In the small, tidy back kitchen of Number 14 Moorland Road in Harrowby, the midday rain tapped a steady, soothing rhythm against the lace-curtained windowpane. The kitchen smelled of boiled potatoes, damp wool coats drying by the radiator, and the comforting, sharp aroma of dark Yorkshire tea steeping in a clay pot Brown Betty pot.
Ada Morland stood by the kitchen sink in her navy blue boiler suit, rinsing the black grease from her knuckles with a cake of carbolic soap. On the scrubbed oilcloth of the kitchen table, her leather tool bag sat open beside two red grease pencils, a plate of toasted sourdough crusts, and a glass jar of homemade plum jam. The cold Yorkshire air carried the sharp tang of copper green rust from the old brass fittings on the back kitchen pipes, mingled with the dry bitter-salt smell of pipe lime flaking from the chimney breast. In the corner between the larder and the coal cellar door, the brass uprights of the Courtesy Arch gleamed in the dim northern light, its pale blue glyphs pulsing with a slow, restful rhythm.
Across the table sat her nephew Ben, his technical college drafting books spread open beside his pencil case. He was carefully sharpening an HB graphite pencil with an ivory-handled penknife, his eyes straying sometimes to the soft oval of light shimmering between the brass pillars.
