The Hull Home Fire

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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Abbott, Linda, 1954-, author

The Hull Home fire / Linda Abbott.

Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 978-1-77117-262-2 (pbk.).--ISBN 978-1-77117-263-9 (epub).--

ISBN 978-1-77117-264-6 (kindle).--ISBN 978-1-77117-265-3 (pdf)

1. Hull Nursing Home--Fire, 1948. 2. Nursing homes--Fires and fire
prevention--Newfoundland and Labrador--St. John’s--History--20th century. 3.
Fires--Casualties--Newfoundland and Labrador--St. John’s--Biography. I.
Title.

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© 2013 by Linda Abbott

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. No part of the work covered by the
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Suite 800, Toronto, ON M5E 1E5. This applies to classroom use as well.

Cover Design : Graham Blair Edited by Paul Butler

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious.

Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Government of Newfoundland and Labrador, Department of Tourism, Culture and
recreation.

For Uncle Joe, who always had a story to tell

For Aunt Betty, always ready with a joke

HENRY GIBBS SAT DOWN AND
sprinkled cinnamon over the steaming
bowl of oatmeal. A slice and a half of toast made from his mother’s freshly
baked raisin bread lay on a side plate. “Mom, it’s finally arrived.” He shoved a
piece of toast in his mouth as he took an envelope from his trousers
pocket.

Alice Gibbs placed six strips of bacon in the frying pan one by one. The fat
sizzled as she turned from the stove. “Good news, I take it,” she said. Her
smile revealed the slight gap in her top front teeth.

“What’s that ?” Tom Gibbs snapped from the doorway. His eyes bore into the
envelope. Tom, an older version of his son, was tall and broad-shouldered. Years
on the docks unloading cargo had left him trim and well-muscled. Almost fifty
years old, his black hair showed no signs of grey. Green eyes, which sometimes
sparkled with a smile, now chilled Henry. His arms were stiff at his side.

Henry’s mouth went dry and he just managed to swallow the toast. He made to
speak, but the words wouldn’t come.

“Well ?” Tom said, moving with long strides into the
kitchen. He
pulled out a chair across from his son. The scraping throbbed in Henry’s
ears.

Alice picked up the faded blue teapot from the wood stove and hurried toward
the table. “Tom, you’re not yourself in the mornings until you’ve had a nice hot
cup of tea.”

“In a minute,” Tom said, glaring at his son.

Henry’s tongue stuck to his teeth as he drained the last of the tea from the
saucer. “It... it’s from a university in Canada,” he said, meeting his father’s
icy stare.

“I told you to forget all that nonsense.” Tom pounded his fist on the table.
Henry’s bowl of oatmeal danced near the edge.

“Goodness me !” Alice said. Startled, she jumped back a step, nearly losing her
hold on the teapot. The cover rattled, then slipped off and crashed to the
floor. Hot tea plopped over the rim, scalding her as it dripped down her hand.
She cried out, dropping the pot back on the stove.

Tom sprang to his feet and took her injured hand gently in his. “I’m sorry,
love,” he said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” His face softened as he led his
wife to the sink.

“This isn’t like you, Tom,” Alice said quietly, watching the cold water flow
over the welts that covered all four fingers from the knuckles down.

Henry stared at the breakfast he normally finished off in minutes. His right
knee tapped against the underside of the table.

Tom sighed. No one spoke as he reached for a jar of Vaseline from a shelf over
the sink. He spread the yellowish gel over the blisters. “How’s that ?” he
asked, keeping his head down.

Alice nodded. “Grand.” She briefly caressed his cheek and waited for him to
look at her. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Tom gave a weak smile and picked up the teapot’s cover, which
had split down the centre. “I’ll glue it back together,” he said, laying it
aside on the sink counter.

Alice returned to the stove and forked out the fried bacon one piece at a time
with her uninjured hand. “Sit down,” she said with an authoritative tone she
rarely used. “It’s best to discuss our son’s news on a full stomach.”

Tom took the chair he had vacated and fiddled with a knife. His eyes strayed to
the envelope Henry gripped like it was a lifeline. The University of Toronto was
printed in bold black letters in the top left corner. He ran a hand through his
hair. “I told you not to apply.”

Henry forced himself to look at his father. “I’ve been accepted.”

Tom’s eyelids fluttered.

