The Hull Home Fire

by Linda Abbott

  Tom dug into the porridge. “The Department of Public Health has no right to allow TB cases to live with healthy old folk. That doesn’t sound proper to me.”

  “I think it’s a grand place,” Alice said. “They even look after the darling children of unwed mothers until they are adopted.”

  “Come on, love. They want the extra money, you mean. The Salvation Army does that for free. I bet Mr. Hull bent Henry’s ear about this doctor business in the hope he’ll volunteer there.”

  “Young Mary Norris says he really cares about the residents.”

  “She has no other choice but to say that, because she’s the only one bringing in money since her grandfather passed.” Tom slapped jam on cold toast. “Our son has shown beyond a doubt how much she means to him, with this doctor business.”

  Alice tweaked her husband’s chin. “Not many men want their mother-in-law underfoot.”

  “Don’t forget your scarf.” Tom plucked it from the floor, wrapped it around her neck, and planted a quick peck on her forehead.

  Alice smiled. “Won’t be long, love.”

  “Say hello to your mother for me,” Tom called as she stepped outside and set off for Hull Home. Six days a week she made the ten-minute walk to visit her mother. Dorothy Gatherall — or Dot, as she preferred — spent every Sunday with her daughter’s family. Alice ran across the street. The cold air scratched her throat. Despite two pairs of gloves her fingers tingled. She rushed around the corner and collided with a man. He was fifty years old and below average height, with thick brown, greying hair.

  “Mrs. Gibbs,” Fred Russell said, holding out his arms to steady her. He chuckled. “Sorry I bumped into you.”

  Alice shuffled from foot to foot on the rock-hard snow. “I’m on the way to visit my mother.”

  “A word to the wise,” Fred said. “The stove’s giving trouble again.”

  Alice rolled her eyes. “I take it Mr. Hull’s in a foul mood.”

  “You could say that.”

  “Do me a favour, Fred. If you see Tom, don’t tell him. This’ll give him more ammunition to badmouth the Home.”

  Chapter 2

  “WHY ARE YOU LATE ?” ISAAC griped. He knelt on the floor, his head and shoulders concealed behind the stove.

  “I’m sorry,” Mary said. “My migraine was so bad it kept me awake most of the night.” She shed her sweater and hung it on the back of a chair. “I’ll make the toast right away.”

  Isaac rose slowly to his feet and brushed dust off his knees. “Get on with it, then. The building inspector and the fire superintendent will be here at eight. I want everyone fed by then.”

  Mary untied the string around the bread and threw the brown paper in the garbage next to the sink. Isaac strutted down the hall to the office. “The stove would have to give out today,” he grumbled. “Where’s the bloody mechanic ?”

  Dot Gatherall strolled into the kitchen. “Our distinguished leader is in fine form this morning,” she said as she took a butter knife out of the drawer. “Let me give you a hand, dearie.”

  Mary adjusted her apron more securely around her waist. “Mr. Hull will be right mad at me if I let a resident help fix breakfast. You saw how crooked he was this morning.”

  “Nonsense,” Dot said, taking a slab of butter out of the fridge. “You shouldn’t be expected to prepare breakfast for over fifty people all by yourself. Why isn’t Mr. Hull helping out ?”

  Mary frowned. “The stove’s giving trouble and he’s worried about the inspection.”

  “Well,” Dot said. “That’s even more reason he should be in here with you.” She patted Mary’s arm. “Never you mind. We’ll do just fine on our own.”

  A loud knock sounded on the front door. “Please let that be the mechanic,” Mary said, darting down the stairs. She returned with Gordon Freeman, a stove mechanic who worked with Monroe Machinery and Equipment Company.

  Dot smiled at the young man. “Good to see you again so soon, Gordon.”

  He placed his tool bag on the floor by the stove. “I’m called in so often to repair the stove my missus says I should move in,” he said with a straight face.

  Dot wiggled her eyebrows at him. “There’s an extra bed in my room.” She found a tray in the cupboard over the fridge for the batch of toast and carried it to the dining room. Mary poked more bread in the two-door toaster.

