The Hull Home Fire

by Linda Abbott

  Tom bunched up his shoulders against the weather. “Sure do, Bill. A comfortable office would be some nice right now.”

  Bill’s face lost its humour. “My weary bones won’t be able to take this strenuous work for much longer.”

  The two men looked toward the cargo ship from Canada, which had docked an hour earlier, low in the water with the load of food and clothes. “This one will take all day to unload,” Henry said, sighing inwardly. “Maybe into tonight and tomorrow as well.”

  The foreman called from the end of the wharf. “Tom ! Bill ! The sooner we start, the sooner we get out of this cold.”

  The specific tasks assigned, the men got under way. Bill and several others brought up crates from below deck. Tom hooked them onto the crane to be lowered to the wharf. The crates were then hoisted onto trucks to be delivered all over the island. Mid-morning, a heavy snow fell. The men took a tea break to warm themselves and waited for the weather to clear. The snow tapered to a light dusting and work resumed.

  Bill handed Tom a crate of winter coats. “We should get extra pay for working under these North Pole conditions.”

  Tom chuckled. “I’d say you’re too old to be a dreamer.”

  Bill flexed his fingers. “They’re stiffer than a starched shirt collar.”

  The sun came out as the morning wore on with little effect on the temperature. “One more crate to load and we can go to dinner,” Bill said on his way below deck.

  Tom removed a glove and reached into his pocket for a clean handkerchief. About to blow his nose, an odd grinding noise caught his attention. The hair bristled on the back of his neck. He looked down to the wharf. The men had stopped working. They stared up at him, waving their arms like puppets, shouting. He couldn’t make out a single word. Tom glanced behind him. Nothing unusual. He turned to the right. Everything normal there, as well. He stared down at the men once more. They pointed, their faces white. The grating, strained sound grew louder. Closer.

  Tom whirled around. A large crate spun out of control, twirling like a spin top, bearing down on him, mere feet away. He snapped his head in every direction. Nowhere to run. No protection. The crate swooped nearer, hungry to smash into his body.

  “God help me,” Tom whispered, and leaped over the side of the ship. A crate whizzed by and crashed, crumbling into shreds of wood and broken dishes.

  Bill bounded up from below deck. “Tom, what in God’s name made that racket ?” He looked around for his partner. “Tom. Where are you ?” He blessed himself and scrambled over the debris to the side of the ship.

  The men on the wharf stood motionless, a prayer on each pair of lips.

  The taste of blood and the crunch of bone were the last Tom knew before the world blackened around him.

  BILL RAN INTO THE OFFICE at Hull Home, panting, clutching at his chest.

  Henry almost vaulted over his desk. “What’s the matter, Mr. Bartlett ?”

  “Henry,” Bill said between gasps. “An... accident...” He doubled over to get air into his lungs.

  Henry felt weak all over. “Is it Dad ? Has he been in an accident at work ?”

  Bill collapsed into a chair. “They brought him to St. Clare’s Hospital.”

  Henry gave him a drink of water. “Is he badly hurt ?”

  Bill paled under the redness caused from exhaustion and windburn. “He looked awful bad. I came straight here from the wharf.”

  “I’ll get Mom,” Henry said, halfway out the door.

  “Don’t worry about her,” Bill said. “I’ll see your mother gets to the hospital.”

  Henry sprinted the short distance to the hospital, his coattails flying behind him. He found his mother all alone in the waiting room, her eyes red and swollen. A light over her head dulled then brightened, repeating the pattern a second time, not sure whether to die out or stay on. Alice looked in his direction. The light dulled again. Her face became lost in the gloom. Henry’s stomach lurched. He wanted to run away, to hide from the words he feared would destroy his world. “Mom,” he said instead, sinking into the seat beside her. “How’s Dad ?”

  She reached for his hands and laid them on her lap. “All I know for sure is that he’s still alive.”

  Henry fell back in the chair with relief. “Who told you about Dad ?”

  Tears tumbled down Alice’s cheek and collected under her chin. A few splashed onto Henry’s hand. “Dr. Kennedy heard about the accident and drove me here. We arrived the same time as the ambulance. Your father was unconscious.” Alice gripped her son’s hands so tightly her knuckles turned white. “His face and jacket were drenched with blood.”

