Free Beneath Us the Stars by David Wiltshire Page A

forward.
    ‘Say, this is swell – ouch !’
    His head connected with a heavy oak beam.
    Mary winced and went to him. ‘You all right? You Americans are so tall.’
    ‘It hurts.’ He rubbed the spot.
    Mary lifted her hands to his head. ‘Let me see.’
    She gave it a rub and a peck.
    ‘You’ll live.’
    He brought in the string shopping-bags of food and cartons of cans to Mary, who had opened the french doors to air the room, and was now in the very basic kitchen, looking into the scullery beyond with its boiler and mangle. She shut the door firmly on them. ‘Well, I’m not going to use that room this visit.’
    When he returned with her weekend case and his bag, and set them down at the foot of the stairs, she was on her knees at the grate, filling it with tightly rolled nuggets of twisted newspaper, topped with some kindling.
    He strode to her, seized her around the waist and lifted her away. In a mock Red Indian voice he said: ‘Making fire – man’s work.’
    Mary gave him a box of Swan Vestas along with a pained look. ‘Right Big Chief – carry on. I’ll get the kitchen straightened out.’
    Bill lit a match – set it to the paper. It took very slowly then seemed to go out. He tried somewhere else, the paper charring but never bursting into flame. He was still concentrating on it when the heat from the burnt out match reached his skin.
    ‘Ouch.’ He shook his hand vigorously to fan it cool.
    Mary, in the kitchen giggled at the yell and took a peek.
    He lit another one, tried somewhere else, with only marginally better results. It slowly smoked. He called out: ‘This is never going to work. There’s no draught.’
    Mary made a face, closed a cupboard and returned to the sitting-room.
    She shook her head pityingly. ‘Don’t you have open fires in America, Sitting Bull? Here – give me one of those.’
    He passed her a newspaper. Mary opened it out. ‘Move aside.’
    Bill got out of the way as she spread it over the mouth of the fireplace, pinning it at the top corners and holding it in the middle of the bottom edge with her foot.
    She spoke over her shoulder. ‘This is what you do.’
    Immediately a draught started up the chimney, sucking the paper inwards so that she had to hold it tightly.
    Bill saw the roaring glow that shone through the paper.
    ‘Hey, that’s brilliant.’
    She jerked her head in his direction.
    ‘Come and take over.’
    He crouched over her, taking the corners first, then getting his foot next to hers to replace it as she ducked away.
    Mary made for the stairs, picked up her weekend case and climbed the twisting steps. It was dark at the top. She opened a wooden door with its latch, to be confronted by a small bathroom. The iron bath on claws and balls was water-stained, the taps corroded. She tried one. It wouldn’t turn. The other did, but nothing came out of it. She frowned, turned her attention to the wash bowl. Ice-cold water roared from one tap and trickled out of the other.
    There was only one other door on the tiny landing. She opened it. Apart from a very small oak wardrobe and a kidney-shaped dressing-table, a large double bed filled most of the room. It was covered in a padded eiderdown, and had a dark, brooding headboard of carved mahogany.
    Mary stared at it, feeling suddenly weak at the knees. This was where….
    It would happen.
    She put her case down, and tentatively sat on the edge of the bed. The springs gave such a groan that her nerves overcame her and she fled.
    As she came hurriedly down the stairs he turned in consternation to look at her. She paused, hand to her throat.
    But before he could say anything, she suddenly started to laugh.
    Bill frowned. ‘Hey! What’s so funny?’
    She pointed at him, but he had already started to feel the heat. He spun around and yelled as his hands were caught in the fireball that had been the paper. Bill jumped around, stamping at the fiery remnants.
    Mary suppressed her chuckles and nodded at the roaring fire in