Tuesday, October 21, 2008

Margaret Webster 'PROTECTING THE MEMORIES'

She’d seen him earlier that morning, trundling a wooden cart behind him. He was a serious little boy of about eight with a home-cut hairstyle reminiscent of a past generation. She supposed him to be a child with a determined independence: a boy on a mission. He’d chosen his day well; the recycling boxes were out, filled with glass jars, bottles and tins – and old newspapers and magazines; his anticipated ‘booty’.
It was November 4th and she knew those newspapers were intended for a bonfire. She’d done the very same thing as him in the days leading up to Bonfire Night. She’d taken her turn to go round the doors asking for things to build the bonfire they always had on ‘Malcolm’s field’. It wasn’t Malcolm’s field of course; his house just happened to be on the edge of that piece of wasteland instead of in the streets where the rest of the gang lived, but they all acknowledged his ownership of the field – and the bonfire they built on it. The gang who lived at the top of the Buggy Lonnen had other ideas, and ‘raids’ were a common occurrence, so vigilance was paramount. Bonfire building was a serious undertaking.
She smiled; maybe those days were not so long gone. It would explain the intensity of the boy’s expression as he’d checked right and left at each stopping off point. Or maybe he had just been keeping a lookout for the Recycling Crew! Bonfire building was fraught with obstacles.
Now here he was, in the clearing behind the Rugby Club. He’d collected quite an assortment of combustible goods and had added them to a passable attempt at a pyre of branches and papers. It looked more like an Indian wickiup that she had seen once in The Treasure; her favourite junior comic. The brightly coloured covers of the magazines that were wedged tightly between the branches did resemble Indian mats and the boy, squatting cross-legged in the centre of the shelter, completed the illusion. He was reading a copy of the Beano, taken from his pile. She had always made use of the free reading material while sitting guard over the half built bonfire. It was always cold work guarding the bonfire and the air was chilled today so he was wearing an over large sweater with holes in the elbows. She wondered if someone had given him it to make a Guy. Or perhaps he’d stumbled on a Charity Bag collection. The football scarf and knitted hat that he wore were definitely from a past era.
It was lovely to a see a homemade bonfire; the Council so often took sole charge of this event. Undoubtedly it was all part of their Community Services, and they did have ready-made access to available rubbish like trees, wood and household furnishings from the recycling centers. Bonfire Night had become a means to reduce the refuse mountain. But Bonfire Night had always been about youngsters getting together and team building to create their own wobbly structures. She left the boy absorbed in the adventures of Dennis the Menace.
She passed across the Rugby Field the next day – the day of the bonfire. A shiver of disenchantment ran over her; three Council workmen were throwing felled trees and bushes onto an already massive bonfire construction. Where was the homemade ‘wickiup’? They had done worse than ‘raid’ from it – they had completely erased it!
She should have known better than to suppose a child’s pile of paper and branches would survive the mandates of the Health & Safety Code of Practice. She was about to leave when she saw the boy picking up the stray rubbish littered around the site and putting them at the base of the monster creation, exactly where the little bonfire had once been. The men took no notice of him, almost as if he was a superficial extra to the proceedings. He was just as serious, but didn’t seem to be unduly bothered by this corporate takeover of his minor efforts.
A feeling of uncertainty took her back to the field as the afternoon light was fading. He was sitting there, cross-legged on top of a small wooden stool. He’d made another cubby-hole for himself at the side of the great bonfire. The stool acted as a safety device, wedged precisely to hold the space firm. She didn’t want to disturb him as he read his comic, but he looked up and a smile crossed his face. He was still the rightful owner of the bonfire and its sole protector.
The family-centred fireworks displays started as soon as it got dark. Dads across town were recapturing their lust for pyrotechnics just as dads had done down the generations. While this ritual was going on she had usually taken refuge behind the living –room window to watch Catherine wheels spinning on the back fence and Jumping Jack’s sending trails of sparks through the winter cabbages. The most daring thing she had done was to hold a sparkler at arms length in her mittened hand. She was deeply afraid of fire and loud noises. But she loved the thrill of the night and watched in awe as the showers of stars were sent skyward by rockets and Roman Candles. She’d metaphorically reached out to catch the falling ripples from the cascade Fountains. Then they had all gone to Malcolm’s Field where the dads had taken charge of setting alight their children’s united effort of bonfire building. There were plenty of jokes about saying a last goodbye to their warn out armchairs and broken, mildewed gates. The mums produced sticky gingerbread or toffee apples and flasks of hot soup. More sparklers were distributed and the ceremony of tossing the Guy onto the roaring fire was performed.
Tonight she stood at the back of the crows that had gathered to watch the Council’s organized Fireworks Display. It was quite spectacular with the synchronized flashes and complimentary colours. The rockets whizzed higher and the Catherine Wheels looked larger than she remembered. It was all a far cry from the hard earned yet meager displays in the back garden, but it hadn’t lost any of its magic for her. She still felt the same thrill, the same buzz of expectancy and the same fear, which was why she stayed so far back. Time stood still as the night-sky was bombed by light that sent echoes across the valley, illuminating the smallest leaf on the fragile autumn trees. Then it was over.
The crowds moved en-masse in the direction of a burger van and Hot Dog stall. She tried to make out a familiar face. She had expected to see the little boy, but he was not in the crowd. Two older boys held a small figure dressed in a tatty woolen jumper and were swinging it between them, making it dance grotesquely just above ground level. As they lifted it and flung it in the air she saw the football scarf trailing behind. Her heart stopped as the arms and legs flailed helplessly towards the fire.
‘Ee – I thought that was a real person!’ a woman giggled breathlessly to her neighbour. ‘But it’s just the Guy. It’s nice to see they still keep the traditions around here.’
‘I haven’t been back to this Bonfire for years, not since the tragedy.’ The second woman replied.
‘I didn’t live here then, but I heard about the eight year old who, died, while guarding the bonfire. Fell asleep reading a comic, poor little mite – wasn’t that it?’
‘Yes. The rival gang swore they didn’t know anyone was there. But it was a terrible thing when they set fire to the bonfire like that.’ The woman choked back her all too vivid memories.
‘It’s just as well the Council take charge these days. It protects the whole event and I wouldn’t want my children put in any danger.’

