‘We do have fun, don’t we?’
‘Sure do. I can’t believe I’ve been here for six months already. Seems like only last week I was wondering what it would be like to be stationed with a fire crew instead of just ambulance.’ Laura climbed out of the driver’s seat and walked around to join Tim at the back of the vehicle. ‘I still haven’t got over how funny they are, though.’
‘What?’
‘The boots.’ Laura pointed to where the crew’s heavy footwear was lined up, the tops of the boots protruding through the rolled-down legs of protective over-trousers. ‘It looks for all the world like a crew was standing around the truck and they all got vaporised by some alien force or something.’
‘Makes for a quick getaway.’
‘I know.’ Laura had seen Jason and his colleagues respond to a call. Feet slid into boots, over-trousers were yanked up and secured by elastic braces, and matching, heavy, mustard-yellow jackets with reflecting stripes were grabbed from the locker room along with helmets. The items of protective outer clothing were always left in precisely the same position on returning to the station, which left the officers wearing their uniforms of black trousers and navy blue T-shirts emblazoned with the red and white fire service logo.
As they were now. Laura and Tim had elected to wait until closer to the end of their shift before restocking and cleaning the ambulance. They had enough supplies if they got another call, and tempting fate by having a freshly prepared truck for the oncoming crew was not a good idea this close to their finishing time of seven a.m. A late call after a busy night such as they’d just had would not be welcome.
They entered the old house through the automatic side door that now joined it to the large, purpose-built garaging. The spacious lounge that ran nearly the whole width of the lower floor had become a common room, filled with comfortable furniture. The couches and chairs were being well patronised by weary men at the moment, half of whom had their feet resting on the coffee-tables. The other half had their footwear resting on the arms of the couches.
‘In the name of St Bride!’ Laura did her best to imitate the broad accent that fifty years of living in New Zealand hadn’t dampened in Mrs McKendry’s case. ‘How many times do I have to tell you boys to keep your dratted feet off that furniture?’
To her delight, the accent and surprise factor were enough to initiate a guilty leap into compliance. Her laughter caused more than one head to turn, and then the amusement was general.
‘Good one, Laura!’ Tim shook his head at the firemen. ‘You should have seen yourselves jump!’
‘Lucky I didn’t scream,’ Cliff complained. ‘She’s just as scary as Mrs M.’
‘Ah…but can she cook bacon and eggs?’
‘And polish the furniture?’
‘And get nasty stains out of any clothes?’
‘Even Mrs M. couldn’t get the stains out of your underwear, Stick.’
Laura shook her head and flopped into the nearest available armchair during the laughter that followed the last flippant remark. Maybe she was just too tired to feel amused. Or maybe the idea that she might measure up to the perfect housekeeper cut a little too close to the bone. She could do all those things but she wasn’t going to be some man’s housekeeper ever again. Not when that ended up being the main attraction she possessed.
Several pairs of eyes were fastened on the wall clock.
‘It’s 6.15.’
‘Mmm. That bacon will be in the pan any minute now.’
‘Why don’t you do it for yourselves for once?’
That wasn’t a suggestion one of the boys would have considered making. Laura found she had caused a brief but rather surprised silence. Jason looked positively bewildered.
‘What…and make Mrs M. feel like she’s not wanted?’
Laura’s sigh revealed that she didn’t have the energy to try and re-educate the men around her. Maybe it was an impossible task anyway. Was that why John had never lifted a finger in the kitchen? Or the bathroom, or anywhere else for that matter? Had he, in fact, been a kind and caring partner who had simply been trying to show her how much he’d needed her? Ha!
‘She would be upset.’ Tim’s glance was speculative and Laura knew she deserved the gentle reprimand. The men of Inglewood station might complain and joke about Jean McKendry when she wasn’t around, but she was part of the family if anyone else tried it. And the kitchen was strictly her domain during her ‘office’ hours.
‘We’ve never asked her to do any of the stuff she does for us, you know,’ Bruce added. ‘She’s just become an institution—ever since she popped over with a plate of scones the day this station opened five years ago.’