Henry charged ahead. “For the medical department in the spring. Dad, I don’t
understand why you’re so against me being a doctor.”

“You’re twenty-one, too old to bother about more book learning.”

“It’s much more than that.”

“No ! We can’t afford it.”

Henry’s eyes brightened. “You won’t have to spend a nickel, Dad. I’ve saved
enough money for two semesters. I can get a part-time job to keep me
going.”

Tom’s face darkened as he sat back into the chair and folded his arms across
his thick chest. “What happens if you can’t manage your studies and keep a
job ?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

“I’ll make it work,” Henry said. A pulse beat in his temple. “I can’t give up
the only chance I’ll ever have to be a doctor.”

Tom shook his head. “The docks weren’t good enough for you ?
Well, my boy, it’s put a roof over our heads and food on the table.”

“Dad, it’s not that.” Henry glanced at his mother for support. His heart
dropped at the sad expression on her face just before she turned away. His eyes
spun back to his father. “Being a doctor means everything to me. As soon as I’m
certified I’ll come home to start my practice.”

Tom laughed — a sound that expressed neither joy nor comfort. “I’ve heard that
before,” he mumbled. His gaze drifted somewhere over Henry’s head.

Here it comes, Henry thought. The story he’d heard since he was a child. The
story he dreaded to hear yet again.

“My brother sat at a kitchen table and babbled the same drivel as you.” He
blinked and leaned toward his son. “So my parents saved every penny to send him
to medical school even though my mother wasn’t too keen on the idea. He left and
never returned. Just a letter every now and then. It broke my mother’s heart and
my father died of a stroke from working two jobs. Mike didn’t even come home for
either of their funerals.” His breathing was laboured. “I prayed you’d never
turn out like my ungrateful older brother.”

“Dad, please listen to me.”

Tom shut his eyes and the fine lines at the corners deepened. “I don’t care
what you do,” he said. Without looking at Henry he stood up and walked out of
the kitchen. The back door opened and banged shut.

Alice sat down next to her son and glanced out the window into the yard. Tom
rammed a fist into a row of icicles as he strode past. Three cracked off and
fell to the ground.

“Dad’s really mad this time.”

“Your father’s not thinking straight.” Alice turned to her son.
“He never wanted you to waste your life on the docks.”

“I know.”

“He doesn’t mean to be so hard on you, either.”

Henry pushed the bowl of cold oatmeal away. “You’d think he’d be proud I want
to be a doctor.”

“Tom idolized his only brother.” Alice sighed, a long-drawn-out breath. “We
were married a whole year before he told me about Mike.”

“I’m not Uncle Mike,” Henry said. “I’d never abandon my family.”

“Tom was hurt. You’re well aware what a stubborn old coot he can sometimes be.
He tore up all Mike’s letters without reading a single one after his mother’s
death.”

“But — ”

“You’re our only child,” Alice said, interrupting Henry. “He’s afraid he’ll
never see you again.” She squeezed his hand. “Give him time to get used to the
idea.”

“Mom, he’s been angry with his brother over forty years. He’ll never get used
to the idea.” Henry’s jaw tightened. “I won’t throw away this one chance.”

Alice gently rubbed his shoulder. “You shouldn’t. I’ll do my best to make him
see reason.” She looked out the window once more. Tom gathered wood for the
stove, slapping the chopped pieces into the crook of his arm. He hadn’t taken
the time to put on a coat. “Finish your breakfast before your father comes in.
We’ll talk later.”

Henry hurried along the sidewalk. At six foot three, his second-hand winter
coat, the style worn to mid-calf, barely reached to his knees. The grey woollen
cap pulled down over his ears wasn’t much comfort against the wind snapping his
turned-up collar against his red, numbed cheeks. The air
stung his eyes. He wiped away cold-induced tears before they turned to ice chips
on his long dark lashes. With each step, his breath pooled into wispy
clouds.

