by Shea, Alan
‘Expect I would.’
Now I’ve got to get down. Have to make sure I’ve got a good hold on the branch above with my hands before I let go with my legs.
‘You know if you fall you’re gonna break your neck?’
‘Not if I fall on you, I won’t.’
He carefully puts the binoculars he doesn’t have in a case he hasn’t got.
‘Hey, you seen the Spicers lately?’
For a second I look down. Nearly miss my footing.
‘No, why?’
‘They’ve been feeding our goats the News of the World.’ Norman’s dad keeps goats and chickens in the little garden at the back of their bungalow.
‘My dad said they’d get food poisoning.’
‘Who, the Spicers?’
‘No, the goats. Anyway, what d’you want with an old dead branch?’
‘It’s a peace offering.’
‘You’re a fruitcake, Al.’
‘Takes one to know one, Norm.’
‘Your mum’d kill you if she knew what you was doing.’
He’s right. One slip up here and . . .
I start to climb back down. That’s really easy. Just like sliding down a pole. I get to the bottom branch, jump off.
‘Thanks, Norm.’
‘What for?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘That’s all right. That’s what I’m good at. Nothing. That’s what my dad says. “Know what you’re good for, boy? Bloody nothing, that’s what.”’
I leave Norman laying mines and looking for German snipers near the swings. I drag the dead branch out of the park and down Burdett Road. Get some funny looks. There’s two blokes standing at a bus stop. One looks at his mate like he’s going to say something really witty. Then he says, ‘See you’re branching out on your own then, love.’ And falls about laughing. I stick my tongue out. Walk past.
It’s getting dark already when I get back to the bomb site. Rain falls heavily from the foggy autumn sky. This is where our secret camp is. Well, not so secret really – just the old air-raid shelter. I stack the branch next to the rest of the wood. Duck inside the shelter.
I come here a lot to think, or sometimes just to get away. It’s falling down in places. The old, rusty corrugated tin roof’s fallen off and some of the bricks have crumbled. The floor is just earth. But me and Reggie have made it all right. We’ve stuck up some old canvas as a roof to keep the rain out, and we found some milk crates to sit on.
I keep my stuff in here now, out of Bert’s way. My writing books, pencils and my Sherlock Holmes books are all in an old biscuit tin. I’ve had it for ever, ever since I can remember. I asked Mum once where it came from. She said it was a special present and she’d tell me why one day. On the lid is a picture of a girl with red hair, bit like me really. The picture is difficult to see now, because the lid’s pitted with red rust spots and a bit faded. The girl is sitting on a swing, looking out across a field. There’s something on the ground near to her but I can’t make out what it is. There’s the maker’s name on it but it’s all been scratched so I can’t read it, and next to it is written ‘Best Biscuits’ in this lovely curly writing. I wonder if they do one with ‘Worst Biscuits’ written on it too. One end of the tin is crumpled so it doesn’t fit any more. It looks like someone trod on it. Someone did. My stepdad.
I’d been trying to write a story. I was lying on the floor, had my stuff spread out around me. He bent over and nudged my elbow so that my pen left a streak of ink across the book. Then he laughed and slowly trod on the tin lid. One end just folded in. Squashed. I didn’t know why he did it. Still don’t. Maybe he guessed how much I loved it. For some reason, it always makes me think of my dad.
Mum never talks about my real dad. I used to ask her about him but she always got funny. Like she had to be on her guard. She’d always put me off.
‘Another time, Alice, I’m too busy at the minute.’
or
‘Tomorrow, love. I’ll tell you about him tomorrow.’
And guess what? Tomorrow never comes. Seems strange that she doesn’t want to talk about the man she loved, the man who was the other part of our family. That makes me sad, especially when I look at my stepdad and see the kind of things he does. Like he’s trying to show me something, to let me see that he’s bigger and stronger than me, that he’s the boss. Thing is, if he really loved me he wouldn’t want to boss me around.
8
Fireworks
I settle myself on one of our old milk crates. Rain hurries down as if it can’t wait to leave the sky. Drums its fingers on the canvas roof. I was hoping Reggie would be here. Hoping we could make it up.
