The brass Courtesy Arch in Sister Merrow’s back kitchen chimed with a clear, ringing bell strike that cut through the hiss of the wash-tub fires. On the header slate, the finely cut brass gears clicked in rapid row. It set the glowing countdown display to 24m 00s.
A soft, golden soft glow broke across the threshold. That brought with it the clear sense palette of modern Yorkshire. The sharp tang of diesel exhaust from a passing delivery lorry, wet asphalt drying in an autumn wind, and the greasy, comforting aroma of malt vinegar and fried haddock from a chip shop down the high street in Harrowby.
Ada Morland stepped through the oval, her heavy navy blue work overalls dusted with white pipe joint compound, her steel-toed boots thudding solidly onto the damp flat stone slabs of Lathmere. Her heavy canvas tool satchel hung over her left shoulder, its zipper half-open to reveal forged chrome-vanadium wrenches, rolls of thread sealant. A heavy brass-cased Bourdon tube pressure gauge.
“Afternoon, all,” Ada said briskly, pausing on the threshold to glance at the glowing thirty-second return mark circling her right wrist with practiced skilled discipline. “I’ve got twenty-two minutes before my tea gets stone cold. Where’s this weeping fitting you mentioned on the audio bridge?”