Henry shoved his hands into large pockets and ducked his head low as he stepped
off the curb. He didn’t bother to check for cars as there was never any traffic
at six in the morning. He didn’t hear the crunch of snow under his feet or
notice the rows of red, green, and yellow attached houses jammed together like
clumps of jujubes. The conversation — argument was a more accurate
description — with his father played on his mind. The wind took his breath away
as he turned onto Clifford Street, dragging his thoughts back to the present.
His stomach growled with hunger. The sight of his father storming out of the
kitchen had taken away his appetite. Henry could still see the look on his face.
It was unbelievable that the most important decision of his life was his
father’s greatest disappointment. Cold air snaked down his neck. He shivered. If
he didn’t get inside soon, he was sure his nose would freeze and drop off. He
squinted through half-closed eyes at Walsh’s Bakery a few steps away. The smell
of baking bread intensified his hunger. He turned down Springdale Street and was
never more thrilled to see Hull Home, his place of employment where he worked as
an accountant. His fingers were so stiff he was hardly able to turn the
doorknob.

Isaac Hull, a forty-year-old man of medium height with thinning brown hair,
looked down the stairs. “It’s only you,” he said. A grey vest hugged his round
stomach born of too much gravy and potatoes. He glanced at his watch. “I was
expecting the delivery man from the bakery.”

Henry hugged himself, rubbing the top of his arms as he
climbed
to the second floor. “It must be the coldest winter on record,” he said.

“That’s what the radio says every time I turn it on.”

“You’re here early, Mr. Hull,” Henry said. He hung his coat on a hall hook
outside the large office and went inside with his boss.

“I stayed overnight. The godforsaken stove’s acting up again.” Isaac pulled out
his watch again. “There’s a heap of hungry people waiting for breakfast. I need
seven loaves of bread right away.”

“At least there’ll be hot toast,” Henry said. “Even if there’s no tea to wash
it down.”

Mr. Hull narrowed his eyes at Henry. “We make do in an emergency.” A
rat-tat-tat
sounded on the front door. “That better be the bakery. I
called more than an hour ago,” he said and hurried to the front entrance as a
louder thump filled the Home. A frigid blast of wind washed over him when he
pulled open the door.

“Morning, Mr. Hull.” It was Fred Russell, the bakery delivery man, his smile
wide.

“About time,” Isaac said and almost threw the money at the man.

“I left as soon as the bread popped out of the ovens.” Fred passed over the
loaves wrapped in brown paper tied with white string. “They’re still piping hot.
We received an extra big order from Hotel Newfoundland. A group of government
officials are up from Canada to haggle over Confederation.”

Isaac grunted a reply and went up the stairs leaving Fred staring after
him.

Henry darted out from the office. “The stove’s on the blink again,” he said.
“It’s put Mr. Hull in a right crooked mood.”

“You don’t say,” Fred said, wiping his feet on the mat. “The
residents must be good and fed up with nothing but toast most mornings.”

“I haven’t heard any complaints,” Henry said.

Fred took a plump paper bag from an inside pocket and mounted the stairs.
“Here’s some crinkle scraps for you.” The cake-like yellow dessert was Henry’s
favourite.

“Thanks ever so much,” Henry said, reminded once again how hungry he was.

“Always a pleasure, my boy.”

Henry returned to the office and munched on a crinkle while he worked on the
books. He ate three before the hunger pangs subsided.

A sudden draft signalled someone had entered the building. Henry looked up to
see Mary Norris. She worked from six in the morning to seven at night as a
cleaner and all-around handywoman. “Morning, Henry,” she said. The
twenty-year-old crossed the hall to the office and stood in the doorway. “You’re
up with the birds.”

Henry noticed the dark circles under her eyes. He stood up from the desk and
ran a thumb under each one. “You look like you haven’t slept in days. What
happened ?”

“The stove leaked oil again last night just as I was about to leave. We had to
put a bucket under the valve to catch the drippings.” She made a face and held
out red, dry hands. “It took me an hour to scrub the canvas and get rid of the
stink.”

Henry indicated the kitchen with a turn of his eyes and put a finger to his
lips. “Mr. Hull spent the night here,” he mouthed.

“That’s becoming a regular thing,” Mary mouthed back.

Henry returned to the topic at hand, his voice low. “For a new stove it’s been
nothing but trouble.”

“A few weeks after it was bought, the valves had to be
replaced,” Mary whispered. “Which is odd.” She sneaked a look down the hall to
the kitchen. “Valves are the one thing that last quite a while on a
stove.”

“Good thing your grandfather was a trained mechanic and taught you everything
he knows.”

“Anytime I mention the stove Mr. Hull tells me it’s taken care of and to get on
with my work.” Mary chewed her bottom lip. “Did you hear back from the
university ?”

“Yes,” Henry said after a slight hesitation. “I was going to tell you
tonight.”