Three Brothers Read Free Page B

the noise of the machinery. This was the newspaper world that Harry had envisaged—a strident, exciting, declamatory world.
    Harry was walking back from the printer one evening, after delivering the last of that day’s copy, when he noticed a man in a dark raincoat walking ahead of him. He was in his thirties, or so it seemed, but he was much smaller and slighter than Harry. He was carrying a shopping bag in each hand, containing something bulky or heavy. He had difficulty in maintaining an even pace, but he looked calmly from side to side. On a whim, or instinct, Harry decided to follow him. The man crossed the road, and then began walking down a street of semi-detached dark red-brick houses. The area was gloomy enough in the day, but on a winter evening it was a place in mourning. It was one of those parts of London that sunlight never seems to enter, an almost subterranean world of domestic privacy and seclusion. Net curtains were hanging at every window, and the gates of the small front gardens were all closed.
    Harry knew that the brick church of Our Lady of Sorrows stood at the end of this dark red avenue, opposite a small park. He suspected that the man was about to enter the park, but then he saw him vanish into the deep shadow of the church itself. He followed him through the porch, and then sat quietly in a pew at the back. The church was deserted. The man had walked slowly up the aisle and had halted at the wooden rail before the altar. It seemed to Harry that he had knelt down and, with his head bowed forward, begun to pray. But that was not what he was doing. Harry heard rustling, and noticed that he was taking something out of the bags. He walked towards him silently and cautiously; then, to his alarm, he saw two large cans of petrol. He did not hesitate. Heshouted out “Heck!” and rushed at the man, knocking him to the floor before pinning him against the rail. The man looked at him, mildly, and did not try to resist.
    The cry had roused the curate of the church, who had been dozing in the sacristy amidst the mild perfume of lilies and beeswax polish. He came running out, and was astonished at the spectacle of Harry straddling the man and pressing him against the floor of the church. Harry suggested to him that he might go in search of a policeman. A glance at the cans of petrol convinced the curate. “I’m in no possible hurry,” the man said as Harry continued to sit upon him. “Don’t you think this church is rather wonderful?” It was ornate and comfortable, with candles and flowers and images; statues of the saints stood between the Stations of the Cross, and a wooden confessional box was against the south aisle. “My mother used to frequent this place a great deal. She used to sit here with me. I was only a boy, naturally. That was in ’44. When the bombing got a trifle on the heavy side.” He had a plaintive or earnest expression, as if he were trying to solve a curiously subtle problem. “I can remember the bombs very well. I was never scared, you see. It was the excitement. Glorious feeling.” His voice, echoing in the empty church, was very gentle. “I was one of the Blitz boys. Have you heard of us by any chance?” Harry shook his head. The War was, for him, very distant. “We were the ones who put out the fires. We had buckets of sand and a hand-truck. We had iron bars to force our way in. We were absolutely fierce. We were ready to eat fires, even if I say so myself.”
    The curate came back with three policemen. Harry rose to his feet and two officers took the man away. The third remained to take down Harry’s statement.
    Harry told George Bradwell the following morning. He became so excited by his own narrative that he knelt on thefloor to demonstrate the manner in which he had pinned down the arsonist.
    “I think,” Bradwell said, “that we can make a story out of this.”
    “But it’s true.”
    “A news story. Bugle reporter foils arson attack upon church. Commended by