‘Yeah, it just grew.’ Cliff nodded. ‘By the end of the year she was here every day, all day, cleaning and cooking.’
‘And making sure we all had a clean hanky.’
‘At least she gets paid for it now,’ Bruce told Laura. ‘And we all put in to buy all the food she insists on cooking us.’
‘She loves us,’ Jason said. He still looked puzzled. ‘She wants to do it.’
‘I know.’ Laura smiled. ‘She’s wonderful and we’re the envy of any other peripheral city station. Sorry.’ She pushed her glasses up and rubbed the bridge of her nose. ‘I’m just tired, I guess, and from where I’m sitting it’s easy to take offence at the idea of a perfect woman’s attributes being how easy she can make life for others.’
The second brief silence had a contrite air to it.
‘Hey, we weren’t getting at you, Laura.’
‘No…we don’t think of you as a woman.’
‘Gee, thanks.’ Not only was she the only member of Green Watch not to have earned some kind of nickname, they didn’t even see her as being female.
‘That wasn’t helpful, Stick,’ Jason said firmly. He gave Laura one of his killer smiles. ‘What he meant was that you’re one of us.’
‘One of the boys,’ Bruce put in kindly.
‘No.’ Jason sounded even firmer. ‘Laura is most definitely not a boy. Heck, even I’m not that blind.’
Laura couldn’t help smiling. Or help the pathetic little glow that started somewhere inside at the thought that Jason had not only noticed her femininity, he was defending her. Then her smile faded. What had the comment really meant…that it was really so hard to see anything attractive about her?
‘We’re not really chauvinistic,’ Bruce said a little defensively. ‘But this job requires people with pretty assertive personalities. So does yours. You wouldn’t expect a firefighter who’s risked life and limb to pull someone from a burning house or cut open a wrecked vehicle to extricate the injured to go home and bake a cake or clean a toilet, would you?’
‘Why not? You’d expect me to,’ Laura told them. ‘I’ve just been squished inside a car wreck looking after the injured, but I bet you wouldn’t put up too much of a fight if I offered to go and make you all coffee or throw some bacon and eggs together.’
‘Mmm.’ The sound was a frustrated groan. ‘Bacon and eggs!’
‘Don’t worry, Laura,’ Tim said. ‘We all know you’re just as much of a hero as we are.’
‘Yeah.’ Cliff winked at her. ‘Maybe you need a wife as well.’
Laura gritted her teeth. She knew they were teasing her but it was easy to think that her protest had not made the slightest impression on any prejudice held by these men. And what did it matter, anyway? She couldn’t imagine being attracted to a man who was keen to bake cakes or clean toilets. She’d never wanted to find a sensitive New Age guy. She was just twisted and bitter because John had never really wanted her for herself. Apart from the freely available sex, he would probably have been happier being married to Jean McKendry.
Jason seemed to have picked up at least part of her thoughts by telepathy.
‘You should also know,’ he said seriously, ‘that we don’t consider Mrs M. to be the perfect woman.’
‘No.’ Stick grinned. ‘She’s about forty years past her use by date
.’
‘And she’s grumpy as hell.’
‘Yeah.’ Jason rubbed his elbow reflectively. ‘She hit me with a wooden spoon the other day.’
‘Well, you were sticking your dirty, fat finger in her gravy.’
‘I was only tasting it.’
The mention of food provoked another general glance towards the clock and yet another short silence.
‘What was that?’ Laura frowned at the faint but noticeably unusual sound.
‘Just a cat.’
‘Gate squeaking?’ Cliff suggested hopefully. ‘Mrs M. arriving for breakfast?’
‘Jeez, we’d better not get another callout,’ Jason said unhappily. ‘I’m starving.’
‘You’re always starving, Jase.’
‘Can’t help it. I’m a growing lad.’
‘We’ve noticed.’ Stick leaned over the side of the chair and poked Jason’s midriff. ‘You’d better watch out, mate. Pot belly city!’