Danger! Yes, that was how she felt about Bonfire Night. She looked in earnest for the little boy. Had he come? Surely he would be here to see the bonfire? But it wasn’t really his bonfire; not like it had been hers in the old days.
The fire was beginning to decrease in proportion. The Council workmen had gone to get fish and chips over the road. No one was there to tell her to move away from the fire. Then she saw him; coming from behind the fire; reading the last comic. He was still alone, a solitary little figure highlighted in the fiery glow. He was still on his initial mission to see that the bonfire took place in the approved manner. The fire had burned down to the height of the original wickiup. It was a good little bonfire; like all the ones she had guarded on Malcolm’s field. The boy seemed less serious now as he looked in admiration at the burning branches. The mission was nearing its end for this perplexing child. He flicked through the pages of the comic. Comics and bonfires were synonymous for her. He tossed it on the fire and walked away.
He had enjoyed the bonfire, despite other people’s interference. The bonfire had remained safe, and he was safe. Malcolm and the field had gone, so too had the rows of houses where she had once lived, the Rugby Club had taken all their places, but the spot where the bonfire had always been was still vacant. It was important that the bonfire was built where it had always been. The little boy had sensed that. She was pleased to have been able to see him accomplish his task successfully.
She was feeling cold now. It was time to go. She accepted with satisfaction that another Bonfire Night was over as the last shriveled corners of the comic turned to ashes. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep reading the comic that afternoon; it was cold and she had snuggled down under an old blanket to keep warm. Malcolm must have been so annoyed with her for letting the Buggy Lonnen gang get near their bonfire. She stared into the fire; she could see the cubbyhole and the little wooden stool that she had put there to keep the place safe. The last bits of the comic were engulfed in a red flame.
She turned towards the heat and walked back into her bonfire.