I look out at the branch from the tree and think about our row. It started because I had to go and do an errand for my mum, so I gave Reggie my money to get the fireworks. He bought them at Giovanni’s sweet shop. Put them on his cart, then went next door to get something for Granddad. He saw the Spicers hanging around, but didn’t think anything of it. If it had been me I’d have thought a lot about it. For a start I’d have thought the Spicers and unattended fireworks don’t go together. In fact, the Spicers and anything unattended don’t go together – even your unattended granny. If it’s not nailed down, they’ll pinch it. If it is, they’ll just pinch the nails first.
When he came out of the shop the fireworks were gone. The whole box – five shillings’ worth. I had a real go at him. He was upset. Said he was sorry. Most people would have left it there. Not me – I told him to get lost, and he went. Razor tongue strikes again. I felt awful. Maybe one day I’ll think before I open my big mouth.
I’d been looking forward to tonight for ages, as well. Dreaming of all those lovely fireworks. Now all we’ve got between us is a couple of packets of sparklers and bad feelings. I told the other kids I’d invited from school we’d lost the fireworks. I thought it was only fair. Most of them said they wouldn’t bother to come over just to see a bonfire. They’d go and find some other street with a bonfire and fireworks. George said he’d try to get over later. Veronica said she’d do whatever George did. I said she should make up her own mind. I was a bit disappointed with Veronica. We’re good friends. But then, she does like George.
Oh, well. Suppose I’d better swallow my pride and go and find Reggie.
I’m about to get up.
‘Alice?’
He whispers my name as if he’s afraid of it. I get up too quickly and bang my head on the canvas roof. Water shoots off. He peers around the corner.
‘Thought I’d f-find you here. Me and Granddad thought we’d g-get the bonfire ready, if that’s all right with you.’
Flash pokes his head in between Reggie’s legs. Looks really funny, like he hasn’t got a body. He must be the nosiest dog in the world; always has to know what’s going on. He sees me and barks. I’m really glad to see them, but I’m going to act as if I’m not really bothered.
‘What about the rain? You’ll never get it to light in this.’
‘There’s just a few m-more bits of wood to stack. By the time we’ve finished it might have stopped. You going to h-help?’
I duck out. Look around. Like I’m making up my mind. Really, it’s already made up.
‘Yeah, I might.’
‘Come on, it’ll b-be great.’
‘I got you another bit of wood.’ I point to the branch I got from the park.
He grins. ‘B-blimey, I thought that must have been dropped by a giant b-bird building a very large n-nest.’
‘Reggie.’
‘What?’
‘That’s not funny. And don’t say blimey. It’s common.’
‘You say it.’
‘That’s different.’
He smiles. So do I. Never was any good at being angry. Life’s too short, Mum always says.
‘F-friends?’
‘Friends.’
‘Let’s g-get going then.’
‘Won’t be a minute, I’ve just gotta get Mrs Gilbey. I promised I’d call for
her when we were gonna light it.’
He moves aside to let me out, brushes my arm, accidentally on purpose. Flash runs around barking. Starts digging in the dirt.
‘Sorry that I w-went and left the fireworks where the Spicers could get them.’
‘That’s all right. I’m sorry too.’
‘I’ve got a f-feeling it’s going to be a really good bonfire night.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Yes, I do.’
I look up. Don’t think the weather agrees with him. The rain starts to drift in heavy, flat sheets, cold and grey against the sky. If it keeps up it’ll spoil everything. I walk to Mrs Gilbey’s, really wishing it would stop. Start singing ‘rain, rain, go away, come again another day’ like I used to when I was a kid.
Mrs Gilbey’s house is only across the road from the bombed debris, so it doesn’t take long, but by the time I get there I’m soaked. The lamp in her window throws a blur of cream light through the curtains. I knock. It seems to take her an age to answer. The door opens. Light spills out on to the pavement, pulls her out with it.
‘Hello dear, nice to see you.’
‘Sorry I’ve not been round for a while, but things got a bit complicated.’
‘Don’t they always. Everything all right now?’
