsy-turvy, and there was no time to reason things out.
‘Miss! Oh, miss!’ A woman appeared from nowhere and grabbed her arm. ‘Pardon me, miss, but look!’
After a second, Dorothea recognized the woman as Pippa Turner, Nora’s sister-in-law. A year ago she had been pink-cheeked and smiling as she walked down the church path in the frock that Nora had said was old-fashioned. Today she looked whey-faced, was dressed plainly, an old shawl thrown over her shoulders. She was twisting the ends of it in her fist as she pointed through the dusk towards the cottages.
‘It’s Mother Franklin, miss. She won’t come out of her cottage. I’ve begged her but she won’t.’
The cottage that Pippa Turner was pointing at was next door to Nibs’s. Great flames like gluttonous tongues were flicking over the roof. The thatch was smouldering. Smoke was gushing from under the eaves and out of the upstairs windows. The front door, however, was shut. Dorothea saw a glimmer of movement in the downstairs window. A wrinkled old face appeared briefly, looked out, then it was gone.
Something stirred in Dorothea’s memory. It had been two and a half years ago, on the day of her abortive escape. As she had passed the Green, an old woman had come out of the shop and stared at her, making her feel ill at ease. This was the very same woman: Mother Franklin, as Pippa called her.
‘I’m sorry, miss, for being so familiar and all,’ said Pippa ‘but I do feel in a way that I know you. Nora talks so much about you. But, oh, miss! I don’t know what to do! Mother Franklin says she’d rather burn than lose all her bits and pieces. Someone ought to help her, someone really ought to.’
But there was no one at hand. Everyone was busy and, even as Pippa was speaking, flames began to shoot up from the thatched roofs of the cottages. Pippa caught her breath, ran stumbling to Mother Franklin’s door, began banging desperately, calling for the old lady to come out before it was too late.
Dorothea looked down at the two little children whose hands she was holding – Nibs’s brother and sister, she presumed. Summoning a smile from somewhere, she quickly told them to be good, to stay where they were, to guard the pile of belongings that Nibs had brought out from their cottage. The children nodded solemnly, pouting. Dorothea ran to join Pippa.
But as she came to the door of the cottage she found Pippa being dragged away by a man who had loomed up out of the murk.
‘What in heaven’s name do you think you are doing, Pippa? Come away! Come away at once!’
It was Jem Turner, Nora’s brother – Pippa’s husband – his plain round face grim and sweaty and streaked with dust.
‘Oh, Jem, it’s Mother Franklin—’
‘Never mind Mother Franklin! What are you doing here, Pippa? You should be at home! Have you no thought for the baby?’
Pippa’s hands strayed down to her belly which was, Dorothea now realized, rather distended. It explained Pippa’s rather wobbling gait. It explained, too, why Jem was so cross. Dorothea had completely forgotten that Pippa was expecting – even though Nora had been full of it for months.
‘Just come away, Pippa! Come away, for Christ’s sake!’
‘But Jem—’
Jem brooked no argument, steering his wife away from the cottage with a brawny arm. As she was led away, Pippa looked round and caught Dorothea’s eye.
‘Please, miss! Don’t forget Mother Franklin! Please!’
‘Don’t worry! I’ll help her, I promise!’
But what could she do, a girl on her own? She trembled, looking round in desperation. The place was swarming now, as busy as Stepnall Street on a Saturday night. The men were back from work and people had come flocking from miles around, or so it seemed. But still there were not enough hands to do everything that needed to be done. She watched, wide-eyed, as a group of men – Uncle Albert amongst them – came staggering out from the entry to the farmyard, coughing and spluttering, faces blackened with soot. They had at last abandoned their attempts to demolish the sheds and huts. Meanwhile, the fire swept remorselessly on. Even as Dorothea stood in an agony of indecision, there was a terrible sound of rending and splintering, and a huge explosion of sparks. Giant flames shot up into the evening sky. The stables had collapsed. And now the cottages were burning. They would be the next to succumb; there could be no doubt about that anymore.
Dorothea gritted her teeth. It would take far too long to fetch help, to find someone and explain what was needed. She had only herself to rely on.
She began banging on the door, kicking and punching it. It seemed to be barricaded from inside. She couldn’t move it. Heaving and shoving, sobbing with the effort, she was beginning to despair when Nibs Carter suddenly erupted out of the next doorway followed by a tail of smoke. He had two Windsor chairs in his hands, another balanced upside down on his head. He threw them into the street, turned to go back – then saw her.
‘Miss, what are you doing? It’s not safe!’ He tried to push her away from the cottages but a fit of coughing seized him.
Dorothea grabbed hold of his grubby hand. ‘It’s Mother Franklin! She won’t leave her cottage without her
things. There’s no one to help and I can’t get in!’
Without another word, Nibs squared his shoulder, preparing to ram the door but at that moment it finally opened. Old Mother Franklin stood there, dithering in the hall, her toothless gums chewing. But no matter how they pleaded, she wouldn’t come out.
‘Not without me bits and pieces,’ she said.
‘Alright, Mother!’ said Nibs grimly. ‘If that’s what you want, I’ll get your things, don’t you fret. You go with Miss Dorothea and let me get in.’
The wizened old woman, grumbling under her breath, allowed herself to be led hobbling into the street. Soon she was settled in her own battered old arm chair which Dorothea helped Nibs to carry out of the cottage. Back they went into the gloom and the drifting smoke, Dorothea laying hold of anything that came to hand. Gradually, Mother Franklin’s meagre belongings began to pile up around her. She sat there, licking her gums, watching the leaping flames slowly devouring her cottage.
Dorothea was choking, fighting for breath. The cottage was full of smoke. She had to feel her way towards the exit. Nibs caught her by the elbow on the doorstep. ‘Don’t go back after this, miss.’
‘But Nibs—’
‘There’s not much more to fetch. One more trip and I’ll—’
He ducked inside, disappeared.
Dorothea felt giddy as she tottered into the street. Her legs gave way. She sank down onto the battered chest that Nibs had rescued from his own cottage earlier. Her eyes swam. Everything looked hazy, distant, blurred. The smoke seemed to have gotten inside her head so that she couldn’t put her thoughts in order. The hurly-burly all around her made her head spin.