FIRE 

By Tessa Harvey

    Timothy Winslow dragged himself wearily along the passage to his front door. The knocking was not loud and demanding, more gentle but still persistent all the same.
    He opened his strong front door and looked towards the middle-aged lady hovering on his worn door step.
    "Excuse me," she said in a broad local accent, " are you a vicar or a cleric or some kind of pastor - minister person?"  Timothy blinked. Was that person playing a trick? "Actually," he replied politely, "I'm a rabbi," and waited for the reaction. 
    "Well, that 's nice," replied the lady, pleasantly, "I don't take any notice of that bogus news stuff. Anway, er... can I come in? I have a problem." Don't we all, thought poor Timothy, who had been up all till all hours keeping an elderly soul company until he passed to a better life - hopefully. 
    He had witnessed about God and salvation when he could. The old man had usually shuffled to his shed when he saw Timothy coming, disappearing in a huddle of plant pots and a multitude of old tools.....feigning deafness.

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