‘Yeah. I’ve come to get you for the bonfire.’
‘Not going to put me on it, I hope?’
I laugh. ‘Not straight away.’
‘Cheeky.’
‘We’ve not got any fireworks, though. Reggie . . . well, they sort of got lost.’
‘Never mind, love. A bonfire is fine. Can’t beat a good bonfire.’
‘Granddad’s gettin’ ready to start.’
‘Right, we’d better go then.’ She looks up. ‘You might have a bit of a problem getting it to light in this rain, Alice. Blessed nuisance. I’ll just get a headscarf.’
I step in and wait for her. She goes to a drawer and takes out a pretty red and gold headscarf.
‘There. I feel quite excited. Ready?’
She offers me her arm and I slip mine through hers. She feels warm, and smells of lavender soap and cake. She’s safe and strong. You know she won’t let you down.
We step out into the night. She pulls her coat around her. It’s a nice coat – fawn colour, with a big wide collar she turns up around her face. We huddle against the drizzle.
I really wish the rain would stop. Why can’t it be a bright starry night? I can just see it, a clear blue-black sky fuzzy with stars. Just the night you want for a bonfire. The thoughts in my head turn. Wrap around each other. I imagine the best firework display in the world in a clear night sky: rockets and bangers and Roman candles and spinning Catherine wheels.
Mrs Gilbey looks up and holds out her hand to catch raindrops. Looks puzzled.
‘Goodness me, it is stopping. They said on the wireless it’d rain all night. Oh well, maybe they’ll get it right one of these days.’
I look up into the darkness. The sky suddenly clears. Stars prick, wink a million winks. How great is that.
‘Must be your lucky night, dear.’
When we get to the debris, Reggie and Granddad have already got the bonfire lit. Mad sparks tear off like fireflies, scattering into the sky.
Granddad piles on more wood. I wave to him. His face flickers shades of red, caught up in the glow of the fire. He has his penknife out and is sharpening the end of a stick.
‘Reggie’s just gone to get some potatoes to roast. We forgot to bring them.’
He stops. I can see him looking at Mrs Gilbey, wondering who she is.
‘Granddad, this is Mrs Gilbey.’
The flames light up his face. ‘Good evening to you, ma’am.’
‘Mrs Gilbey is . . .’ I don’t know what to say.
She helps me out. ‘A friend.’
Granddad smiles. Makes a kind of bow and holds out his hand. ‘Pleasure to meet you. Angus Macdonald.’
I nearly laugh. That must be his name. Mrs Gilbey shakes his hand.
I hear Flash barking. He sees me. Comes running up, wagging his tail, nosing around. His tongue is a flannel; gives my face a wash. Then Reggie appears out of the darkness, carrying an old shopping bag. He sees us, waves and smiles.
Granddad takes the bag and shakes out five huge potatoes. ‘Now for the feast, eh?’
He turns to Mrs Gilbey with a big smile. ‘Would you like to join us? You’d be most welcome.’
She smiles. ‘That sounds very nice, Mr Macdonald. I’d be delighted.’
Granddad takes one of the potatoes, puts it on the end of the stick and slides it into the embers. He does it again until there are four potatoes roasting. I can almost taste them already.
As it gets darker the fire gets brighter. The flames take hold. Fingers of fire caress the wood. Magicians’ fingers, coaxing it into flame. On top of the bonfire the Guy’s clothes shrivel in the heat. The warmth of the fire hugs me. I can feel its heat on my face, taste the smoke. It gets into my eyes and makes them water. I can smell it on my clothes.
I look round at Reggie and Granddad and Mrs Gilbey. It’s funny, a while ago I was thinking things couldn’t get any worse. That they’d never get better. Shows how wrong you can be. Standing here is the best.
The bonfire collapses in on itself, spits and hisses at us like some angry dragon. Other people, attracted by the fire, begin to drift across. Granddad rakes over the white-hot diamonds of wood. They burst into flames as he touches them.
I’m hungry now. I look at the jacket potatoes. Reggie fishes one out and gives it to me.
