Fire at Brookfield

Fire at Brookfield

It had  been a mistake to hold the fireworks party in the garden of her  farmhouse, built many years before on the Brookfield flood plain. Daphne hadn’t expected that strong wind to come in from the West to guide errant rockets or still glowing cigarette butts to land on the roof. The thatch was still dry after the rain-free month of October.

Perhaps it was caused by a single cigarette end from that blazer clad Henry she didn’t remember inviting. She had only seen him once before, in the Bull, and she hadn’t liked him then. He smoked, which was bad enough, but his suicide weapons of choice were Du Maurier filter kings. Those expensive cigarettes in their cartons with pretentious purple panels framed by gold.

The fire had been quickly seen by those in the garden so there had been time to get everyone clear of the house and call the fire service. Her mistake had been to go back in and climb the stairs to her bedroom to try to save some of her precious photos. Up here she could feel the heat but was taken by surprise when a backdraft up the stairs goaded the flames to break through the ceiling and free the deadly beam, dried to kindling by the cascading centuries, to fall, trapping her legs. Only her pride was injured but she could not move with the weight of the old knotted oak crushing her to the floor like an over enthusiastic lover.

The immediate danger was the choking smoke which quickly filled the bedroom, making her cough uncontrollably, rather than the encroaching flames which were already raising the air temperature. She burrowed her head down to the floor to hoover up some remaining oxygen from the clear air layer clinging to the  floor boards. Then she felt the blessed coolness of the water spray from the firefighter’s hose as she fought her way up the stairs behind her partner who was protecting her with a water wall barrier against the flames and heat from his fan-set hose.

She had a sudden, panicky, irrational thought of Manderley. Had Becky managed to set the horses free from the burning stables or had the castle dor jammed, trapping her favourite Palomino, Jamaica, in? She remembered then that there were no stables at her farmhouse  and she didn’t  own any horses but she couldn’t look now. These crazy, fear - driven thoughts were for the birds.

‘I thought I was going to die’ she muttered to the first firefighter as she bent over her to check for injuries. ‘Can you get this off me?’

They strained to lift the beam, let it fall to one side and gently strapped her on the Neil Robinson stretcher ready for the medivac.

            ‘ We knew you wouldn’t die,’ they reassured her,

‘We checked the script and you are in the episode tomorrow’

Her over tensed body sagged with relief, she was desperate not to be written out of the Archers.

Peace 2

Peace 2

His stride shortened as he reached the steepest part, enjoying the pull of his muscles and the thump of his heart. He was tall and thin with greying hair that was still thick enough to need attention from the barber who now charged him eight pounds, down from the ten he had to pay until that sixty fifth birthday, five months ago. His was an outdoor face, tanned, with wrinkles around the eyes from squinting into the sun. Today that was not a problem as it was two hours set but he could see enough of the path ahead in the glim from the city beyond to keep from tumbling down the steep slope to the trickling burn far below.

He was wearing his favourite clothes, ones he knew suited him by trial and error during many hikes over the years in the wild places that combed the tangles from his thoughts. Thin threaded, closely woven trousers tucked into two pairs of socks to keep his boots snug and feet blister free. An old fleece with multiple pockets over a sweat wicking shirt and, of course boots, ones that were comfortable, familiar, nearly part of his feet, completed his outfit. His waterproof jacket and trousers, gloves and hat were in the rucksack, their weight a premium paid against poor weather.

He reached a favourite spot, unsnapping the clips on his rucksack before swinging it down with a practiced shrug. He bent, feeling the strain in his back, to open the snow cover drawstring and slide out his yellow foam garden kneeling mat which he placed on the bank to insulate his bony pelvis from the damp of the grass and the insult of the rocks. A small thermos next to provide over-sweetened coffee, not so much for thirst, more for energy to manage the four miles home.

Sipping from the plastic cup, his breathing slowed, recovering from the stomp up the hill, his heart calming as he lost awareness of its beating. His senses grew sharper as he sat still and mute; hear the evening breeze stirring last autumn’s dry leaves, see the loom of the moon as she began her silent silver rise and smell the juicy scent of the bluebells jostling for space in the beech wood, overlain with the stench of wild garlic he had unavoidably  crushed underfoot. The evening hush settled gently over the valley like a summer weight duvet, letting him hear the whispering rushes of the nocturnal wildlife snuffling out of their day time burrows to earn their living, all too aware of his presence.

His recent retirement allowed him to trade sleep for night walks in the woods when the mood took him, seeking the calm with no worries about being work alert next morning. He was free to sit here, hands sucking the warmth from the coffee cup, cherishing the peace of the place until the night air chilled his flesh and his old joints began to stiffen, driving him homeward.