Beyond its high red brick walls lining the cobbles of Pond Hill, Ponds Forge seems peaceful, but inside metal flows in red rivers and showers the air with bright red rain. Cloth and flesh sears as it falls and curling the thick leather of heavy boots in the intense heat. Men scurried like Borrowers in the choking air at the bidding of a ferocious fiery demon whose searing heat roasts exposed flesh and fills throats with the choking phosphurous stench. Blackened faces peer through clouds of smoke and steam, guiding molten metal into waiting crucibles and manoeuvring glowing sheets through rollers with huge pincers like cloth through a mangle.
Charlie Hardwick dropped the head of his long-handled pincers to the ground wearily, sending a shower of dust up from the hot earth of the foundry floor. Sweat pouring from his brow, he lifts his frayed cap and drags it across his forehead leaving streaks of black ash in place of sweat and giving out a long, rasping breath. Unhooking a bottle from his belt, he takes a long swig of warm water. Then, bending to pick up his rough woollen jacket from a pile of sand, he swings it over his broad, aching shoulders to make his way to clock out.