  “Let’s see what the trouble is this time,” Gordon said, pulling tools out of his bag. “Looks like someone’s been tampering with the carburetor.” He turned to Mary. “Come take a look.”

  Mary crouched down next to the mechanic and examined the trip valve he indicated. “It’s been tied down to keep it open,” she said.

  “Which, as you are well aware, Mary, means more oil is flowing than should be.” He pointed to a fuel supply pipe. “That’s leaking.” A small puddle of oil had formed on the floor.

  Mary sat back on her heels. “I saw Mr. Hull tinkering with the stove a little while ago.”

  “How do you put up with him ?” Gordon said. “He thinks he knows more than a real mechanic.”

  “He doesn’t have a clue when it comes to mechanical things.”

  “Mary !” Isaac growled, glaring down at her. “Get away from there. Hannah Smith needs her bedclothes changed immediately.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mary jumped to her feet. “Poor Hannah sweats something awful when she has the flu.”

  “Don’t be mad at Mary,” Gordon said as she scurried away. “I asked her to take a look.”

  “She’s not your helper,” Isaac said. “She has enough work of her own to do.” He drummed his fingers on the table, watching Gordon’s every move. “That stove’s been nothing but a bother since the day I purchased it. Needs more looking after than a newborn.” Isaac hauled out his pocket watch. “Are you done ?”

  Gordon tightened a screw on the trip valve. “For now.”

  Isaac’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Maybe it’s time you learned how to fix the damn stove once and for all.”

  “Mr. Hull, you’ve got to stop tinkering with the carburetor. Oil’s leaking to the floor because of it.” The mechanic cleaned the greasy mess from his hands. “Flames will get outside the stove through the water pipes if you don’t. Too much oil causes high temperatures and extra gases.”

  “Thank you, thank you,” Isaac said. “Now, if you don’t mind, see yourself out. I have important business to attend to.”

  “Of course,” Gordon said to Mr. Hull’s retreating back. “Don’t I always ?”

  Dot brought the empty tray back to the kitchen. “Gordon, I...” She paused and looked at him as if unsure of what to say. “I heard what you said to Mr. Hull about the stove. It sounded awful dangerous to me.”

  Gordon collected his tools from the floor. “It is, Mrs. Gatherall. I sure hope he heeds my warning this time.”

  Mary descended the stairs as the mechanic opened the front door to leave. “Have a good day, Gordon.”

  “Keep an eye on the stove, Mary,” he said as the door closed behind him, and left with the tool bag tucked under an arm. Two men approached the home. Gordon tipped his hat to them. “Morning, gents.”

  Fire Superintendent Fred Vivian, the tallest of the pair, rang the doorbell. Mr. Hull scooted out of his office, his wife close at hand. “Come in. Come in, gentlemen,” he said, a broad smile plastered across his face. Mary returned to the kitchen and busied herself with making more toast.

  City Building Inspector Cahill pulled off his scarf.

  “It’s best to leave that on,” Isaac said. “We have to go outside to get to the Annex.”

  “Well now,” Cahill said, “that’s not very convenient, is it ? Especially during the winter. By the way, are you the owners of the building ?”

  “No. We pay the Noah family sixty-five dollars a month for rent. Mr. Wylie, a commercial agent, occupies the first floor. His furnace heats the whole building.”

  Mrs. Hull stuck out her chin. “We pay him three hundred dollars a y
ear,” she added. “A very generous amount if you ask me.”

  Superintendent Vivian sniffed several times. “You’ve painted recently,” he said, looking over the walls. “The smell is still quite potent.”

  “The man finished yesterday,” Isaac said. “We keep the place in good condition.”

  Mrs. Hull stepped in front of the men. “On to the kitchen,” she said, moving ahead without waiting to see if they followed. “You’ll notice how spotless it is.”

  “The wall behind the stove’s been licked with flames,” the inspector said, his eyes on the brown marks.

  “Not at all,” Isaac said. “Those are water marks.”

  “I recognize scorching when I see it, Mr. Hull. A fire shield would remedy that situation.”

  “If you don’t mind,” Mrs. Hull said. “My husband and I are more than capable of taking care of our own concerns.”

  “I do hope so.” Superintendent Vivian spoke without the slightest hint of annoyance.

