On one of the bleakest nights the great coal-stack in the foundry went on fire. Fitz, who was on duty, was called out a little after midnight by Carrington the foreman. At first there were no flames and the smoke could not be seen in the pitch darkness. But both recognised the smell, a particular odour which left a thick taste on the tongue. They traced it to the lower yard, after much uncertain groping and guessing. The smoke was heavy in the yard and hit them so suddenly that they both swallowed it and coughed. From the darkness beside Fitz, Carrington’s voice said: ‘It’s the coal-stack.’
It had happened before. Carrington, wondering if he should put the emergency routine into operation, hesitated.
‘I wonder how bad it is?’
‘We won’t know until we disturb it,’ Fitz said, ‘and when we do that it may be too late.’
‘I’ll see about getting the brigade,’ Carrington decided. ‘Take out enough of the furnace crew to rig up the lighting set and see about mustering extra help.’
A little later the city, huddled behind drenched housefronts, stirred to hear the clangour of bells in the empty streets. As the first engine swung into the yard the men were already moving the lighting set into position. A cloud of smoke, bent at an angle by the wind, showed up blackly.
‘Why the hell wouldn’t it happen in summer,’ one of the men said.
They had shovels ready and were crouching in the meagre shelter of the lamp supports. Sleet slanted intermittently, a curtain between the darkness and the lamps. The brigade men were in position with hoses ready.
The foreman had some words with the chief before he ordered the labourers forward. They dug gingerly, testing for the source of the fire and leaving small mounds of coal about the main stack. After a while one of the men, digging deeper than the rest, sprang aside and called out. A small tongue of flame licked upwards. Carrington said to Fitz:
‘You’d better call out help. We’ll need carters and more men to dig.’
Fitz found the list in the time office, where the timekeeper, half asleep over the fire, jumped up in alarm at his entrance.
‘Blast you anyway,’ he said. ‘I thought for a minute you were Carrington.’
‘I’ve come for the emergency list,’ Fitz said, ‘the main coal-stack is on fire.’
The timekeeper produced it from a drawer.
‘We use the carters from Doggett & Co.,’ he said. ‘Barney Mulhall is the man to see first.’
‘Have you his address?’
‘Chandlers Court,’ the timekeeper said, his eyes searching down the list. ‘Here you are—number three.’
Fitz took his bicycle and headed out into the streets. He was the only traveller. The city was dead and dark and windswept. In addition to the carters there would be labourers needed. He decided to call on Pat Bannister, with whom he had been sharing a room since Mary had gone to the Farrells. Pat was out of work because for the moment the storage yard of Nolan & Keyes was packed to capacity. He decided to call on Farrell too: he was still being ignored by the stevedores. There was at least a night’s work in it for each of them. The double line of tram-tracks gleamed wetly as he turned across them into Chandlers Court and found number three with difficulty. The hall door was closed over, but there was no lock and he pushed it in with his shoulder. A dog barked from the basement as he entered the hall. He climbed two flights. It was impossible not to make a noise on the bare boards and to stumble now and then on the uneven stairs. The walls in the dim light of the oil lamp he had taken from his bicycle were greasy and peeling. The smell of communal living lay heavily and unpleasantly on the landing. He knocked at the door of the two pair back and noticed that the paint was cracking and blistered as though there had been a fire.
After a while there were movements and a deep voice asked: ‘Who is it?’
‘Emergency call,’ Fitz answered, ‘Morgan’s Foundry.’
‘Hold your horses,’ the voice acknowledged.
Fitz waited patiently. Somewhere above a baby had begun to cry. It was remote yet it transformed everything. There was more here than darkness, than decay, than evil smells. Behind each of these peeling doors, from the ground to the top, there was a home. A man who was naked except for a pair of trousers which he held in position with one hand, opened the door and said: ‘Step in.’
Fitz hesitated.
‘Do as you’re told,’ the man insisted. He was obviously used to laying down the law. Fitz noticed his bulk and height. But there was a pleasant note in his voice. He was not a bully.
Mulhall made way for him and he entered the room. The atmosphere was close, but snugly so. The only illumination was the red glow of a lamp which stood on the mantelpiece before a statue of the Sacred Heart. A yellow circle of light wavered on the ceiling above it. As Mulhall pulled on his shirt there were movements in the far corner. A match gleamed and a gas ring threw a blue light. Mulhall, having pulled his braces over his huge shoulders, lit a candle and said:
‘What the hell are you at now?’
‘Keep your voice quiet,’ the woman whispered. She was elderly. Fitz knew by the voice and by her stooping movements in the combined light of candle and gas ring.
‘That’s herself,’ Mulhall said to Fitz, pulling on his socks.
The woman said: ‘You’ll waken the child.’
Mulhall chuckled deeply and said to Fitz: ‘The child is in the bed beyond there. He’s fifteen and nearly as big as I am.’
Fitz guessed at, rather than saw, a single bed in the far corner.
‘What’s your name?’ Mulhall asked.
‘Fitzpatrick,’ Fitz said.
There were sounds near the gas ring; the thump of a kettle, the rattle of cups.
‘She’s making tea,’ Mulhall confided. He was having trouble with one of his boots.
‘It won’t take a minute,’ the woman said, ‘and you’ll be glad you had it when you face the street outside,’ Then she said: ‘You might ask the young man to take the weight off his legs.’
Fitz could see them better now. Mulhall had thick grey hair above a heavy forehead. The woman, a coat thrown about her shoulders, had once been tall. Her movements were gentle. In the candlelight her shadow bobbed from wall to wall as she put cups on the table and cut bread.
‘Sit over,’ she said.
‘Dear God,’ Mulhall protested, ‘a bloody coal-stack on fire—and she makes tea.’
‘Take it in your hand and swallow it.’ She listened to the wind for a moment and added: ‘It’s a terrible night.’
The second bed was in the angle between a small window and the far wall. Fitz could see it better now. There were movements from it and a boy sat up, blinking. He had a handsome face with dark hair tumbled about the forehead.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘Emergency call,’ Mulhall answered.
‘I knew you’d wake him,’ the woman said. She turned to Fitz and explained: ‘The child is in the parcels department in the Tramway. He has a six o’clock start.’
The tea was sweet and hot—too hot. Mulhall emptied his into a saucer and drank it that way.
‘Do you need extra help?’
‘We could do with some,’ Fitz said.
‘Glory be to God,’ his wife said, ‘you’re surely not thinking of the child?’
Mulhall said to her, ‘Will you let me talk, woman.’ He glared at her for a moment over his shoulder. Then he spoke to Fitz.