Fire

By Maxim Griffin.

Evening – the clocks have shifted – dark by five – no frost yet but we can’t be far off – mind you, the shop had the mince pies out on the last day of August – the stations of another year hurtle past – there’s a ziggurat of pallets in a field on the edge of town and we are going to see it burn.

Word on the grapevine is that it’d be best to wear wellies – big squall two nights back softened the clay – fella on the internet says it’ll be worse than Passchendaele – this is obviously untrue – might be an idea to put on a proper coat though – something with herringbone and buttons.

Last year got cancelled due to weather, and work got in the way for a couple or three years before that, then there was the pandemic, of course – a quick show of hands suggests only the eldest recalls going to the fire at all – are we walking? Yes? How long will it take? Half an hour? Are we taking Meg? No, I’m staying here! No you’re not.

Trudging out – feels as though half the town is on the move, headed in the same direction – everyone gets funnelled to the long road after the church – big Georgian houses with yew trees and unlit windows, a Jag in the drive – a smaller child in hat and scarf is blowing bubbles – a gaggle of teenagers swagger along, all front and tracksuits – town faces, bloke from the flower stall, Pub Nigel, playground faces, Charlie’s mum, Charlie – a pair of PCSOs at the Road Closed sign seem to be enjoying themselves – on closed roads people fan out a bit, fill the space – heaps of leaves get kicked up and chucked.

Family event
The road sinks into a hollow – big trees either side – another big house – very haunted – then a picket of chaps in hi vis with buckets – each one repeating a little mantra – kids under 5 go free – 2 quid per older child, fiver per adult – cash only – there is music playing through some kind of speaker system – the sound travels too far and echoes back off the hills – there’s a fire engine on hand and a handful of stalls hawking hotdogs, pop, mulled wine and those foam wands with little lights inside – folks are already gathering at the rope boundary that rings the tower of wood.

There is a building at the top of the field – Edwardian, derelict – it was a school in living memory – local parents would use the school’s name as a threat – if you don’t behave, you’ll end up there – the name of the school became something of a local bogeyman – a strange place on the edge of town where bad children were sent – the school was actually very progressive and an early pioneer in special educational needs but folklore casts a big shadow – a five-year-old boy has lost the sausage of his hotdog and is understandably furious and wants a replacement – his guardian points to the old school at the top of the field.

Friends are bumped into, children stumble – some lads climbed a tree and no one seems to have noticed them yet – the ground is soft but not terrible – half of town must be here – expectation, hubbub – if this were the 16th century there’d be a dancing bear and an execution or two – the straw stuffed effigy atop the pallets will have to suffice.

Bonfire cheer
Fellas in hi vis gather at the base of the pyre – there’s a bit of back and forth going on – it’s struggling to catch – bit damp maybe – every man in the crowd thinks they have a better method – while Dads everywhere compile lists of best accelerant, a spark has taken root – smoke, crackle, there – a flame – fire springs forth – the fellas in the hi vis take a few steps back then a few more – a rogue breeze helps the situation – a little uplift, the breath of life – combustion spreads quickly – whoever stacked the pallets had the right idea – fire shifts gear and turns to inferno – straight, up, white hot – the crowd takes a collective step back – a lad holds his ground, face half covered in tracksuit top zipped up to his nose – he soon buckles and springs back into the relative safety of the shadows.

Those lads in the tree have been called down by official looking men – they melt into the crowd, who have taken a few more steps back – children shield their eyes but are compelled to look – the voice of the fire is louder than the prayers of the straw man – the straw man vanishes, upward in a crown of spits and embers – the fire eats itself, everything now alight – a sudden collapse of pallets causes a cheer to rise up – the fellas in the hi vis are looking sheepish and someone from the fire brigade is summoned via a walkie talkie – the music on the speaker system pumps out fire-themed hits and classics – Arthur Brown declares his divinity.

Half of town stares into the fire, clutching sausages, mulled wine and electric wands – the nails in the pallets are popping, molten – the music stops and an announcement is made – they’ve got such and such from local radio to compère the fireworks which will begin in 30 minutes and can everyone please take a few more steps back as the pyre is now hotter than the sun – this isn’t true, but it sounds good – everyone shuffles back – embers and ash have been cast up and are now descending – a soft grey rain of carbon – the ziggurat of pallets is now reducing to a shimmering mound of coals – a keen father passes marshmallows on sticks to his young collective but at this distance the heat will not have the desired effect, however, the act pleases the children and keeps them in line for a few more minutes.

There is activity in the next field – fuses are being primed, last checks done – hi vis fellas scamper to a safe distance – the first rocket splits the sky in half and everyone cheers, except the little boy whose hotdog fell.

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