11 May 1985
Valley Parade, Bradford
The sun was high and the air smelled of chips and cut grass when Tommy Fothergill kissed his wife Jean goodbye that morning. She was pregnant with their first and he rested a hand on her stomach before he left. “Tell the lad his dad is bringing the title home,” he joked, knotting the claret-and-amber scarf she’d bought around his neck.
He met Jim and little Eddie outside the Manningham pub at eleven. Three pints, the usual songs on the bus, then the slow river of bodies pouring down Midland Road. Tommy had stood in the same spot in Block 5 for fifteen seasons, right behind the goal, close enough to smell the liniment off the players when they warmed up. Lincoln City, nothing to play for, but Bradford needed a point. The place was humming.
Kick-off. The roar. Two-nil inside twenty minutes. Cigars were lit and grown men hugged strangers. Half-time came and went. Tommy went down for a pie and came back wiping gravy from his chin and joked that his baby would be born craving Henderson’s relish.
Then someone shouted about smoke.
At first it was just a wisp curling from beneath the seats, the sort you’d see from a dropped fag-end any other week. A copper laughed it off. Then the wisp thickened, turned orange at the edges. The wooden floorboards, dry as tinder after years of spilled beer and cigarette ash, caught in seconds. Flames raced along the roof like never seen before.
The stand filled with black. Heat slapped faces. People turned, confused, then terrified. Tommy saw a child lifted high by his father, saw an old boy in a flat cap frozen, staring at the fire as if he couldn’t believe it was real. The exit gates at the back were locked; the crush began.
Tommy grabbed the sleeve of the lad next to him who must’ve barely been sixteen and he was shaking. “This way, son.” He shoved forward using his shoulders the way he’d done in rugby scrums as a younger man. Coats caught alight, the screams rising into one long animal howl. Someone fell and the surge trampled straight over them. Tommy felt hands clawing at his back, felt his own shirt beginning to smoulder.
He reached the side wall where a panel had buckled. Fresh air hit his face like cold water. He hauled the boy through first, then Big Jim, then reached back for whoever he could. Arms, collars, hair; he dragged them out until his own skin blistered and his lungs burned raw. Eddie never appeared.
Outside, the world was sirens and stretchers. Tommy collapsed on the pitch, shirt half burned away, arms red and weeping. A paramedic wrapped him in a blanket while he stared at the stand collapsing in on itself, a black skeleton against the blue May sky. Someone said fifty-six. Someone else said more.
They kept him in St Luke’s for three weeks. Skin grafts, nightmares, the smell of melted plastic that never left his nose. When they finally let him out, he walked straight to the maternity ward with bandages still on his arms and placed the singed scarf that had survived across the cot of his newborn son.
“He’s seen fire,” Tommy whispered to the tiny, sleeping face. “Now let him see something better.”
1
Late Summer 1985
Lumb Lane, Manningham
Jean had never felt the house so big and empty as the night she carried Harry through the front door on her own. Tommy was still in the burns ward. The midwife said, “You’re fine to go, love,” so Jean wrapped the baby in two of Tommy’s old work shirts because the blankets were still in the wash, and caught the bus from Duckworth Lane and held him tight against her coat all the way down Toller Lane. Four days old and already bawling like he knew something was wrong. The borrowed Moses basket stank of the hospital - that sharp Dettol smell mixed with smoke that never quite went away.
Jean got off the bus with Harry under her coat because it was spitting rain. She struggled up the street with the basket banging against her leg and key shaking in the lock. The house felt huge without Tommy clattering about. She put Harry down in the cot - the one Tommy had painted sky blue the week before the match - and just stood there, listening to the quiet.
The first weeks were a blur. Feeds every two hours, sick on every cardigan she owned, trying to guess if the crying was wind or hunger or just because the world was rubbish. Neighbours knocked with foil trays of mince and onions or steak pie. Jean took them, muttered thanks, and kept the wireless turned down low so she didn’t have to hear another name added to the death toll.
Tommy came home at the end of June. The taxi pulled up to the door, driver half-carrying him because he could barely lift his arms. Bandages thick as boxing gloves, his face grey. He stopped in the living-room doorway and stared at the cot like he’d never seen a baby in his life. Jean waited for him to say something daft like he always did. He just reached out with one mittened hand and touched Harry’s cheek.
