The Hull Home Fire (8 page)

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.”

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 for 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.”

They broke in the door and bounded up the stairs through smoke as black as
night and heat intense enough to scorch the hairs on their hands. The lead man
tripped over a stout woman half sitting against the wall. He felt for a pulse.
“She’s alive,” he said. The superintendent and Baker slung her over the
fireman’s shoulder.

“Help me,” a weak voice said from the first room on the left. A tiny, thin man
was sprawled over a bed. The mattress caught fire as he was lifted up.

Baker went back into the hall. Unable to reach any other room, he cupped his
hands around his mouth. “Is there anyone here ?” The floor groaned and creaked
under his feet. Vivian pulled him to safety the same instant the boards buckled
and gave way.

“Captain,” the fireman carrying the old man said. “There’s nothing more we can
do here.”

“All right, men, outside.”

They dodged sudden outbreaks of fire, sidestepped fallen debris, and fought
through dense smoke, emerging from a heat wave into a frosty bite. “Keep the
hoses on the Annex,” Baker ordered. “The fire doesn’t seem to have taken as much
of a hold there.” He took off his fire helmet and ran short, thick fingers
through wet hair plastered to his scalp. “At least those residents will have
half a chance.”

MARY RAN INTO THE BACK
room of the second floor in the Annex.
Mr. Bartlett had a suitcase open on his bed. “You
don’t have
time to pack,” Mary said, taking his arm and urging him toward the door.

The old man looked at her as if she had sworn at him. “I’m not going anywhere
without my belongings,” he said, and trotted to the bureau.

“Look around you, Mr. Bartlett. There’s smoke everywhere.”

“All right, all right.” He took his suitcase and followed Mary out of the
room.

They came to Sally Cranshaw’s room. “Come with us,” Mary said.

“I won’t leave without my cameo brooch.” Sally’s bony fingers shook as she
searched the top drawer of the bureau. “My grandmother gave it to me over
seventy years ago.”