  “Mom, it mightn’t be as bad as it looked. Head wounds, even ones that aren’t serious, bleed a lot.”

  Alice gave no indication she heard her son. “Mike didn’t make it home for his parents’ funerals.” She stared past Henry, her eyes glossy. “He will be home for his brother’s funeral.”

  “Mom, look at me. You have to believe that Dad will be all right.”

  “Life’s funny. Tom survived four years in the Great War only to be killed at work.”

  Henry shook his mother by the shoulders. “Stop talking like that. Dad’s strong. He’ll be home in no time.”

  Alice caressed his cheek with the back of her hand. “Love,” she said, “the crane broke while it was hoisting up a huge crate. Your father had to jump from the ship all the way down to the wharf to avoid being crushed.”

  “Oh, my God !” Henry cried.

  “That’s like jumping from the roof of a four-storey building.” A sob escaped her lips, tightly pressed together. “No one could survive that.”

  “Tom Gibbs did,” Dr. Kennedy said. He rolled down his shirt sleeves.

  Henry’s mouth went dry. “H-how bad is it ?”

  “Both heels were crushed in the fall.”

  Alice stared at the floor. “There was so much blood.”

  “I’ve never met a man as lucky as Tom,” Dr. Kennedy said. “He had a severe nosebleed. The longshoremen who witnessed the fall said when Tom hit the ground feet first, he rolled and struck his nose against the posts along the edge of the wharf.”

  Henry put his hands under his legs to keep them from shaking. “Dad’s all right ?”

  “Yes,” the doctor said. “He’ll be laid up for a while with his heels, but apart from two black eyes and a broken nose, he’s grand.”

  Alice stood up. Her purse dropped from her knees to the floor. “Can I see him now ?”

  “He’s being cleaned up. I’ll be back in a few minutes to take you in.”

  Alice sat down again. “I must make my face presentable before I see your father.” She pulled a handkerchief from her purse. “He’ll be some upset if he thought I was bawling on his account.”

  “I just thought of something,” Henry said. “Dad will have no choice but to listen to Uncle Mike.”

  Alice drew her eyebrows together. “Why ?”

  “He won’t be able to walk away.”

  “Sweet Virgin Mary, you’re right,” Alice said. “That will only make him madder at us for not warning him.”

  Chapter 8

  ALICE TROD SOFTLY DOWN THE stairs, dressed in her nightgown and housecoat, relishing the heat from the hall stove. Eggs frolicked in bacon fat, bread toasted in the toaster, and tea steeped on the stove when she walked into the kitchen. “It’s lovely to have someone else light the stoves and make breakfast once in a while,” she said, planting a kiss on her son’s cheek.

  Henry turned over the eggs. Fat flicked on his thumb. “You look awful, Mom,” he said, sucking the inflamed flesh. “Didn’t you sleep ?”

  “It was some hard to close my eyes without your father next to me.” Alice made tea for both of them. “It’s only six-thirty. Seems you didn’t get much sleep either.”

  “It’s the tenth, Mom. Don’t you remember what that means ?”

  “Mike’s due today,” Alice said. She sat down and tasted her tea. “I’ve thought about nothing else f
or days.”

  Henry placed two plates of greasy eggs and toast on the table.

  “Thanks, love,” Alice said. “Your grandmother says that thinking good thoughts will make good things happen.” She cut the egg into small pieces. “It can’t hurt to give it a try.”

  “Gran always sees the best in everything,” Henry said with a wistful smile.

  “God bless her,” Alice said. “I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

  Neither spoke as they ate... or tried to. A quick succession of even beats on the front door pierced the silence. Alice knocked her cup over. Tea flowed across the table and dribbled over the edge. She pushed back her chair in time to escape staining her housecoat. “Good heavens ! That can’t be Mike already ?” Henry scrambled away from the table and hurried to answer the door. Burned rubber assailed his senses.

  Dougie stood on the concrete step. “Look, Henry,” he said, pointing toward New Gower Street. “A fire !”

  Dark grey smoke billowed up, blackening the blue sky. “It looks like Horwood Lumber,” Henry said.

  Alice stood next to her son. “I don’t think so,” she said. “The fire seems farther down than that.”