Laura’s lips twitched as she gave Tim a warning glance. He grinned and raised his eyebrows as though acknowledging that Laura might have already been provocative enough, especially for this time of day.
They were all startled at the sound made by the original back door of the house. Not that it wasn’t Mrs McKendry’s normal entranceway, but she didn’t usually open and shut it with quite such purpose. The room fell uncomfortably silent now. Mrs M. wasn’t happy. Someone had upset her and they were all likely to suffer the consequences. Laura was suddenly acutely aware of just how right her colleagues had been not to trespass on their housekeeper’s self-designated areas of responsibility.
Never mind the culinary and other benefits they all received—letting Jean McKendry think she was indispensable was actually an act of kindness. Looking after Inglewood station was her life and while she could be nosy, grumpy and always opinionated, she was never unfair. If she was this upset there would be a good reason for it.
The determined tap of sensible, low-heeled shoes got louder as Mrs McKendry traversed the kitchen’s linoleum floor. All eyes were drawn to the arched opening that joined the dining-room end of the lounge to the kitchen that ran along the other side of the house. Those same eyes swivelled in unison to the large cardboard box that Mrs M. deposited carefully on the table. Wiry arms were now folded in front of the small woman’s spare frame. And, in case her body language wasn’t enough to let them know that this time they were in serious trouble, her tone backed it up more than adequately.
‘I’m waiting,’ she snapped.
‘What for, Mackie?’ Jason’s smile was one of his most winning. It wasn’t even directed at Laura and it was enough to melt her bones. Using the affectionate nickname had to be overkill, surely? ‘What have we done?’
‘I know what one of you has done,’ Mrs M. enunciated with precision. ‘What I want to know is, who is responsible?’
‘Who is responsible for what?’
A sound rather similar to a cat’s mew or a gate squeaking was suddenly produced by the box on the table. Mrs McKendry’s lips almost disappeared into a straight, grim line.
‘Who is responsible for this puir wee bairn being left on the back doorstep of Inglewood station?’
CHAPTER TWO
A SPELL had been cast.
Laura experienced an odd sensation, as though a wand had actually been waved over the group of people sitting in the lounge of the Inglewood emergency response station. An electric tingle—a feeling she was unable to identify on the spectrum between elation and fear—ran through her entire body, and she knew without a shadow of doubt that the axis of her world was tilting.
Only an insignificant amount of time followed Mrs McKendry’s startling demand but it marked the transition between normal life and something totally unknown. One minute they had all been slumped in various positions of rest, filling in time and carefully not tempting fate by saying they were probably safe from the disruption of a late callout, and now they were suddenly involved in a disruption that was completely without precedent.
Laura wasn’t the only one to be stunned. Or to feel nervous in taking that first step of an unknown journey. The whole of Green Watch was moving. Slowly, silently, they approached the box on the table with as much caution as if it contained a live cobra.
Stick was the first to open his mouth. His nickname had been derived from affectionate ribbing that he’d been hit more than once by the ugly one. Right now, his pockmarked face had softened dramatically and his incredulous smile was almost as large as his nose.
‘It’s a baby!’
The murmur was probably intended to be a personal observation but the silence surrounding him was so profound the words might as well have been shouted.
‘Go to the top of the class, Stick.’ Bruce grinned.
‘Is it a girl or a boy?’ Tim queried.
‘It’s not colour-coded,’ Jason complained. ‘How are we supposed to know?’
‘Change its nappy,’ Cliff advised knowledgeably.
‘Not on your life!’ Jason held both hands up, palms outwards, and leaned back to emphasise the invisible barrier. ‘I don’t do babies.’
‘Someone did,’ Mrs McKendry snapped. Her arms were still folded and she was tapping one foot impatiently. ‘And I’d like to know who.’
‘Wasn’t me,’ Jason declared firmly.
‘Or me,’ Stick and Cliff said simultaneously.
‘Definitely wasn’t me.’ Tim raised an eyebrow at Laura and she smiled. Having a baby dumped on your doorstep certainly wasn’t a boring thing to happen.
‘I should be so lucky,’ Bruce sighed.
