Home is where the hearth is
Iam old enough to be of a generation that grew up in a solid and small terraced house that was built by Victorians, and the only way to heat it was through fireplaces in every room.
Upstairs, there were even fireplaces in the bedrooms. I never remember any fire ever being lit upstairs to warm the bedrooms when the damp drizzle outside chilled the blankets within. To stop the drafts coming down the chimneys, they were stuffed with bundled up newspapers, and a decorative screen stood in each hearth.
Downstairs, in the living room, once the autumn nights set in, certainly from October into May or June, there was a fire that burnt every evening late and into the night — long after we were sent to bed in the chilly blankets.
My father, God rest his soul, was an expert fire builder, and it was lit with military — or at least naval — precision. He had a fascination with steam engines, and had served in the British merchant navy during the Second World War. I think, at heart, he was a stoker on the coal-burning boat, though the naval records say he was listed as a “Ship Carpenter’s Mate”.
He could work wonders with a hearth shovel, a brush and a poker. In the mornings, he would rake through the ashes and save the clinkers — the last bits of coal that hadn’t been incinerated to dust.
After carefully cleaning out the fireplace, he’d set about the business of lighting the fire. First, a newspaper was required. It was dismantled sheet by sheet, each one rolled diagonally into a long tube, then knotted, with five or so of these paper creations laid at the base.
Next up came the kindling, some dry sticks that were carefully laid across the paper knots. Then the clinkers, and then came smaller pieces of coal.
The lighting of the match wasn’t done on the box. Like a conductor about to start a grand symphony with a dramatic wave of his baton, he’d strike the match along the black bricks that formed the back of the fireplace. Then the ends of the paper were lit, smoke gradually growing, and the little flames gradually spreading. Then the kindling would light, starting to crack.
There was a magic too if the downdraft was too strong. Then he’d reach for a full sheet of paper and place it across the struggling fire. It’d be sucked in, like some magical beast drawing in a breadth. But it never seemed to catch, and the fire beneath began to glow.
Once the fire was away and running, he’d put on more coal, giving it a strategic poke or gentle lift, letting the air in to just the right place to ensure it glowed and radiated warmth.
And when it came to fires, he was a bit of an alchemist too. The fine coal dust that gathered in the bottom of the coal shuttle was mixed in an old bucket with the last tea from the pot and the loose tea leaves. No one used tea bags back then, which were considered to be the sweepings off the tea factory floor. This black, wet cement was laid atop the burning coal. This was a process that was done late in the evening or last thing before we went to bed. It would allow the fire to burn more slowly, still radiating heat throughout the night so that there would be a warmth in the room in the morning.
I can still remember the blackened coalman delivering two heavy sacks every week — What a tough way to have to earn a living. And how the courses came when the coal had too much flint in it, sending sparks across the room, often with a bang it split.
“Polish coal,” my Dad would mutter, then a Communist plot destroying his fiery masterpiece.