  ISAAC HULL HAULED OUT HIS chain watch from his pocket as he left the Annex, and walked across the backyard to return to the main building. Six-fifty. He was late getting breakfast under way.

  Mary rushed toward him. “Mr. Hull, there’s smoke coming from behind the stove and from under the kettle.”

  “It’s probably nothing serious,” Isaac said. “You go check on Sheila Vickers. She coughed something fierce while I was lighting the coal stove.”

  Mary wrung her hands. “But Mr. Hull, nothing like that ever happened before. We have...”

  Isaac disregarded her and made for the kitchen. Suddenly, flames surrounded the stove and licked at him, spreading along the ceiling. Isaac started for the sink to get a bucket for water when flames jumped across the space to the counter. “Goodness me,” he yelped. After one more half-hearted attempt, he turned and fled.

  Howard Pike ran out of the dining room. “Mr. Hull,” he said in a high-pitched tone. “We have to help the residents get out.”

  “Call the Fire Department,” Isaac said, and zoomed past the boy. “Fire !” he shouted, running down the stairs for the front door.

  Howard snatched up the hall phone receiver and dialled the operator. Sweat bubbled on his forehead as the fire bore close to him. His shirt stuck to him like he had been caught in a rainstorm.

  “Number please,” a female voice said.

  “Hull Home’s on fire !” Smoke curled around Howard. “Hurry,” he coughed. Flames crept along the wall and began to eat the wire connected to the phone. Static sizzled in Howard’s ear.

  “I’m sorry,” the operator said. “Please repeat...” more static.

  “Fire at Hull Home,” Howard shouted. “Call the fire — ” The wire melted like black licorice. He dropped the phone. Smoke stung his eyes as he stumbled toward the stairs, groping along the wall. “Fire,” he tried to yell, but his voice cracked. He spit out the charred taste of smoke and tried again. A croak came out.

  Hands out, probing, Howard found the stairs. He inhaled smoke with every breath. He covered his mouth with the tail end of his shirt and climbed two steps. Water streamed down his soot-stained face, his lungs struggling to take in air. His head spun.

  “Is that you, young Howard ?” Joe Oliver, the oldest resident, yelled from above.

  “Yes, Mr. Oliver. I’ll get you out.”

  “Don’t come up here, lad. You’ll get yourself killed.”

  A wave of flames shot down the stairs, forcing Howard back. “I’ll get help, Mr. Oliver,” he said. Exhausted, he crawled on hands and knees to the exit.

  Mr. Hull raced from the sidewalk and dragged him to a safe distance.

  “It’s like the fire of hell in there,” Howard said. “The poor residents won’t stand a chance if we don’t help.”

  A fully equipped Bickle fire truck rolled to a stop in front of the Home. Like a well-choreographed dance routine, District Chief Baker and six firemen leaped to the ground with an easy, practised movement, each man in tune with the other. They dislodged hatchets, unloaded the two ladders, and unwound the hose with grace and efficiency. “How in God’s name did this happen ?” the chief said to no one in particular as he assessed the building. Flames burst out through all the windows on the eastern section. Four elderly men cowered together in the top flat window. “Get the ladders on the building, boys,” Baker ordered. “Call in the central fire station. We need all the help we can get.”

  A wiry, bent old man hung a leg over the window ledge.

  “Good Jesus,” a bystander said. “He’s going to jump.”

  The ladder slapped against the side of the house. A fireman raced up the rungs like a black widow spider. “I got you, old-timer,” he said. “You’re safe now.”

  Low murmurs rippled through the crowd as the fireman bought each man down. Two more firemen tried to enter the building through the front door to no avail while erratic spurts of water sprayed the burning building. “The fire’s everywhere,” the oldest firefighter reported to Baker. “And the hose is frozen to the ground.”

  A Bickle fire truck from the central station skidded to a stop on the black ice. Baker quickly apprised Chief Cadigan of the situation. “I’ll take care of the Annex,” Cadigan said, and signalled his men to get out the hose for the other building.

  Three windows on the second floor blew out, one after the other. Slivers of glass showered down like hail on the people below. “Move back,” Baker instructed the crowd.

  A hunched-over woman dressed in a nightgown appeared in a corner window. “The hall’s filled with fire,” she cried. “I can’t get out of my room.”

