good form as it was going to be a busy day, as well, he hoped, as an enjoyable one.
* * *
Jack Stewart led his weary team through the door of the Chelsea Fire Station. He walked down the corridor, turned into the canteen and sat heavily on one of the chairs at the main table. His team did likewise, with the exception of Francis Evans, who wandered off towards the bunk room.
“Gawd! You lot look like death warmed up. Better get the tea on.” Elsie and the other helper, Jean, were short, plump, middle-aged cockney ladies who might have been sisters but weren’t. Elsie busily set to with a vast kettle and a teapot almost as big, while Jean began making sandwiches. Every man’s face was streaked with soot and as they sat in the unventilated warm room, trails of blackened perspiration dropped down onto the table, their clothes and the floor.
Evans reappeared carrying a book, which he dropped in front of Stewart. “There you are. The Art of J M W Turner . I brought it from home yesterday, but didn’t have a chance to give it to you.”
Stewart reached over for a towel hanging over a nearby chair and wiped his face and hands.
“Oh, don’t worry about getting it dirty. I’ve got another copy as it happens.”
It was a big glossy book with more pictures than words. Stewart’s eyes felt as if someone had poured vinegar into them and rubbing them with his blackened hands only made them worse. He eventually managed to focus on the pages in front of him. He flicked idly through until he came to Turner’s picture of the Houses of Parliament going up in flames. That was a gap in his history then – he had never realised that Parliament had burned down in the first half of the nineteenth century. He stared intently at the brilliant glowing image Turner had painted. The viewpoint of the painting was the south side of Westminster Bridge and buildings, river, bridge and people all merged into a roaring outburst of colour and violence.
“Glorious, isn’t it? I think that’s one of his best. You know, it’s taken as read by the artistic establishment that France has been the fount of artistic innovation over the past fifty years. They say that the French invented impressionism, for example – but what can be more impressionistic than this painting, created long before all those French chaps – Monet, Seurat, Renoir and so on. Wonderful!”
Stewart felt himself being drawn into Turner’s brilliant creation. He could feel the flames swirling in his face just as, a few hours before, he had gazed helplessly as he watched the catastrophic effect that a string of incendiary bombs falling in quick succession had had on a rubber tyre factory. He closed the book and nodded at Evans. “Thanks. I’ll look at it more closely when I’ve had a bit of a rest. Let’s just hope what’s happening in the painting doesn’t repeat itself!”
* * *
Merlin stepped carefully around the large pool of smouldering sludge. Madame Tussauds had taken a direct hit the previous night and he presumed that he was looking at the last remains of some of the famous waxworks’ stock-in-trade. Eerily, some parts of the sludge retained human form. Here and there it disgorged an arm, a leg or a tortured face.
Merlin stepped over something that looked like Jean Harlow’s head and then over the head of either George Formby or Stanley Baldwin, he wasn’t sure. Like Merlin, Madame Tussauds had had an eventful Sunday night.
His shoulder pain having cleared up and despite his bruises and the aircraft noise, he had a surprisingly good and deep sleep when he’d got home. In bright early morning light, Merlin was walking along Marylebone Road, trying to find the ruined building of the night before. A little beyond Madame Tussauds on the other side of the road, he found it. To his left was the still burning shell of the bombed flats whose explosion had blown him off his feet and opposite was the side street from which the running man had emerged. As he turned into
* * *
Jack Stewart led his weary team through the door of the Chelsea Fire Station. He walked down the corridor, turned into the canteen and sat heavily on one of the chairs at the main table. His team did likewise, with the exception of Francis Evans, who wandered off towards the bunk room.
“Gawd! You lot look like death warmed up. Better get the tea on.” Elsie and the other helper, Jean, were short, plump, middle-aged cockney ladies who might have been sisters but weren’t. Elsie busily set to with a vast kettle and a teapot almost as big, while Jean began making sandwiches. Every man’s face was streaked with soot and as they sat in the unventilated warm room, trails of blackened perspiration dropped down onto the table, their clothes and the floor.
Evans reappeared carrying a book, which he dropped in front of Stewart. “There you are. The Art of J M W Turner . I brought it from home yesterday, but didn’t have a chance to give it to you.”
Stewart reached over for a towel hanging over a nearby chair and wiped his face and hands.
“Oh, don’t worry about getting it dirty. I’ve got another copy as it happens.”
It was a big glossy book with more pictures than words. Stewart’s eyes felt as if someone had poured vinegar into them and rubbing them with his blackened hands only made them worse. He eventually managed to focus on the pages in front of him. He flicked idly through until he came to Turner’s picture of the Houses of Parliament going up in flames. That was a gap in his history then – he had never realised that Parliament had burned down in the first half of the nineteenth century. He stared intently at the brilliant glowing image Turner had painted. The viewpoint of the painting was the south side of Westminster Bridge and buildings, river, bridge and people all merged into a roaring outburst of colour and violence.
“Glorious, isn’t it? I think that’s one of his best. You know, it’s taken as read by the artistic establishment that France has been the fount of artistic innovation over the past fifty years. They say that the French invented impressionism, for example – but what can be more impressionistic than this painting, created long before all those French chaps – Monet, Seurat, Renoir and so on. Wonderful!”
Stewart felt himself being drawn into Turner’s brilliant creation. He could feel the flames swirling in his face just as, a few hours before, he had gazed helplessly as he watched the catastrophic effect that a string of incendiary bombs falling in quick succession had had on a rubber tyre factory. He closed the book and nodded at Evans. “Thanks. I’ll look at it more closely when I’ve had a bit of a rest. Let’s just hope what’s happening in the painting doesn’t repeat itself!”
* * *
Merlin stepped carefully around the large pool of smouldering sludge. Madame Tussauds had taken a direct hit the previous night and he presumed that he was looking at the last remains of some of the famous waxworks’ stock-in-trade. Eerily, some parts of the sludge retained human form. Here and there it disgorged an arm, a leg or a tortured face.
Merlin stepped over something that looked like Jean Harlow’s head and then over the head of either George Formby or Stanley Baldwin, he wasn’t sure. Like Merlin, Madame Tussauds had had an eventful Sunday night.
His shoulder pain having cleared up and despite his bruises and the aircraft noise, he had a surprisingly good and deep sleep when he’d got home. In bright early morning light, Merlin was walking along Marylebone Road, trying to find the ruined building of the night before. A little beyond Madame Tussauds on the other side of the road, he found it. To his left was the still burning shell of the bombed flats whose explosion had blown him off his feet and opposite was the side street from which the running man had emerged. As he turned into
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