“Got my nose,” he rasped, then shuffled past her to the chair.
After that he was there but not there. Nights he sat with the telly on till the national anthem, bottle of brown ale by his foot, staring at nothing. Sometimes Jean came down in her dressing-gown and he didn’t even look round.
One night in August a motorbike backfired on Lumb Lane. Tommy hit the floor like he’d been shot, curled up muttering to himself repeatedly. Harry woke screaming upstairs. Jean got down beside him, held him till he stopped shaking, then hauled him to bed still in his clothes because she hadn’t the strength to undress him.
By autumn he’d taken to sitting in the shed with the coal and the spiderwebs. He’d go out after tea with four cans in a carrier bag and stay till the street was asleep. She tried once, stood in the doorway with a cup of tea gone cold.
“Tommy, come in the house, love.”
He looked straight through her, then turned back to the wall.
Jean told herself it’d get better. Told herself the old Tommy was still in there, just hiding. But most nights she stood at the sink in the dark, arms wrapped round herself, feeling sick with the same thought that wouldn’t leave her alone.
He’d walked out of that fire.
He just hadn’t brought the rest of himself with him.
November 1992
Bradford
The old scarf is nailed up on the picture rail over the gas fire, same spot it's been forever. Still got the claret and amber stripes, but they're faded now and the ends look all charred, like someone's left it too close to the flames. Nobody goes near it - Mum just feathers the duster around the edges, like she's scared it'll fall apart.
Harry wakes up to the front door clicking shut. Mum's off to the early shift at the mill. She sticks her head in his room, hair scraped back under that paper hat.
"Keep an eye on your dad, chuck. Toast's under the grill. See you after six."
He mumbles something, eyes still gummed up with sleep, thinking about that screamer he bent in at school yesterday.
Tommy's up by nine. He shuffles about like he's wading through treacle, makes two mugs of builder's tea - proper strong, no sugar - and slides one over to Harry. No chat, just the clink of the spoon.
They sit there slurping while Grandstand drones on about the afternoon's games. When the results ticker starts, Tommy twists the knob to kill the volume, like he can't stand the commentators getting too excited.
Half past one, they're out the door. Harry's in his replica top that's still baggy on him, sleeves rolled up and Tommy's got his battered coat on, the one from way back. They head down Lumb Lane, dodging the empty shops and that corner shop. Tommy's hand lands on Harry's shoulder - it's warm enough, but loose, like he's just pointing the way rather than holding on proper.
The ground's all shiny with the new stand, concrete steps and rows of plastic seats. Tommy gets the tickets - one adult, one kid - and they trek up to the top of the Midland Road end. Always the back row for him, right by the stairs. Harry rabbiting on about the new centre-forward and Tommy just nods, voice so quiet you have to lean in.
"Quiet now, lad. Game's on."
Bradford bang one in after eight minutes. The whole place erupts. Harry leaps up, flapping his arms. Tommy jerks back at the noise, hands coming up halfway like he's blocking a slap, then drops them into his pockets. You can see his mouth working, no sound, just counting under his breath like he's tallying something nobody else can spot.
Pies at half-time. Tommy stays put while Harry joins the queue, comes back with gravy dripping down his shirt. Tommy's away, gazing at the empty grass.
After the whistle, they cut across to Manningham Park. Tommy sits his usual bench, palms flat on his thighs. Harry gets stuck into his blow-up ball, booting it against the fence over and over, yelling "Goal!".
He nips back once or twice. Tommy's eyes are on him, softer than usual. Harry grins. "Fancy a go, Dad?"
Tommy hauls himself up, creaky as the garden gate. He taps it back gentle, then wallops one that rolls halfway to the bandstand. Harry hollers and scarpers after it. When he spins round, there's Dad with a proper grin - small, just for them, like sunlight sneaking through clouds. For a minute they knock it about, breaths puffing white in the chilly air with no need for words.
Then some kid down the path sets off a leftover banger and it echoes like a gunshot off the brick walls. Tommy locks up, face gone grey. The grin disappears. He hunches over, hands jammed in his pockets.
Harry knows the drill. He scoops up the ball and trudges over.
Tea that night is egg and chips, Mum dragging in from work with her feet dragging like she's walked to Leeds and back. Clogs caked in dust, legs aching under her slacks. She plates it up quick, listening to Harry's babble about the goal and the park while she rubs her arches under the table. Tommy picks at his fork, scraping the china.
