The pool of St Branok

I was about to say that we were not quite ready yet when I realized he could not possibly have come for soup.

He was neatly dressed and there was an air of distinction about him. I noticed that he had a rather sad face which changed when he smiled.

"Good morning," he said.

"Good morning," I replied.

"We haven't met before."

I wondered why he should think we had. Then it occurred to me that he must be a frequent visitor to the Mission and there would be quite a number of helpers doing brief spells of duty.

"I'm Timothy Ransome," he said.

"How do you do? I'm Angelet Mandeville."

"Oh," he said. "Frances mentioned you. You're related to Peterkin, I believe."

"Yes, that's right. It's rather a complicated relationship but it exists."

"Have you been here before?"

"Yes. I came to visit once before."

"And they've put you onto the bowls, have they?"

"They all seemed so busy, and these things had to be brought up here."

"Oh yes, for the morning soup. I'll give you a hand."

He took off his coat and set to work.

When we went into the kitchen several of them called, "Hello, Tim. Running late."

"I'm helping with the bowls," he said.

"Good."

Soon we had brought up all the bowls. He said: "Many hands make light work."

"It seems so. Are you a frequent helper?"

"I come quite often. I think Frances and Peterkin are doing a wonderful job here."

"Yes, I have always heard so."

"And now you have come to see for yourself."

Someone was calling. "Tim. Tim. Strong man wanted for the cauldrons."

"Right," he answered. "Coming." And to me: "Excuse me."

That was a strange morning. I stood behind the table with several others, Timothy Ransome among them—ladling out soup. It was a sobering exercise ... to see those eager hands stretched out for the bowl, to watch the ravenous manner in which they devoured the soup. They were ragged, unkempt and hungry. It made me both sad and angry. It was the children who touched me most. I thought of our own children ... of Pedrek who sometimes had had to be coaxed to eat. And the fisherman caught another little fish to feed his family and he popped it into the mouth of the youngest, and then the second youngest ... and so on until he had eaten it all.

At last it was over. The morning's supplies were diminished and everyone had had their share.

Timothy Ransome said to me: "You mustn't get too upset. At least we are trying to do something about it here. It's a grueling experience at first."

"I suppose you have done it many times."

"Oh yes ... There are many things that you will find upsetting here ... things you didn't dream of."

"I know I have to be prepared."

"After this, there is a little refreshment for us. Humble fare. Bread and cheese and a glass of cider."

"It sounds good to me."

"I'll show you. If we are lucky we can help ourselves and have half an hour's respite."

I saw Frances then. She came hurrying towards us. "Hello, Angelet, lovely to see you. Sorry I was so busy when you came. What a morning! I thought we shouldn't be ready in time for the hungry hordes. Tim ... you're looking after Angelet. Showing her the ropes. Good." She grinned at me. "You soon get used to it. In the evenings we have a supper when we all get together and talk about the day. That is when you ought to be here. I'll see you later. I'm having a little trouble with Fanny ..."

"Can I do something?" asked Timothy.

"No. I've got someone on it. I don't know what we're going to do about that child. We'll see. I'll be with you later, Angelet ... if I can."

Then she was off again.

Timothy Ransome said: "Let's see about that food."

It was a strange experience sitting in a small room with a man whom I had never met before, eating hot crusty bread and cheese with a tankard of cider beside me.

"I have to admit I know something about you," he told me. "I heard about your husband. It was in the papers at the time. That's when I learned you were related to Peterkin. I am so sorry. It was a terrible tragedy."

"It is over now," I said.

"Your husband was a hero."

"Yes," I said. "He died saving another man's life."

"You must be very proud."

I nodded.

"Forgive me," he went on. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken of it. Do you intend to work here?"

"Oh no. I couldn't. I have a daughter. She is four years old. I am here today because she is with friends."

He looked disappointed.

"But I shall come again," I said, "when I have the opportunity."