by Polly Heron
I am wide awake, flat on my back in bed, hands linked behind my head. It is the middle of the night, but I am as wide awake as if this were a glorious morning of golden sunshine. Is it foolish to say I feel sunshiny? Maybe, but that doesn’t prevent its being true. True: wonderful word; as in, dreams coming true. That is certainly the case for me. The cottage is mine to keep, which means the bookshop is as well. My future has been saved.
I roll out of bed and stand up. I’ll walk to Limits Lane, to my cottage, my new home. Maybe I will sleep when I get there, maybe I won’t. Either way, when the sun comes up, that’s where I’ll be.
I was advised to keep my distance while the Richard Carson affair was in full swing, but that is now resolved – practically, anyway. The various tradesmen will be asked to make formal statements. Very likely Mr Sowerby would advise me against taking possession of the cottage until every detail has been double-checked, signed, counter-signed and sealed with a loving kiss, but I don’t intend to wait for all that. I have waited long enough. I can live without my memory because I have a future to embrace. A cottage to live in, a bookshop to run, new memories to build. What more could a fellow wish for?
I know the answer to that.
I scribble a note for my landlady, then creep down the stairs as stealthily as any burglar. I unbolt the door and escape into the cool darkness of a spring night. There is a sharp edge to the coolness: it is only the first week of April. I have excitement and purpose to keep me warm.
I have a mad fancy for walking to Limits Lane across the meadows, my strides brushing up the night-time scents of grass and leaves and cowslips, but I don’t have my torch with me and could well end up blundering my way as far as the Bridgewater Canal, not to mention the possibility of breaking my ankle down a rabbit-hole. So I go via the roads, running the flat of my hand along privet hedges and savouring the crisp, wholesome aroma.
The street-lamps inform me when I arrive at Limits Lane. I turn the corner and, as I do so, I see the glow of sunrise. My heart leaps – and then crashes. Not sunrise, you fool, not at this hour. Fire! I take to my heels, pelting along the lane. It’s my cottage – my cottage. I veer off towards another of the dwellings, barging through the gate, hammering on the door until it is opened.
‘Fire! My cottage is on fire – the end one, Mr Tyrell’s old place. Rouse everyone in the lane. Bring buckets. I have a water pump in the back garden. I saw a bobby near St Clement’s Church. Send someone to catch up with him. We need the fire brigade. Do it, man!’
I throw myself through his garden gate and race the final yards. Oh, my cottage. The thatch is ablaze in several places; the sound of crackling flares through the night, the acrid smell invading my nostrils. God almighty, Jerry has set the place on fire. I fumble for my key. There is a bucket in the kitchen. I hold my breath and shove the door open. A cry in the darkness. I stop mid-stride.
‘Who’s there?’
‘Mr Linkworth!’
‘Miss Layton? What the… Come on!’
I grab her arm, yank her to her feet. She stumbles. I grab Roy Coster by the arm. He stumbles. I pull him up. Eyes stinging, throat raw, head spinning. I haul her from the building. We burst into the garden.
She gasps, a huge inward breath of shock. ‘Fire! I was fast asleep. I woke with a jump when you came in. My mum – the boys – they’re upstairs.’
She darts for the door, but once more I grasp her arm. She spins round.
‘Let me go!’ she cries.
‘Let me go!’ I yell.
‘You can’t go back in there – you mustn’t!’ Coster shouts – or tries to. His voice is hoarse and heaving, as if he is about to throw up. He makes a grab for me.
‘Let me go!’ I have to fetch the others. I can’t leave them in there to choke and burn.
If the Layton family is upstairs—
‘Look!’ I point to the thatch, ablaze in several places. Smoke streams upwards from the flames.
‘I have to,’ she insists.
I have to. I can’t leave them to die like that.
I know what to do, but my head is teeming with images and words, another fire, another place, another heart pounding in panic – no, not another heart, my heart; my heart pumping fit to explode in two times, two places, both in the same moment. Two fires, two emergencies. I have to do it. I have to save them. I have to do it. I have to save them.
‘Come with me.’
Seizing her hand, I drag her round to the back garden. Pulling off my jacket, I thrust it at her.
‘Hold it under the water.’
