Nathan climbed Provident Street and turned into Galt Place. He hated Mondays and he"d worked overtime on a rush job: his legs and back ached from welding in tight spaces and corners of the submarine hull. The fumes from spent rods tainted his mouth and the tight headpiece of the hood had left him with a headache. His eyes hurt from staring through the dark glass of the hood, as he controlled the direction of the weld.
He"d bathe his eyes in soothing, cold tea. He"d not slept well and spent a restless night worrying about Dorothy. Nathan wanted to wash the sweat and dirt from his body, and rinse the foul metal taste from his mouth, before sitting down to supper with Ma. Later quiet, studying music theory and practising the Arban Method on the muted Bach.
“Nathan. Is that you?” Ma said. “A