  Cahill took out a notepad and pencil from an inside pocket of his grey jacket suit. “Mr. Hull, how many nurses do you employ ?”

  “Three,” Mrs. Hull said before her husband had time to open his mouth. “Which, if I do say so myself, is quite a sufficient number. The Department of Welfare sends medicine, bedclothes, dressings, and even pyjamas when required.” She glowered at each official in turn. “As you undoubtedly must know.”

  Cahill glanced sideways at her. “Sufficient number, you say.” He pursed his lips. “That is a matter of opinion, madam.”

  Mrs. Hull’s nostrils flared wider than an angry horse.

  Mary repressed a giggle as she filled the kettle with water.

  Cahill gave her a fatherly smile. “Who is this young woman ?”

  Isaac supplied her full name along with a list of duties. “She’s been here for two years and has never once complained about being overworked. Isn’t that right, Mary ?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cahill addressed Isaac again. “How many people reside here at present ?”

  “Twenty-nine in the main house, including myself and Howard Pike. There’s twenty-two in the Annex.”

  Mrs. Hull’s mouth twitched. “We live on Allandale Road,” she said. “My husband often spends nights at the Home when he’s concerned about a patient’s health. Howard’s a seventeen-year-old student at the Prince of Wales College.”

  The superintendent looked at Isaac from under heavy brows. “I understand the Department of Public Health and Welfare pays for the residents’ lodgings.”

  “Not for everyone,” Isaac said. “Pike and several seniors pay their own way.”

  Cahill jotted down a sentence in his notepad. “We’ll inspect the rooms in the main house, then proceed to the Annex.”

  Mary made beds and gabbed with residents on the second and third storeys, all the while keeping pace with the inspection. She noticed both officials wrote often in their notepads and only gave nods and grunts to inquiries from the Hulls.

  “Which way to the Annex ?” Superintendent Vivian said when they returned to the main floor. Mary grabbed bedclothes from a closet and followed them outside.

  “Hmm, no fire escape,” Superintendent Vivian said when he surveyed the outside of the building.

  “Brick doesn’t burn,” Mrs. Hull said.

  “The inside is made of wood,” the superintendent countered. “And that does burn.”

  Cahill opened the door to the Annex. It swung in and stopped halfway with a thump.

  “Exits should open out, not in,” Vivian said. He skirted around a stove which partially blocked the door and the stairs. “My God, man. That has to be removed immediately.” He looked at Mrs. Hull, her face devoid of any humour. “Has any poor old soul stumbled over that stove yet ?”

  “Indeed not. Safety is one of our main priorities.”

  They started up the stairs, Cahill in the lead. “There’s hardly enough room for one person at a time,” he said. “My shoulders are scant inches from the walls.”

  Vivian wrote down a few more words. “An exceptionally narrow space for sure,” he said.

  “Which meets the required three-feet width,” Mrs. Hull said and walked the group down the hall. “Gentlemen, I’m confident that you’ll agree the rooms are clean and the residents well attended to.” Vivian and Cahill filled out page after page as they scrutinized each room. Mary travelled from room to room, hanging up clothes and sweeping floors, her ears alert in an attempt to hear the conversation between the Hulls and the Fire Department officials.

  A raspy cough scraped into the air. “That’s Mrs. Duggan,” Isaac said. “She’s recovering nicely from tuberculosis.”

  Mary rushed into her room and poured water from the jug on the bedside table. “This’ll help,” she said, holding the glass to Mrs. Duggan’s mouth.

  “Thank you, my dear,” the old lady croaked.

  Mr. Hull smiled. “As you have observed, we have a very sympathetic staff.”

  “How many such cases do you have ?” Cahill said.

  “Eighteen.”

  Mrs. Hull clasped her hands together. “All doing grand,” she said.

  Cahill scribbled down another line. “I haven’t seen a nurse on our rounds,” he said. “Where are they ?”

  Mr. Hull went back into the hall. “The night nurse went home sick. The other two are due at nine.”

  They proceeded to the far room on the right. Isaac extracted a key from his pocket.

  “Why’s the door locked ?” Vivian asked.