Bedtime, but Harry's not tired. He tiptoes down the stairs, perching on the third one from the bottom where the carpet's thinnest. Mum's voice drifts up, sharp but hushed.
"Come on, Tommy, you have to make an effort. He's only little. Needs his dad about."
Tommy's answer gets swallowed by the telly's low hum, some late-night quiz.
"I'm scared, Jean. If I get too close, I'll drag him down with me."
Harry slips back up, boards groaning under his socks. He burrows under the covers, staring at the orange streetlight peeking through the curtains and whispers it to the dark like a swear.
One day I'll get Dad yelling at a game. Really loud, till it shakes the ghosts right out.
He doesn’t know how. But he's going to.
Spring 1994
Fagley Primary School
The pitch is half mud, half dog poo and the goals are made from jumpers.
Harry Fothergill is almost nine and has been begging Mr Hargreaves for weeks.
Finally the PE teacher writes his name on the teamsheet in biro:
Fothergill - right midfield.
First match is against Byron Primary. Harry wears his older cousin’s boots two sizes too big, stuffed with newspaper so his feet don’t slide. He scores with his left, a scruffy toe-poke that squirms under the keeper and the whole team mobs him. When he looks up to the touchline for the reaction he’s been dreaming of, there’s only Jean in her mill coat clapping with frozen hands. Tommy isn’t there.
He starts every game after that. The newspaper gets soggy and the boots rub blisters but Harry doesn’t complain. Jean notices. One Friday she comes home from the mill with her wages in a small brown envelope and, without saying a word, peels off two pound coins and drops them into an old coffee jar on the mantelpiece next to the scarf.
“Every week,” she says, tapping the jar. “Proper boots by summer. Ones that fit.”
Harry nods so hard his neck hurts.
May brings the inter-schools tournament at Woodhall playing fields. Quarter-final against Lapage. Word has somehow reached Tommy; maybe Jean told him, maybe he just remembered the date. Harry spots him ten minutes before kick-off standing alone at the far end behind the goals, hands deep in the pockets of his old duffel coat. He doesn’t wave, doesn’t come closer.
Harry plays the best football of his life. He tackles like he’s trying to win the ball for every lost soul in that burnt stand. In the second half he skins two defenders and crosses for Darren Kelly to score the winner. The parents on the touchline go mad. Harry spins round, searching.
Tommy is still there, half-hidden by a sycamore tree. For a second their eyes meet. Harry lifts both arms, grinning so wide his face aches.
Tommy lifts one hand, almost shy, then turns and walks away along the path before the final whistle even sounds.
On the way home Harry is quiet in the back of Jean’s friend’s Cortina. When they pull up outside the house he finally asks the question he’s carried for weeks.
“Mam, why does dad never stay till the end?”
Jean’s hands tighten on the plastic bag of shopping. She doesn’t answer straight away.
That night the kids from the estate are playing kerbie outside the house. Harry’s kicking a tennis ball against the wall when Wayne Mitchell, a tall lad for 10 years old, pipes up.
“Your dad’s the fire bloke, innit? The one what got burnt.”
The ball stops dead.
Wayne’s little brother chips in. “My dad says he’s soft in the head now. Hears fireworks and shits himself.”
Harry drops the ball and walks straight over. The first punch is wild, catches Wayne on the cheek. The second lands solid on the nose. Jean comes flying out in her slippers, drags Harry off by the ear while Wayne’s mum screams blue murder.
Inside, Jean sits him on the settee and wipes his knuckles with antiseptic.
“They’re only kids, Harry. They don’t know, do they?.”
“I don’t care,” he says, voice cracking. “They don’t talk about him like that.”
Jean looks at him for a long time. Then she reaches up to the mantelpiece, unscrews the coffee jar and tips the coins into his hand. Twenty-four pounds exactly.
“Come on,” she says. “Sport shop’s still open. Let’s get you boots that fit.”
Harry stares at the money, then at the scarf on the wall, black-edged and silent.
One day, he thinks again, I’ll buy him a ticket and make him stay till the end.
I’ll be good enough that he has to.
October 17, 2000
Lumb Lane
I let myself in with the key under the plant pot because the lock’s been stiff for months.