I take the pump handle and thrust it down hard. Water spurts out. She holds the jacket inside the cold flow. Letting go of the handle, I throw the sopping garment over her head and round her shoulders. As we race to the front door, others appear in the garden, brandishing buckets, empty coal scuttles, a chamber pot.
‘The pump is round the back,’ I yell.
At the door, Miss Layton is about to shoot inside ahead of me. I hold her back.
‘Stay behind me.’
Here, downstairs, I can smell smoke, a sharp, filthy smell. At the foot of the narrow staircase, it intensifies. It will be bad upstairs. I turn and place my hands on her shoulders. In her face, in her eyes, I see how she hates me for preventing her.
‘Listen. There’s no noise up there. With luck, they’re asleep, but they may be unconscious. How many are there?’
‘Mum and Sarah in one room, three boys in the other.’
We hurry upstairs. The staircase is barely two feet across and the top is clogged with smoke. It is madness to come up here. The landing is small, just a square. I am holding my breath, but my throat burns. Burning throat, bursting lungs, foul smoke. Desperation, determination, desperation, determination.
I throw open a door and the two of us almost fall into the room. It isn’t too bad in here. Ribbons of smoke curl through the air. Miss Layton propels herself at the bed, shaking its occupants.
‘Mum – Mum! Sarah!’
They stir, exclaim, sit up – realise.
‘The boys!’ cries the mother.
She and the girl scramble from the bed, getting tangled in their haste. Miss Layton throws the wet jacket over her mother’s head and shoulders.
‘Get them downstairs,’ I order.
‘My brothers—’
‘I’ll fetch them.’
I have to rescue them, my men, my comrades, my friends, my brothers, fastened inside to die. I bundle the Layton women out of the room. Their exclamations of shock and distress as they meet the murky smoke on the landing are cut off as their breathing catches. Coughing, gasping, they head downstairs.
I push open the other door and plunge in. The room nestles beneath the thatch, its window inside a cutaway section. Outside, around the window, the thatch is ablaze. Inside, the room is filled with the deadly stench.
Two boys lie in the bed – wasn’t it meant to be three? I shake them but they don’t stir. My foot catches on a lad asleep on the floor. He groans, rolls over, wakes.
I bend down to him. ‘The cottage is on fire. Get downstairs and outside. Now!’
He scrabbles away. I heave a boy from the bed and pull him over my shoulder. Dizziness swoops through me. I sway but force myself to stay in control. I find the stairs and carry him down. Endless stairs, my back straining. When I get him out, I’ll have to go back in again. Just one more time, just one more time.
I dump the boy on the lawn. There is a scuffle as someone tries to hold back his mother. She breaks free and hurls herself at her child.
Back I go. One more time. You can do it, you can do it. Across the room, up the stairs, into the bedroom, eyes streaming, skin prickling, throat raw, lungs ready to explode. My men need me; this boy needs me. Come on, soldier-boy, help yourself, can’t you? I can’t do this without a bit of cooperation. But he is unconscious. I have to do this. Lift him, lift him, drag him up and over my shoulder. I stagger. My knee gives way, an old injury – rugby. ‘You wait,’ says my
father. ‘That injury will catch up with you one of these days.’
Down the stairs, down, down, away from the worst of the smoke. Private Stoneley is the last. Family man, three nippers: I have seen the photograph. I’m sure I’ve got them all out. My head is swimming, confused, panicked, but in my heart I’m certain I’ve got them all. As for our mission, our reason for being here – mission not accomplished. Sorry, sir.
Out of the cottage. People, people. A human chain, wielding buckets. Some brave mad idiot is up a ladder, chucking water on the thatch, trying to save my cottage. Hands take the child from me. My head is swimming, confused, panicked, but in my heart I’m certain all the family is out of the cottage. Mission accomplished.
A thousand images inside my head, an explosion of colour and sound and laughter and memory and confusion.
A hand on my arm. I look down. A pretty face in the firelight. A scared, anxious face – but a pretty one.
‘Come this way,’ says Miss Layton. Belinda. Pretty Belinda.
I try to walk, but—
Chapter Twenty-Seven
IT WAS MOST unlike Miss Layton not to turn up for her lesson yesterday evening, so Patience walked to the bookshop to see if something was wrong. And here was another mystery: the shop was shut.