  Mrs. Hull smiled, a mere rise of thin lips. “Old Mr. Newhook wanders about. We don’t want him falling down the stairs.”

  “My Lord,” Vivian said, looking at Isaac. “It’s never a smart idea to lock residents in their rooms. In case of fire.” He scanned the room from the hallway. “There are seven occupants in there. I’ve seen bigger closets.”

  “You’re right,” Cahill said. “The room would be overcrowded with three people.”

  “Take a closer look,” Mrs. Hull said. “There’s ample room.”

  “I disagree, madam.”

  “Mr. Cahill, I’ll have you know our residents are happy folk who frequently visit each other’s rooms.”

  Superintendent Vivian closed his notepad. “Mr. and Mrs. Hull. Thank you for your time and co-operation. We’ll write up an official report with our recommendations.”

  HENRY STRETCHED AND LAY DOWN his pencil. He knew it had to be five o’clock by the rumbles in his stomach. “Mr. Hull, your wife will come looking for you if you stay late again.”

  “Not in this godforsaken weather she won’t.”

  “See you in the morning,” Henry said, and heard a desk drawer squeak open as he left the office. He shot a glance over his shoulder in time to see Isaac take out a bottle of screech. Henry grinned to himself and walked outside to a sky twinkling here and there with a few stars. A grey and white husky, hobbling alongside his ninety-year-old master, stopped and stared up at Henry. The animal’s crystal blue eyes hadn’t dimmed with age. “Good evening to you, Mr. Duggan,” Henry said.

  The old man measured five foot five and weighed a little over a hundred pounds. Fragile in appearance, he was fitter than a man thirty years his junior. A dark green wool cap covered a full head of wavy silver hair. The only visible wrinkles on his face formed at the corners of his mouth when he smiled.

  “Hello, young man.”

  Henry rubbed the dog behind its ear. “How’s your arthritis, Rusty boy ?”

  Mr. Duggan looked down at his friend and pet. “As good as can be expected for an ancient codger like him.” Rusty licked his wrist.

  “It sure is cold,” Henry said.

  “Cold enough to take strips off your face.”

  “Gran told me that Mrs. Duggan’s doing better.”

  “Eileen isn’t coughing near so much and she’s put on a pound or two.” Ten years younger than her husband, she suffered from a recurring bout of tuberculosis. His voice grew soft. “Hull Hom
e agrees with her more than the Sanatorium. She feels more like a guest than a patient.”

  “That’s good,” Henry said, clapping his gloved hands to keep warm. He marvelled how the cold didn’t seem to affect the elderly gentleman.

  Rusty barked and cantered to the Home’s front door. Mr. Duggan tapped the side of his head with two fingers. “The master commands, I obey,” he said, and hurried after the dog.

  The icy air sliced into Henry’s skin. The wind picked up.

  “Henry.”

  He turned. The full moon highlighted Hull Home like a spotlight. Mary Norris hurried toward him, massaging her temples. “You all right, Mary ?”

  “I have another migraine.” She scrunched up her forehead. “Mr. Case took his sweet time to paint the place. The second I get a whiff of the fumes my head begins to pound.” Mary clutched her stomach. “I feel like throwing up, too.”

  “The smell is awful bad. Maybe you should go home.”

  “I don’t work, I don’t get paid. Anyway, Mr. Hull asked me to call you back.”

  “Mary, I want to talk to you about medical...” Henry’s voice trailed away as she turned and walked back up the street to the Home. He remained rooted to the spot until the chill drove him into movement. The office empty, he ambled to the kitchen at the end of the hall. She was filling the kettle with water. “Mary, have you seen Mr. Hull ?”

  Curtly, she answered, “I’m not his keeper.”

  Henry blinked. “Sorry.”

  Mary turned from the stove. “He’s probably with one of the residents.” Her voice softened a fraction. “I was just about to make a cup of tea for myself.” She brought down a package of tea leaves from the cupboard. “I hope the stove lasts long enough to get supper under way.”

  “Maybe it’s high time Mr. Hull replaced it.”

  Mary groaned, her eyes on the dishcloths lining the pipes behind the stove. “I keep taking those off. Mr. Hull insists on putting them back.”