The back-boiler sat squat in a corner next to the scuttle piled high with chunks of prehistory. Heat blared from the open vent, and its grill glowed red with a demonic grin. A warning of danger was close at hand.

Marty, a seven-year-old bundle of curiosity with a rag mop of dark brown hair sitting atop the frame of a stick insect, stared at the fire with glee. His excitement increased when his mother, Jill, passed him a wedge of fresh bread and a soot-black toasting fork.

“Be extra careful,” Jill said, sliding the brass-handled fireguard aside, many of its wires broken in misadventure. “Don’t burn the toast, or yourself.” She tapped a finger on the end of his freckled nose. Marty blinked.

Marty pierced the bread with the fork without ceremony until the fat tips stuck out the other side. He did not want it to fall into the ashes like last time. He did not like dirty things.

A shadow obscured the window, dimming the light. The fire glowed brighter. Marty held the fork in front of the vent, shifting his weight from one foot to another.

The clunk of a heavy steel door and the crunch of gravel on a dusty road preceded a deep voice at the back door.

“It’s Vic.” Jill sighed, opening the kitchen door. “What does he want?” She feigned annoyance. It was her day off and she fancied a quiet time to herself. Days were rare outside of the annual family holiday.

“Alright?” Vic met Jill in the hallway, took his donkey jacket and hung it on an overloaded peg.

“What brings you round?” Jill gestured to a seat beside the dinner table.

“Please, Jill.” Vic rested an arm on the table, his attention on Marty.

“Working today?” Jill peered through the dirty window at the box wagon blocking the view.

“Always.” Vic took the offered mug and slurped the dark tea then set it on the table. The white Formica top was long past its best.

Marty checked the progress of his toast, tapping it from the fork onto a plate. “Ow!” He flipped the half-done slice over with one hand and stabbed it with the fork.

“Careful, Marty.” Jill shook her head and sighed. “You’ll crack the plate.”

“Sorry,” Marty put his chin to his chest and shuffled back to the boiler finish grilling his toast.

“The time! I’m meant to be somewhere.” Jill tapped at her fob watch, hoping perhaps to make time slip back. “Can you keep an eye on him while I change? Make sure he don’t burn the house down.” She went out the other door and half-way to the stairs before Vic answered.

“Which one are you?” Vic quick-stepped across the lino floor, worn white, where the floorboards stood proud of their ranks.

Marty looked at the eyes, inspecting him over the half-moon glasses. “Marty.” He went back to watching his toast.

Vic listened to the silence of the old house, its tired timbers creaking with every step. The clock ticked its spring uncoiling. He moved closer. “How old are you now?”

Marty turned his head toward Vic, startled by the unshaven face at his shoulder.

“You a good boy, do as grown-ups tell you?” Vic chewed his bottom lip.

“Yes.” The toast hissed in the fire.

“Clumsy!” Vic kept his hand on the child’s bottom. “Mustn’t burn the house down. Like mummy said.” Vic took the fork from Marty’s hand and hung it on the fireguard. Vic let his hand wander, touched, squeezed, explored. All the while, he smiled and touched. He pressed a shilling into Marty’s palm. “Get yourself some sweeties.”

Footsteps on the stairs.

Vic sprang to his feet. Whisked the fridge door open and grabbed a foil pack. “Bu’er?’ Marty blinked and reached for his toast, which was already on its way to the table on the plate.

“Right, we done?” Jill bounced into the room.

“Knives in here?” the cutlery drawer jangled open. Vic grabbed a knife and piled butter on the toast.

“Oh, thanks, Vic.” Jill flopped into a chair. She reached over, broke off one edge of the toast, and took a bite. “Hmm, who’s a bright boy?’ She crunched through a second bite.

“Need a lift?” Vic had one arm in his coat.

“In that lorry of yours?” Jill screwed up her face. “No telling what’s gone on in there.” She waved at the shadow outside. “Thanks, but no.”

“Ok. I’d better get some work done.” Vic reached back into the kitchen and ruffled Marty’s hair. He blew Jill a kiss and slipped away. The lorry rattled into life and rumbled from sight. Light filled the room.

“Oop, can’t leave it there.” Jill crossed the kitchen and pulled the fireguard back in place. She unhooked the toasting fork and inspected it. For what?

“Best put this back too!” She flipped the fire vent shut with the fork and hung it on the brass utensil stand with the poker.

Marty ran a finger over the cold edge of his toast where his mum had torn some off. He ate in silence, keeping his bread close to his lips between bites. When he had finished, he pulled his legs up onto the seat, wrapped his arms around them, and buried his face between his knees. He took a deep breath, locking it all in until he thought he would burst.