  “Hold on,” Baker said. “We’ll get the ladder to you.”

  “It’s too late,” the woman screamed, fire snapping at her heels. She crawled onto the window ledge and jumped. The tail of her green nightgown glowed yellow with fire. Three men ran to the building and held their arms out to catch her.

  Baker ran over. “How is she ?”

  One of the men cradled the woman to his chest, her head turned up to him. He blessed himself and gently closed her eyes.

  Fire Superintendent Vivian pushed through the crowd. He gazed down at the remains of the old lady, a blanket draped over her broken form.

  MRS. DUGGAN SAT UP IN bed. The room looked unfamiliar, then she remembered Mr. Hull had asked her to move the night before. A putrid smell had awakened her and she now realized it was smoke. She sidled to the edge of the bed, her arthritic knees cracking. Fatigue acquired from long months of tuberculosis hindered her progress. The door seemed far away, a pinpoint on the horizon. She staggered close enough to reach out and turn the brass knob. The stench of fumes and intolerable heat knocked her back. The roar of fire travelled up the stairs. She looked at her husband’s picture next to the bed.

  The sounds of voices from the street led her to the window. She picked up a vase from a side table and bashed out the glass.

  “Jump,” Isaac and Howard shouted to her in unison. “We’ll catch you.”

  “I’ll get Mrs. Lamb to the window first.” She roused her roommate from a deep sleep.

  “W-what’s the matter ?” the blind woman asked, groggy, disoriented. “Is that smoke I smell ?”

  Mrs. Duggan’s voice trembled. “The Home’s on fire.”

  Mrs. Lamb folded wrinkled hands under her chin. “Our Father Who Art in Heaven,” she prayed.

  “Come with me, Mrs. Lamb. We have to go out the window.”

  “Hallowed be Thy Name, Thy Kingdom come,” the frail voice continued.

  Mrs. Duggan tugged on her arm. “Please, Mrs. Lamb, come on.”

  Heat from the fire pressed against the door. It rattled, held strong for a few seconds, then burst open. Thick, black smoke rolled over the two women, and Mrs. Duggan’s throat constricted. She gasped for breath
and slumped over Mrs. Lamb’s lifeless body.

  In the next room, Joan Parsons, a woman of fifty, heard a cry for help and bolted out of bed. Smoke curled around her head. She gagged. Flames rose up outside the window. She woke the three other patients and ran across the hall to the room at the front of the Home. Firemen below beckoned to her. She ran back to her room. “The window in the other room is clear of fire. We can get out that way.”

  “No,” one woman wept. “I’m afraid.”

  “We’re better off waiting here,” another said.

  Joan glanced at the flames licking the window. “Don’t be so stunned. We’ll die in here.” The three women clutched each other and wouldn’t budge. Joan hurried back across the hall and threw up the window.

  “Jump,” the crowd yelled. She crawled onto the ledge and looked toward the sky. “Sweet Jesus, protect me,” she said, and let herself go. Three young lads broke her fall. One set of young hands broke loose from Joan’s weight and her left hip smacked the sidewalk with a sound like the crack of a whip.

  Another window exploded on the third floor. A man jumped. People slipped on the ice and tripped over each other in an attempt to catch him. The thud when he hit the ground stilled the crowd. Even the wind seemed to quiet down in respect for the crumpled body of the old gentleman on the cold, hard sidewalk, a look of terror in his wide, sea-green eyes. One of the several Salvation Army members who had come with hot tea and blankets gently placed a soft white quilt over him.

  A mattress emerged from a second-storey window, followed by a wail sharper than the cold. No one appeared in the window.

  “Captain,” a fireman said to Baker, “the smoke and heat’s keeping us from going in through the windows.”

  “Come with me,” Baker said, and went to the back of the building with Superintendent Vivian in tow. Two women lay side by side on the ground, both wrapped in blankets. One moved. One didn’t. Baker knew the latter was dead before he touched her. He smiled at the woman who looked up at him, her cheeks stained with soot, her eyes wide with fear. “Don’t worry, ma’am, we’ll get you to the hospital.” He faced his crew. “Inside, men,” he roared. “We can’t allow any more of these good people to die.”