‘It won’t be open today,’ said a woman coming out of the grocer’s next door but one. ‘Haven’t you heard?’
Patience went cold all over. ‘Heard what?’
‘Mr Tyrell’s cottage caught fire last night and the young chap who took over the bookshop and his family were all burnt to a crisp.’ The woman shivered elaborately. ‘Doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?’
Patience caught her breath. Poor Mr Linkworth. Wait a minute. He didn’t have any family, surely, or if he did, he didn’t remember them, so what was this woman talking about? Seeing the eager horror in the woman’s face, Patience recoiled from discussing the matter. She set off for Mr Linkworth’s cottage. Perhaps Miss Layton was there, helping to clear up. She knew where the cottage was because Miss Layton had described going there with Mr Carson, undoubtedly having no idea how her eyes shone when she mentioned his name.
When she reached Limits Lane, her heart turned over at the sight of the dirty cloud that hung in the air at the other end. Her stomach turned over too. Even from this distance, the stink touched her nostrils.
‘Come to gawp, have ’ee?’ demanded a wrinkle-faced old man, leaning over the garden gate at the top of the row.
‘Not at all. I’m looking for someone who I thought might be clearing up after the fire.’
‘Not much clearing up to do. Once the fire got hold of the thatch, that were it for the cottage.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘The folk got out safe, that’s the main thing.’
‘Someone told me it was the new owner’s family.’
‘Don’t know who they were, missus. All I know is that young Mr Tyrell were taken off to hospital on account of the smoke he breathed, saving their lives, and the family went piking off to Grave Pit Lane.’
Grave Pit Lane! Then the stricken family must be Miss Layton’s – but what could they have been doing in Mr Linkworth’s cottage?
‘Thank you,’ said Patience. ‘You’ve been a great help.’
She hurried to End Cottage. When she knocked, the older Mrs Sloan opened the door.
‘You’re one o’ them Miss Hesketh ladies. What brings you here?’
‘I’m looking for Miss Layton.’
‘She’ll be back soon. Come in and wait.’
‘If it’s no trouble.’
‘We’ve had half Manchester through this door in the past few hours. One more won’t make any odds.’
Patience stepped inside. The already cramped quarters seemed full to bursting with people. Faces turned towards her – a dozen at least, or so it felt. Then she looked properly and realised there was a woman; a pretty, sandy-haired girl of sixteen or seventeen; and three boys, one of whom was a strapping creature with a surly mouth.
‘This is our Belinda’s family,’ said Mrs Sloan. ‘That’s her mother, Mrs Layton.’
Mrs Layton was a wretched-looking individual with worried eyes. The whole family was dressed in nightclothes: Patience didn’t know where to look. The room smelled smoky, and not because of a mishap on the range.
‘This lady is one of Belinda’s teachers,’ Mrs Sloan introduced her.
‘Pleased to meet you, miss,’ said Mrs Layton. ‘You’ve done a lot for our Bel and I’m grateful.’
Patience rose to the occasion. ‘It’s been a pleasure. She’s a diligent pupil.’
‘Please have a seat,’ said Mrs Sloan. ‘You, boy, Thad, give the lady your seat.’
Patience sat down. Thad gave her a sulky look, which she chose to ignore. ‘Might I ask? I’ve come from Limits Lane.’
‘Our Bel’s gone to buy us new clothes,’ said Mrs Layton. ‘The Mrs Sloans put up a bit of money for it.’
‘Just doing our Christian duty,’ said Mrs Sloan.
Mrs Layton’s chin wobbled. ‘We lost all ours in the fire.’
‘We’re not having new clothes,’ the smallest boy piped up. ‘Just new-to-us.’
That was as far as he got before his sister gave him a swipe, her pretty face marred by embarrassment and annoyance.
Patience was dying to ask why they had been in the cottage. The door opened and Miss Layton came in, arms full of a vast bundle.
‘Oh – Miss Patience.’
‘You didn’t attend your lesson yesterday and I was concerned.’
The girl’s mouth opened in an O. ‘I clean forgot. My – my family needed me.’
‘We did a moonlight flit,’ announced the youngest.
‘Jacob!’ His mother buried her face in her hands.