They all stared at the infant. Fluffy, dark blue polar fleece fabric with cute yellow ducks on it had been folded to form a mattress in the box. The baby had been wrapped in a blanket of the same fleece but tiny limbs had been active enough to loosen the covering and miniature hands could be seen poking from the armholes of a white stretch suit. A tiny fist threatened to clout its owner’s cheek but somehow it escaped causing pain and settled against a questing mouth instead. Surprisingly loud sucking noises filled the new silence and large dark blue eyes stared up fearlessly at the crowd of faces leaning over the box.
‘It’s hungry.’ As a father of three, Cliff was entitled to take the lead as far as experience in such matters went.
‘Could be hereditary.’ Stick gave one of his usual cheerful grins. ‘Who’s always hungry around here?’
‘Don’t look at me!’ Jason’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘I told you, I don’t do babies. I’m careful, man. Always have been.’
‘There’s always one that slips through the net.’
There was a ripple of laughter. ‘Especially when the catch is that big!’
‘It has got blond hair,’ Bruce observed. ‘Except I don’t suppose it means that much at this age.’
‘How old do you reckon it is?’
For some reason everyone looked at Laura. Was she supposed to know the answer due to some feminine intuition? Had she always been lumped in the ‘motherly type’ basket? Or had everybody simply noticed how quiet she’d been so far? Cliff wasn’t about to be outdone in the knowledge stakes, however.
‘It’s pretty newly hatched, I’d say. Two or three weeks?’
Laura caught her breath but her reaction had nothing to do with the thought of such a young baby being abandoned. She had just realised why the baby’s face was so fascinating.
The eyes weren’t really that dark. They were blue, certainly. A lovely sort of cornflower blue. They gave the initial appearance of darkness because of the edging to the iris, which was a shade deep enough to compete with the pupil. Why had nobody else noticed such an obvious genetic link to a potential parent in this group of men? There was only one person who had eyes like that.
And they were exactly like that.
Another frisson of an unidentifiable emotion caught Laura unexpectedly. Jealousy, perhaps? No. It was more like a feeling of connection to that baby. A longing to touch it. To pick it up. When t
he little fist was suddenly flung free of the sucking mouth and a tiny face crumpled and reddened she had no hesitation in reaching into the box.
Nobody else was going to do it, she told herself. The men were backing off in alarm at the deterioration in the baby’s mood. At her touch, the screwed-up face relaxed and the tiny fist unfurled to encompass her finger. Laura smiled into a carbon copy of Jason Halliday’s eyes.
‘Hello, there,’ she whispered.
Only a few short minutes had passed since Mrs McKendry had dropped this bombshell in their midst but it was very unusual that the older woman had not yet said more than she had. Nobody was surprised to hear her begin to issue some firm instructions.
‘Sit down at this table—every last one of you. I don’t care if half of Wellington burns to the ground. You’re no’ going anywhere till we get to the bottom of this.’
Amazingly, the whole group of burly, dedicated firefighters complied. They were all out of their depth right now and it clearly came as a relief for their self-appointed surrogate mother to take charge.
‘We should call the police,’ Bruce suggested mildly. ‘It’s a criminal offence to leave a baby unattended.’
The look he received questioned his level of intelligence rather eloquently. ‘Whoever left this bairn had reason to think it would be attended to.’
A dainty foot tapped on linoleum in the silence that followed.
‘And there can be only one explanation for that. One of you is this baby’s father.’
‘You’re lucky.’ Jason’s comment was directed at Laura, who, along with Mrs McKendry, was the only person now standing. ‘It can’t be yours. I think we would have noticed.’
The chuckle of appreciation at the attempt to lift the atmosphere was short-lived and it hadn’t even raised a smile as far as Laura was concerned. Carrying a full-term baby may well have made her large enough for Jason to notice. In fact, it was probably the only way he’d really notice her as a woman.
As though her resentment was contagious, the baby emitted a fractious cry and Laura did what she’d been wanting to do ever since she’d first seen what was in the box. She scooped the baby up and cradled it in her arms.
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