“Come on. Let’s do a quick roll-call before we get home. Line up here, men.” Stewart cast an eye down the line. And then looked again. “Where the hell is Evans? Cooper, you were with him last time I looked.”
Cooper, a grizzled veteran of the regular Fire Brigade who’d come into the service from retirement, wiped a smear of dirt from his cheek. “He came out safely with me from the warehouse. I think he wandered off down to the wharf. Maybe he’s gone for a swim!”
Stewart laughed half-heartedly. “Yes. Very funny. Alright. Let’s get all our equipment together. I’ll just have a quick look for him over there. Cooper, you supervise please.”
Stewart stepped gingerly over some smouldering timber embers and walked towards the river. He spotted Evans sitting on the edge of the deck with his legs dangling over the water. “Oi. Evans. What the hell are you doing?”
Evans, a serious-looking man in his thirties, turned to see Stewart approaching him and hurriedly jumped to his feet. He ran a hand through his sparse hair then put his helmet back on. “I’m sorry, Mr Stewart. I was in a bit of a daze after getting out of the warehouse. I suppose I came over here because I’d get a little cooler. Is there more firefighting to be done?”
“No, no. It’s just that we’re finished here now and we need to pack up and get back to Chelsea. I was worried that we might have lost you.”
“I’m afraid I lost myself for a moment. I was thinking about Charles Dickens. Our Mutual Friend to be precise. This area of London features significantly in that book. Have you read it?”
Stewart had compensated in part for the deficiencies of his Glasgow education by becoming extremely well read. He had read all of Dickens. “Aye, I’ve read it. Gaffer Hexam and Roger Riderhood. They were in business fishing out dead bodies in these reaches of the Thames, were they not? Have you seen any dead bodies to fish out?”
“Thankfully not, Mr Stewart. Plenty of dead wood, but no dead people, although I daresay that there’ll be an abundance of those shortly.”
“Now, now, Mr Evans. Let’s not get defeatist.”
“I’m not being defeatist, Mr Stewart. I’m being a realist.”
Stewart nodded back towards the smouldering building and the rest of their squad.“Come on, let’s go.”
As they walked back Evans hummed a tune which seemed vaguely familiar to Stewart.
“Handel?”
“Yes, well done, Mr Stewart. From the music for the Royal Fireworks. Appropriate for our task, I think. You know, there is a strange beauty to all this.”
Stewart jumped over a large slick of oily water. Evans directed his path around it. “Beauty, you say, Mr Evans. How so?”
“Well, when the inferno was at its height last night, I was just wondering what Turner would have made of it. He loved those fiery colours. ‘The Fighting Temeraire’ and all that. Do you know that painting?”
Stewart’s latterday self-education had not yet embraced much of the visual arts. Evans, he knew, was or had been some sort of art historian from whom he would be happy to learn. “Can’t say I do.”
“It’s a wonderful painting of an old ship-of-the line being burned at sea. You must see it, except…”
“Except what?”
“Well, you won’t be able to see it for the duration. It’s gone off for safety to the country with the rest of the Tate collection. I have several books on Turner. I’d be happy to bring them into the station if you are interested?”
“I would, yes. Perhaps tomorrow. But for now let’s concentrate on getting back to Chelsea. Go over there and help the others, please.”
Evans joined Cooper in loading a hose. Stewart saw a gaggle of ARP wardens approaching and went to talk to them about securing the area. Away to the south, the wail of another siren pierced the London air.
*
A long queue stretched around the eastern and southern edges of Leicester Square. A shorter queue lined up along the northern edge.