Miss Layton’s face flushed, but she held her head up. ‘We had no choice. Dad’s left us.’
‘My dear girl.’
One heard of such things, but she had never met it head-on before. She wished she hadn’t come. No, she didn’t. Her duty as an educated, middle-class lady and a churchgoer was to do her best to assist this family. Besides, she was fond of Miss Layton.
‘Will you permit me to help you, Mrs Layton? You must be exhausted. Firstly, everyone needs to get dressed. Is there somewhere?’
‘You can take turns to use my room,’ said Miss Layton. ‘Then the boys must go to school. That means you an’ all, Thad.’
Three voices groaned in protest.
‘We’ll get the cane for being late.’
‘Not if your mother writes you a note,’ said Patience. Would there be a pen and paper in this humble dwelling?
‘Mikey and Jacob, go and get dressed,’ said Miss Layton, ‘while Mum writes you a letter to take.’
‘I don’t know what to say…’ Mrs Layton began.
Miss Layton produced a pen. ‘Here you go, Mum. “Please excuse the boys being late, but we were in a fire last night.” No one can doubt it. They’re going to whiff of smoke until they have a bath.’
Soon the boys were dressed and gone and the cottage felt big enough to contain those left behind. Mrs Layton and her younger daughter went upstairs one at a time and came down, looking self-conscious, dressed in their new clothes.
‘Where are we going to sleep tonight?’ asked Mrs Layton.
‘I’ll think of something, Mum,’ said Miss Layton. ‘Right now, I ought to go to the bookshop. I’m meant to be at work.’
‘I wonder if Mr Linkworth has been let out of hospital,’ said her sister.
‘If he has, that’s where he’ll be,’ said Miss Layton, ‘and I owe him an explanation.’ She glanced at Patience. ‘I… borrowed his cottage for my family.’
‘And it burnt down?’ said Patience.
Miss Layton made a helpless movement with her hands. ‘The boys swear it wasn’t them, but…’ Poor girl. She had taken a chance, taken a liberty, and now she was paying a frightful price.
The door burst open and, with an almight
y clatter, the three boys fell into the cottage. The room seemed to flinch.
‘Bel! Mum! Mr Carpenter says if we’ve got nowhere to live, he’s going to send for the Board of Guardians.’
Belinda went cold, but there was no time to be distressed or ashamed, because Mum let out a wail and dissolved into exhausted whimpering. Miss Patience rose to her feet, looking crisp and tailored in their lowly home. She was about to make a run for it and Belinda couldn’t blame her.
‘I’m sorry you had to see us like this, Miss Patience.’
Miss Patience gave her a look of such warmth that she had to stiffen all her muscles so as not to crumple.
‘My dear, this is a difficult situation, but I hope that between us, we can sort it out.’
Belinda had thought it would be up to her alone to cope and her mouth dropped open in surprise, whereupon uncertainty flickered across Miss Patience’s gentle face.
‘I know I’m not a managing sort like my sister, but I’ll provide whatever assistance I can – if that is acceptable to you, Mrs Layton?’
Mum gulped and nodded. She wouldn’t care who sorted it out as long as it was somebody else – Belinda caught her breath. What a horrid, disloyal thought. But years of managing in ever-worsening circumstances had ground Mum down. She would pick up again once things got better. Wouldn’t she?
And how on earth was Belinda supposed to make them better?
‘The boys must return to school,’ declared Miss Patience. ‘If they don’t, the truancy officer will be involved.’
‘And that will be another reason for the Board of Guardians to get involved,’ Belinda realised.
‘If the Guardians are involved,’ said Grandma Beattie, ‘you could all end up in’t workhouse.’
Jacob stood huddled close to Mum, for once not standing cockily side-by-side with Thad. Thad looked sullen, but there was a gleam of wariness in his eyes.
‘Have you any money?’ asked Miss Patience.
‘Hardly any,’ said Belinda, ‘and no possessions.’
‘Then…’ Miss Patience lapsed into silence. Was that the sum total of her usefulness?
‘Young Sarah can stop here,’ said Grandma Beattie. ‘Our Belinda told you that me and Mrs Sloan have offered to have your Sarah, didn’t she, Mrs Layton?’