School bag slides off my shoulder and thumps on the lino. The house smells wrong: no chip fat, no kettle boiling, just cold and that sour beer fug that’s lived in the carpet since summer.
“Dad, you awake?”
Nothing. Telly’s off for once.
He’s in the armchair like always but his head’s dropped forward this time, chin on his chest. The bottle on the floor has leaked a brown patch almost to the fireplace. His right hand dangling, knuckles brushing the wet patch like he was trying to pick the bottle back up and never quite managed it.
I know straight away. You just do.
I still say it, though. “Dad?”
His skin’s grey. Not pale, grey, like the ash from the tip of a cigarette. I touch his neck the way we got shown in first-aid at school last year. Nothing. No flutter, no warmth. Just the little scar under his jaw from the fire that I used to trace when I was little and he let me sit on his knee.
I don’t remember ringing the ambulance but I must have because the woman on the phone keeps asking if the ambulance is here yet and I keep saying no, not yet. I sit on the floor next to the chair and hold his hand. It’s heavy and the fingers won’t bend any more. I talk rubbish, just noise really: stuff about the match on Saturday, how I nutmegged Wayne Mitchell in training, how I’m sorry I forgot to take the bins out.
The paramedics are kind. One of them has a Bradford City badge on his jacket pocket. They don’t rush. They cover Dad with a blanket and ask if there’s anyone else home. Mum’s on lates at the hospital.
When she walks through the door at half-six with a poke of chips wrapped in the Telegraph & Argus, she takes one look at me standing in the living-room doorway and the chips hit the floor. Vinegar everywhere.
She doesn’t scream. She makes a noise I’ve never heard before or since, like something tearing inside her chest and moves on her knees holding me so tight I can’t breathe.
The funeral is the next Tuesday. Rain so hard it bounces back off the pavements. Scholemoor Cemetery is packed for a weekday: old lads from the fire survivors’ group, a couple of faces I recognise from the stands, neighbours who never spoke to Dad but turn up anyway because that’s Bradford.
The coffin’s got a City flag over it. Someone’s done the flowers nicely: one wreath shaped like the crest, another like a scarf, the exact claret and amber of the one still hanging at home. They look ridiculous and perfect against the mud.
Mum stands straight in her black coat. She hasn’t slept since it happened and I’ve heard her pacing downstairs every night. Her hand is clamped round mine so hard I lose feeling in my fingers.
The vicar says the usual words. When he gets to “ashes to ashes” Mum’s grip tightens and I feel her shake once then stop.
Afterwards we go back to the house and the front room smells of damp coats and egg sandwiches. People keep pressing cups of tea into my hand and saying daft things like “he’s at peace now” and “he was proud of you, Harry.” I nod because it’s easier than speaking.
When the last one leaves, Mum shuts the door and leans on it for a second. Then she walks over, puts both hands on my shoulders and looks me dead in the eye.
“We keep going, Harry,” she says, voice hoarse but steady. “That’s what we do. We keep going.”
I start crying then, properly, the sort that comes from your gut and she holds me until I’m empty.
Later, when the house is quiet and the rain’s still drumming on the window, I take the scarf down from the picture rail. It’s stiff with age and smoke. I fold it into a square, press it to my face and breathe in what’s left of him.
I’m fifteen. I’ve got no dad, no money and GCSEs I’m already failing.
But I’ve got this scarf.
And I’ve got a promise to keep.
June 2001
Hanson Academy
Results day is a Thursday, hot, air thick with that freshly-cut-grass smell from the caretakers mowing the field. Everyone’s milling about the corridor holding the same brown envelopes. I’ve got mine clutched so tight the corner’s gone soggy. I don’t open it in front of anyone, I leg it round the back of the bike sheds, lean against the wall where no one can see and rip the thing open.
Five GCSEs. Two Ds, two Es, and a big fat U in Maths.
Feels about right.
I’ve been a ghost since Dad died. Roll in late, slope out early, sit staring at the windows while teachers bang on about rivers and algebra. Whenever one of them asked what was up I just shrugged. Didn’t need to explain; half the school already knew. You could see it in their eyes, that look teachers get when they feel sorry for you. Made me want to put my fist through the plasterboard.
Mr Hargreaves never gave me that look.
