Lost in the Flames Read Online Free Page A

the sheep, and the fox that visited nightly in search of a chicken dinner until Norman shot it later that winter. And Jacob Arbuckle peering through the glass, spying on the newcomer, hatching a plot.
    A single bare bulb hung from the ceiling on a double-twisted wire, illuminating Norman as he rinsed off the soap, towelled down his enormous frame, and retrieved his clothes from the pine rail by the door. He dressed quickly, ordered his hair with a brisk sweep of his hand, called the dogs, and stepped out of the tiny cottage into the farmyard as Jacob melted away into the fields.
    Norman could see the bathroom light in Webster’s twin cottage next door, so he left him to his ablutions and walked wearily across theyard, past the patch where the strawberries grew in June, and crunched up the gravel path to the porch. In the farmhouse kitchen, Mrs Brailes was preparing the farmhands’ evening meal. Norman took his usual seat, nearest the range, a dog each side of his chair.
    ‘Fine weather today, Mrs Brailes,’ he said.
    ‘Indeed.’
    Mrs Brailes was a woman of few words, rarely wasting three syllables when two would do. Mr Brailes, the farm manager, placed a bottle of Hook Norton ale on the table next to Norman, then held out a raw onion that his wife had just peeled.
    ‘No, thank you,’ said Norman. He never accepted anything at the first time of asking and therefore missed out on many of the good things that life had to offer. He did not consider raw onions to be one of them.
    ‘Are you sure, Norman?’ said Brailes. ‘These little buggers are bloody good for you,’ and he took a huge bite out of the onion and chewed on it vigorously. Behind him Norman could hear Mrs Brailes biting enthusiastically into one of her own and when he turned to face her he saw that it had brought tears to her eyes, such were its health-giving properties.
    ‘An apple a day keeps the doctor away,’ elaborated Brailes. ‘But an onion a day, even better! You’d never need a doctor in your whole life, they’d all be bloody redundant!’
    ‘Never been ill in all my life anyway,’ said Norman.
    ‘How was the horse today?’ Brailes asked, his voice rebounding off the low ceiling as if he were talking to the hard of hearing.
    ‘The horse is grand,’ said Norman. ‘It’s a good thing we got that nail out when we did or he’d have been lame by now.’
    ‘Excellent!’ boomed Brailes.
    Norman assumed that this habitual volume went some way to explaining Mrs Brailes’ verbal reticence – no word could be got in, edgeways or otherwise, when Brailes was in full flow. Norman and Webster referred to him as The Bellows, their private joke being that if they should find it difficult one night to light their fires, it would be sufficient to have him in the room for a brief conversation and there would be a roaring blaze in no time.
    Mrs Brailes placed a steaming bowl in front of each of the men.
    ‘Soup,’ she said.
    ‘Swede?’ bellowed Brailes.
    ‘Parsnip.’
    Norman ladled in a spoonful, then took a swig of beer. The door opened and Webster shuffled in. He sat down next to Norman, yawned elaborately, and only when finished remembered to cover his mouth. He smiled guiltily, then leaned a careless, weary elbow on the table and sent his spoon clattering onto the flagstones and set the dogs off barking.
    ‘Quiet!’ said Norman and the dogs cut their noise instantly and settled down again beside his chair.
    ‘Webster, have you always lived your life in a state of such constant bloody confusion?’ laughed Brailes, and Webster’s other elbow jerked back and sent his fork in the same direction as the spoon and the dogs were off again.
    ‘You’re lucky Mr Brailes is of such a naturally charitable disposition,’ murmured Norman.
    Webster looked distraught.
    ‘Just pulling your leg, Webster,’ said Norman.
    ‘Come on, Webster, get that down you,’ said Brailes, placing a bottle of ale on the table beside him, then an unwanted onion,