Autumn Softly Fell (13 page)

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 milling 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.

It was fully dark now. The flames were horribly bright, dancing along the cottage roofs. Sparks twirled and twisted in the gusting wind. On the opposite side of the street, the butcher’s was all in darkness, but next door the gates of the carpenter’s yard were open and men were busy moving piles of wood and throwing water on the shavings and chippings that littered the ground. Where in all this mayhem was Uncle Albert? And Henry, had he come back as he’d promised? If either of them had ordered her home now, she would have gone without a murmur. There was nothing more she could do – nothing anyone could do. The fire raged on and on. The whole village would be burned – her lovely village. It would be destroyed before she’d had a chance to get to know it.

There was a loud crunching and cracking. She looked round in time to see the roof of Mother Franklin’s cottage give way with a thunderous roar and a storm of flames. Sparks exploded into the night sky.

Dorothea jumped up in horror. ‘
Nibs
…!’

But there he was in the doorway, hugging to his chest an old pillow and some ragged sheets, his other hand hanging loose, the skin raw with burns.

Dorothea ran to help. ‘Nibs, your hand!’

‘I w-went up-upstairs,’ he spluttered. ‘The ceiling was coming down. A piece of it fell on my hand. I … I swallowed a lot of smoke.’

He fell to his knees, swayed, his face pinched and pale, eyes
rolling. Dorothea helped him up, half carried him, leading him away from the burning cottage. She settled him on the chest where she’d been sitting a moment before. He sagged, eyelids drooping, coughing feebly. Dorothea gathered herself. One last effort – and for her enemy Nibs! But who would have guessed he was so brave?

Finding water, she made him drink, then she ripped a strip from the hem of her petticoat (goodness only knew what Nanny would say) and bound up Nibs’s burnt hand with it. He seemed all but oblivious.

She had just finished tying the makeshift bandage when a familiar voice exclaimed, ‘Miss Dorothea! So this is where you’ve got to!’

‘Oh, Nora! Thank goodness!’ Dorothea had never been so glad to see anyone. Help was here at last. Nora would soothe, cure,
reassure
, protect – just as she always did.

‘I didn’t know what to think, miss, when you didn’t come back for tea, and then I heard that the village was all ablaze and I could see the smoke for myself. I couldn’t stay up at the big house, I don’t care what Mrs Bourne says or anyone—’

There was nothing soothing about Nora just now. Her face was creased with worry.

‘I’ve just seen our Jem. He told me he’d sent Pippa home but when I went down their cottage she wasn’t there and she’s not up at ours either and I can’t find her anywhere. Oh, miss, what about the baby! What if something’s happened?’