If the good Lord really does move in mysterious ways, I can now confirm He contracts the décor to my Aunt Effie. The corridor through which she propelled me that morning—part ceremonial march-past, part hostage transfer—had been hastily upholstered in quilted crimson runners that gave underfoot like sponge cake. Every ten paces a lacquered sign flashed MIND THE MALE! and a pneumatic cherub perched above squirted lavender mist upon all pedestrians shorter than five-foot-ten (viz. yours truly).
"Safety first, poppet," Effie trilled, patting my arm as though checking for loose change. "The shareholders will sleep soundly knowing your ankles are cosseted."
At my shoulder Mabel glided with the serenity of an ecclesiastical lectern on wheels. A periscope camera sprouted from her collar like a prim metal swan, swivelling to record every indignity for Lady Brasswell's files. I murmured thanks; she replied—in a voice warm as oiled walnut—"Observational protocol engaged, sir. Do try not to perish."
We turned into the central foundry—an iron cathedral ribbed with gantries—and I braced for the clangour of industry. Instead, a hush fit for a nunnery sighed across the floor. Great machines stood idle, each draped in knitted tea-cosies of improbable size, their hazard levers tied with pink silk bows. Forewomen shepherded apprentices to a roped walkway, whispering the way one does at funerals when the deceased is shy.
Effie beamed. "Today, Harold dear, you shall participate in the noble work of Gearhart Heavy & Household—while remaining perfectly unscathed."
A whistle tweeted. From behind a barricade of stitched cushions emerged a workbench the size of a gentleman's hatbox. Upon it lay six teaspoons already polished to a brilliance that threatened the eyesight. A doll-sized screwdriver and a chamois cloth waited like stage props dreaming of a pantomime.
I coughed into my sleeve. "My remit, Aunt?"
"Teacup tasks, darling! Such dainty precision improves the feminine hand—why not the masculine?"
She installed me on a high stool whose legs were sheathed in felt, lest sudden altitude prove fatal. Apprentices—girls in goggles and grease-stained smocks—clustered nearby, hiding grins behind soot-black knuckles. I set about buffing spoons already bright enough to beckon ships at sea.
After two silent minutes (broken only by Mabel's camera clicking like a polite cricket) the great conveyor to my left juddered and wailed. A drive-belt slipped; red-hot rivets sparked across the cushioned deck. Apprentices froze. Protocol forbade them to approach a live machine without a supervisor, who at that moment was miles away taking tea in the brassworks pantry.
Effie ceased narrating my teaspoon triumph and whirled. "Good heavens! Girls, maintain distance—Mr Forsythe, stay seated."
Naturally, I did the very opposite.
Mabel's hand opened with a soft click, revealing a velvet-lined cavity containing a stubby spanner, a hair-pin, and an optimism I found touching. She let the tool-kit tumble into my lap beneath the tablecloth.
I slid from the stool, hopped the cushion wall, and reached the conveyor. The jammed gear gnashed like an aunt denied the floor at a musicale. Remembering an old bicycle trick, I wedged the hair-pin between the crooked teeth, levered sideways, and—praying to Saint Archimedes—shunted the gear back into alignment. A hiss of released steam fogged my spectacles; the belt purred forward, newly obedient.
The entire operation took perhaps ten seconds—long enough for Effie to shriek once but not long enough for her to produce smelling salts. When the vapour cleared I was standing, unboiled, beside a smoothly humming machine. Apprentices burst into applause, quickly smothered when Effie shot them the look reserved for shopkeepers who short-scale the sugar.
Chief Forewoman Agatha Rivet arrived at a gallop, wielding a torque wrench like the sword of Saint Joan. She opened her mouth to scold, then noticed the newly rhythmic thrum. Her severe eyebrows rose by measurable degrees.
"Who touched my line?"
I raised a meek hand.
She peered, first at the hair-pin, then at me, and finally at Effie, whose smile resembled a cracked teacup. "Interference," Agatha grunted, "but effective. Better meshed than in weeks." From a belt pouch she produced a small brass lanyard stamped TEMP-ENG, III. With ceremonial reluctance she looped it round my neck.
"Limited floor access," she muttered. "Scald yourself and I'll tan the hide you haven't got." Then she strode away, already shouting for someone to restart the boilers.
One of the younger apprentices flashed me a grin so bright the spoons grew jealous. Effie cleared her throat in the key of outrage.
"Commendation or not," she said, "my nephew will kindly resume his allotted polishing. Heroics are all very well, but investors prefer survival."
Our parade recommenced. Yet even Effie's lecture on the Inviolable Principles of Male Safety Accounting could not drown the susurrus of quietly astonished apprentices gossiping in our wake.
We paused beside a shelf of rejected prototypes: dented kettles, cracked valves, and a curious heap of burnt coffee grounds congealed like volcanic rock beneath an overflow pipe. Effie wrinkled her nose; Mabel's periscope snapped a photo.
I, meanwhile, pocketed a whistle valve whose mismatched aperture had probably doomed it. The cool brass felt promising in my palm—raw material awaiting a purpose. I inhaled. Beneath the scorch lay a bittersweet aroma, as though the beans had tried to become espresso and ended their lives as charcoal. An idea fluttered, not yet fully hatched.
"Touch nothing filthy, dear," Effie sang. "The press arrives any moment."
Right on cue a humming-bird drone buzzed through the clerestory, lenses whirring. Effie manoeuvred me to a dais, placed a teaspoon in my hand, and commanded a winning smile. I obliged, trying not to resemble a man polishing silver aboard the Titanic.
Mabel, unnoticed, extended her periscope behind my shoulder and flashed a mechanical thumbs-up while her optics projected the words ACTUAL ENGINEER in faint blue light across the back wall. The camera caught the lot.
Click-whirr. Tomorrow's headline wrote itself:
RARE CHAP RESCUES CONVEYOR, THEN POLISHES SPOONS—Duchess Declares Safety Scheme A Triumph
Effie sighed like a satisfied banker. "There, treasure. Public reassured, dignity preserved, no limbs lost. Let's retire for luncheon."
I bowed—careful to select Polite Incline, Category 3b (Non-binding)—and followed her towards the velvet exit ramp, Mabel trundling at my side. In my pocket the stray whistle pressed a small, urgent circle against my fingertips, and somewhere in the gloom behind us a boiler bubbled darkly over roasted grounds.
Opportunity, I reflected, often masquerades as scrap. Tonight, when the factory fell silent and the guest-wing locks clicked shut, a certain temporary engineer meant to test that theory—with a whistle, a handful of coffee charcoal, and perhaps a dash of reckless male endangerment.