I break it. Let it cool. Steam folds into the air; smells great. My tummy waters. My mouth says ‘wait for me’. The sweet white inside blisters into flavour on my tongue.
Granddad takes out a small piece of newspaper, twisted into a spiral, filled with salt. He offers it around. This is great. Being here in the cold and dark, crunching into our potatoes. The only thing missing is the fireworks. But at least we’ve got our bonfire, and you have to be grateful for what you’ve got, Mum says. That’s only common sense, because you can’t be grateful for what you haven’t got, can you?
I start thinking about how brilliant it would have been to have had our own fireworks. I imagine the noise and the colour and the sky alight with flaming stars . . .
A rocket splits the darkness. Explodes in the sky. Out of the blue. Out of the dark. Unexpected. It makes me jump. Another launches, so close I can feel it as it sears past me. It tears the darkness, shedding a silver spray, shredding a path upwards through the sky. Then another. Their paths dissect and cascade into a pattern of light and sound; beautiful music that patters down on our heads like singing rain.
I call out, ‘Look at that!’
Granddad sucks in his breath.
‘Well I never.’
Mrs Gilbey sighs. ‘They’re beautiful!’
It’s just what I imagined our fireworks would be like. The best! Only thing is, we don’t have any. But they’re coming from somewhere. Lots of them. The night explodes. Firework colours paint the night: red, blue, green, silver, gold. The sky fizzes; wriggles and writhes with a life of its own. Rockets whisper secrets upwards. Bangers crack like rifles. Mrs Gilbey looks up into the night.
‘You are a tease, Alice. I thought you said you didn’t have any?’
‘We didn’t . . . at least, I didn’t think we did.’
‘Well, it’s a lovely surprise.’
Firework follows firework. Tail-chasing, star-gazing, sky-blowing, mind-filling fireworks.
‘Best I’ve ever seen. They’re wonderful!’ Granddad yells. ‘Where are they coming from?’
Good question. I look around to ask Reggie. He’s gone. I peer into the darkness. I can just see him crouching by the light of the fire. I half expect him to be lighting the fireworks. Funny thing is he doesn’t seem to be doing anything. I mean, he’s just staring into the sky too. Maybe he ran around lighting them all before, so that they went off one after another.
It’s the only explanation I can think of.
I go across. Just as I reach him, a Roman candle whooshes fireballs of colour. Fills the darkness with globes of fire. It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it.
‘Blimey, these are brilliant! Where d’you get ’em from?’
He looks at me. He’s got this puzzled look on his face.
‘I didn’t. They’re k-kind of just here.’
‘What d’you mean, “kind of just here”?’
He shrugs. Reggie’s good at shrugging. He could give lessons in shrugging. But he’s not getting away with it that easily. I can see he doesn’t want me to ask questions, so I do.
‘Come on, Reggie. What d’you mean? Fireworks don’t suddenly turn up for the night like they’ve got nothing else to do.’
From behind us a rocket fires into the sky.
‘L-look at that one.’
‘Never mind about that. Where did they come from?’
‘Does it m-matter?’
‘You didn’t nick them, did you?’
All around us rockets fizz, spit, then take off. Storm up in the sky. Die in the night. Then burst into life again. In the corner of the darkness, a fold of shadows, a Catherine wheel spins light. A spiral of colour, spitting golden sparks, like it’s telling its own story to the night. It goes on for ages, singing out its life, then stutters to a dying finish. When I look round, there are lots of people over by the bonfire. More are coming over from the next street.
‘There’s N-Norman and the others.’
‘Well, I don’t know how you got them, but they’re brilliant. I couldn’t have imagined fireworks like this, not in my wildest dreams.’
Reggie turns. Gives me a funny look. ‘I think you c-could, Alice.’ And he says the ‘you’ in a strange kind of way. Like if it was in a book, it’d be underlined. I think he’s got a screw loose.
Norman shouts something about Germans invading and to get our ammunition, or some such rubbish. He takes careful aim at the launching rockets. Shoots with deadly accuracy as they explode.
George and Veronica arrive. Veronica dances around. Centre of attention, as usual. George stands, hands in pockets. Then Veronica comes over.
