water, so when the church clock struck seven Catherine reached out and poked her, across the narrow space which separated their beds.
“Time to get up, sleepyhead,” she said cheerfully, and snuggled down again.
Angel yawned and groaned and muttered, then, resigning herself to the inevitable, she threw back the covers, shivering. She put on slippers and a wrap, looked out at the rain and groaned again, then trudged down the narrow stair.
The stove was stone-cold.
Until this week, Angel had scarcely been aware that hot water did not appear by magic in her ewer every morning. The fact that a fire must be carefully tended to provide it had been quite beyond her ken. She considered giving up and going back to bed until the Applejohns arrived to deal with the problem, but the previous evening her uncle had read her a mild scold on her unwillingness to do her share of necessary chores. She decided to demonstrate her desire to comply. She would light the fire.
It took her five minutes to work out how to open the fire-door. She peered in, and could see nothing but grey ash. No sense in trying to relight that. There was a stack of wood beside the black iron stove, so she pushed in as much as would fit on top of the ashes and looked about for a tinderbox.
She had never had any occasion to strike a light, but she had seen it done and it had not looked difficult. After a few tries she became proficient, to her delight, in striking flint against steel. The tinder began to glow as a stream of sparks fell onto it and soon a brimstone match flared up. Quickly she thrust it among the wood in the firebox. It went out. Three successive attempts ended the same way, and Angel sat down with a sigh to rest her aching hands and decide what to try next. By now she was determined not to be beaten.
Her wandering gaze fell upon a box of wood on the other side of the stove: thin sticks and twigs, shavings and dried heather. Of course! One must light smaller pieces first, and they in turn would light the larger logs. It was the work of a moment to pull out a couple of thick sticks and substitute a packed mass of kindling. She lit a match, set it to the bone-dry wood, and quickly slammed the door as it flared up.
With another sigh, of satisfaction and exhaustion, she sat down again to wait for the water to heat. A sudden thought made her jump up to check that the kettles were full. All was well, she need not go out in the rain to fetch water.
Quickly recovering her energy, Angel set about preparations for breakfast. That was one chore she had escaped so far, for Aunt Maria had decided it was more trouble to teach her to cook than it was worth. How surprised and pleased her aunt would be, she thought with a smile. Her eyes were burning, so she stopped setting the table and rubbed them. Perhaps the water was warm by now. She went over to the stove and was about to test the kettle with her hand when a puff of choking black smoke belched up into her face.
Coughing and wheezing, eyes streaming, Angel made for the door. Groping blindly she found the latch, opened it, and stumbled towards the stair, followed by clouds of pungent fumes.
“Help!” she wailed.
It was some time before she calmed down enough to give a coherent account of her misadventure. By then Uncle Clement, a handkerchief held to his nose, had shut the kitchen door, opened the windows and the back door. The rest of the house was clear of all but a faint, pervading smell of woodsmoke, and a grumbling John Applejohn had been persuaded to rake out the stove.
At last Angel dried her tears, caused, she insisted, entirely by the smoke. She raised her soot-streaked face and red-rimmed eyes, and described precisely what she had done.
“Goose,” said Aunt Maria kindly, hugging her. “Air is necessary for combustion, you know. You have to rake out the ashes so that air can flow in through the grating, and then put no more wood than will allow it to circulate.”
“Don’t tell me!”
“Time to get up, sleepyhead,” she said cheerfully, and snuggled down again.
Angel yawned and groaned and muttered, then, resigning herself to the inevitable, she threw back the covers, shivering. She put on slippers and a wrap, looked out at the rain and groaned again, then trudged down the narrow stair.
The stove was stone-cold.
Until this week, Angel had scarcely been aware that hot water did not appear by magic in her ewer every morning. The fact that a fire must be carefully tended to provide it had been quite beyond her ken. She considered giving up and going back to bed until the Applejohns arrived to deal with the problem, but the previous evening her uncle had read her a mild scold on her unwillingness to do her share of necessary chores. She decided to demonstrate her desire to comply. She would light the fire.
It took her five minutes to work out how to open the fire-door. She peered in, and could see nothing but grey ash. No sense in trying to relight that. There was a stack of wood beside the black iron stove, so she pushed in as much as would fit on top of the ashes and looked about for a tinderbox.
She had never had any occasion to strike a light, but she had seen it done and it had not looked difficult. After a few tries she became proficient, to her delight, in striking flint against steel. The tinder began to glow as a stream of sparks fell onto it and soon a brimstone match flared up. Quickly she thrust it among the wood in the firebox. It went out. Three successive attempts ended the same way, and Angel sat down with a sigh to rest her aching hands and decide what to try next. By now she was determined not to be beaten.
Her wandering gaze fell upon a box of wood on the other side of the stove: thin sticks and twigs, shavings and dried heather. Of course! One must light smaller pieces first, and they in turn would light the larger logs. It was the work of a moment to pull out a couple of thick sticks and substitute a packed mass of kindling. She lit a match, set it to the bone-dry wood, and quickly slammed the door as it flared up.
With another sigh, of satisfaction and exhaustion, she sat down again to wait for the water to heat. A sudden thought made her jump up to check that the kettles were full. All was well, she need not go out in the rain to fetch water.
Quickly recovering her energy, Angel set about preparations for breakfast. That was one chore she had escaped so far, for Aunt Maria had decided it was more trouble to teach her to cook than it was worth. How surprised and pleased her aunt would be, she thought with a smile. Her eyes were burning, so she stopped setting the table and rubbed them. Perhaps the water was warm by now. She went over to the stove and was about to test the kettle with her hand when a puff of choking black smoke belched up into her face.
Coughing and wheezing, eyes streaming, Angel made for the door. Groping blindly she found the latch, opened it, and stumbled towards the stair, followed by clouds of pungent fumes.
“Help!” she wailed.
It was some time before she calmed down enough to give a coherent account of her misadventure. By then Uncle Clement, a handkerchief held to his nose, had shut the kitchen door, opened the windows and the back door. The rest of the house was clear of all but a faint, pervading smell of woodsmoke, and a grumbling John Applejohn had been persuaded to rake out the stove.
At last Angel dried her tears, caused, she insisted, entirely by the smoke. She raised her soot-streaked face and red-rimmed eyes, and described precisely what she had done.
“Goose,” said Aunt Maria kindly, hugging her. “Air is necessary for combustion, you know. You have to rake out the ashes so that air can flow in through the grating, and then put no more wood than will allow it to circulate.”
“Don’t tell me!”
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