Last day of term I’m still at school at half-four, everyone else long gone. I’ve found a scuffed Mitre in the store room and I’m leathering it against the sports-hall wall, over and over, the bang echoing across the empty yards. Hargreaves comes out the side door in his usual grey tracksuit, whistle dangling, arms folded, watching me for a bit.
“Knew you’d still be here, Fothergill.”
I trap the ball under my foot and wait.
He walks over, picks the ball up, gives it a little knock against the brick and catches it clean.
“Results shit, then?”
“Pretty much.”
He nods like that’s that, then jerks his head toward the hall. “Goals are up. Come on.”
Next hour is just us two. He pings balls at me, makes me sprint to cones, shoot, trap, head the thing till my shirt’s plastered to my back and my chest’s on fire. Proper old-school stuff he probably did himself when he was turning out for Guiseley. For once my head’s empty. Nothing about Dad, nothing about the envelope in my bag, just the slap of leather and the squeak of trainers.
When we’re done he chucks me a bottle of water out the fridge and drops onto the bottom row of the bleachers, breathing hard like he’s enjoyed it as much as I have.
I sit next to him, neck the water.
He lets the quiet sit a minute, then says, “Your dad played one game with me, Sunday League, ’84. Dirty sod in the tackle but he never hid. That steel’s in you, Harry.”
I stare at the floor.
“I lost my old man when I was seventeen,” he says. “Different story, same size hole. You either fall in or you climb out swinging. I’m not watching you fall in, lad.”
He stands up, claps me on the back. “Monday, half-three. Every day through summer if you want it. No sympathy. Just work.”
I nod. Can’t manage much else.
That night I Blu-tack the results letter to the wall above my bed, right next to the scarf. I stare at the grades until they swim. Then I dig out the boots Mum saved up for out of that coffee jar and go out into the street. I kick that ball against the gable end until my toes are numb and the streetlights come on.
Steel, I keep thinking with every thud.
Steel.
Mid 2000s
Bradford, West Yorkshire
Harry leaves Hanson on the last day of Year 11 with nothing but a cardboard folder of failed coursework and a handshake from Mr Hargreaves. No sixth form, no college, no real plan. Just a promise to himself that he won’t end up like Dad.
First job is nights sorting parcels at the ParcelForce depot on Sticker Lane. He’s on the 4 a.m. shift because the money’s alright and they pay weekly. The place stinks of diesel and wet cardboard. By the time he clocks off at noon his hands are black from the conveyor belts and his back aches like he’s thirty, not sixteen.
Jean has moved to permanent nights at St Luke’s as it’s better money and double time after 10 at night. They pass like ships: he’s coming in the door with a pasty when she’s going out in her navy uniform, hair scraped back, eyes already tired. Sometimes they manage five minutes at the kitchen table.
“You eaten, love?”
“Yeah, Mam.”
“Money in the jar for petrol?”
“Put twenty in yesterday.”
That’s it. Then she’s gone and he’s asleep on the settee with the telly still on.
Weekends are the only time he breathes.
Saturday mornings he’s in the van doing overtime drops round Girlington and Heaton with radio on loud. Sundays belong to football.
He plays right midfield for Thornbury Celtic in the Bradford Sunday League Division Four. Muddy pitches behind pubs, goals made of drainpipes, crowds of hung-over dads and barking dogs. He scores eight, assists twelve and gets booked two times for mouthing off. The changing room is a portacabin that smells of Deep Heat and damp socks and it feels more like home than Lumb Lane ever has.
Next season he jumps to Woolpack Arms in Division Two. A better standard, just with worse hangovers. They train Wednesday nights on the astroturf at Grange Sports Centre then pile into the pub after. Harry’s the youngest by five years but the hardest tackler. The skipper, Gaz, starts calling him Fireproof because nothing knocks him over.
Money is still tight. One Sunday he sees an advert in the T&A: referees wanted, £18 a game plus expenses. He does the six-week course at Belle Vue barracks on Tuesday nights after work, half-dead on his feet. First game he officiates is an under-14s cup tie at Woodhouse Grove. He gives a penalty in the eighty-second minute and both benches scream at him like he’s murdered someone. He loves it. The power, the whistle, the fact that for ninety minutes nobody can touch him.
By spring 2005 he’s doing two games every Sunday, one as ref, one as player. Leaves the house at 8 AM with a kitbag and a packed lunch Mum left in the fridge, gets home at six stinking of mud and liniment. Some weeks he brings home £120 cash in a brown envelope. He gives Jean £80, keeps £40 for boots and beer.
They barely speak any more. He leaves notes on the table saying “BIN OUT, GOT MILK, LOVE YOU” and finds replies in her handwriting “PROUD OF YOU HAZ, MIND THE ROAD”. Once a month she leaves a new packet of biscuits on his bed with a Post-it: “For the van, champion.”
The lads on the pitch become everything. Gaz who drives him home when the van’s off the road. Stevie who tapes ankles like a pro. Old man Docker who stands in goal and lauds every time Harry wins a tackle.
One Sunday in April, Woolpack win 4-3 in the cup semi-final. Harry scores the winner and the whole team piles on him behind the goal. Someone’s filming on a Nokia. When he watches it back that night, muddy and buzzing on the settee, he realises he’s laughing properly for the first time since he was fifteen.
He rings Mum at the hospital even though it’s four in the morning.
“I scored a worldie, Mam.”
She laughs down the phone, tired but warm. “That’s my boy. Keep going, love.”
He hangs up, looks at the scarf on the wall and whispers to the empty room:
“I am, Dad. Watch me.”
2006 – 2010
Bradford, West Yorkshire
The warehouse on Bowling Back Lane is a freezer in winter and a sweatbox in summer. Harry stacks pallets of bathroom fittings from six till four, £6.40 an hour. After nine months his knees sound like gravel and the supervisor docks him half a shift for falling asleep on a forklift. He walks out at lunch and never goes back.
Double-glazing salesman is worse. They give him a clipboard and a company Polo shirt two sizes too big and send him round knocking doors. Old ladies slam them in his face; young couples laugh at the prices. He lasts six weeks and makes £312 commission. The manager still takes 40% “for leads”. Harry tells him where to stick the leads and leaves the shirt on the desk.
Council maintenance is steadier. Parks & Landscapes, hi-vis jacket, van shared with a lad called Kev who never stops talking about Leeds. They cut grass, empty bins, fix fences, unblock drains. £17,200 a year before tax. Enough to breathe.
He’s twenty-one and the Woolpack lads are fed up with the old manager who drinks the subs money. One night in the tap room they shove a pint in Harry’s hand and say, “You’re having it, Fothergill. You already do everything anyway.”
He takes over in summer 2007. Still plays right-back or holding midfield, whichever is bleeding worst. Pays for his FA Level 1 out of his own pocket which he can barely afford and does the course on Tuesday nights in a portakabin at Woodhouse Grove. Level 2 the year after. Nights after work he’s on the settee with the lamp pulled close, Jean snoring under a blanket on the other chair, red biro all over Rothmans manuals and old VHS tapes of Arrigo Sacchi he bought off eBay. He falls asleep with the light still on and pen marks on his cheek.
In the first season they finished third in Division One and won the District Cup on penalties in a monsoon at Myrtle Park. Harry scores the decisive kick, slips on his arse and cries in the mud because nobody’s watching except the lads and a couple of dogs.
2008-09 they went one better: champions with sixty-four points. Harry’s twenty-three, hungover every Sunday and it’s the proudest he’s ever felt. He gets the trophy engraved on credit at the jeweller’s and pays it off £20 a week for months.
2009-10 they do the double with the league again, plus the County Sunday Cup at Horsfall. After the final whistle the lads carry him off on their shoulders while someone blasts “Don’t Look Back in Anger” from a phone. He looks up at the grey May sky and for a second he swears he can feel Dad’s hand on his shoulder.
Jean comes to the presentation night, the first time she’s been out after a night shift in years. She’s tiny in her good coat, hair permed for the occasion, clapping till her hands are red. When they hand Harry the big shield she stands on tiptoe and kisses his cheek in front of everyone.
“That’s my lad,” she says, loud enough for the whole room to hear. “Told you we keep going.”
That night he gets home at two, still drunk on lager and pride. He hangs the second medal on the picture rail next to the scarf, right where the light catches it.
Then he sits on the carpet with his head in his hands and whispers, “Two titles, Dad. Two. I’m not done yet.”
Jean finds him asleep there at six, fully dressed, shield clutched to his chest like a teddy bear. She pulls a blanket over him, turns the lamp off and lets him dream.
You are reading "Harry Fothergill: Carrying the Flame".
