Bonfire Night

When I was around 6, we still lived in the town. One Bonfire night, Dad was working late, so on that dark, clear evening Mum and Auntie Gwen lit the fireworks for my sister and I. We oohed and aahed at the pretty showers of Roman Candles, felt the frisson of danger at a ‘Volcano’ and held fizzing sparklers aloft. Bangers were outlawed - we were gentle creatures then - but we agreed to just one Jumping Jack which we watched from a safe distance as it darted about in its random path.

At the bottom of the box lay a rocket. A small benign-looking affair.
‘No, Mum - too scary,’ we chorused.
But, egged on by the giggling Gwen, Mum stood the rocket in a milk bottle and lit the touch paper.
‘Quick, back to the house,’ We retreated to watch from behind the French-window. Swoosh. Silence. Then the crash and tinkle of broken glass.


Lights went on in the bedroom of the H’s house that our garden backed on to, and we could see the jagged hole in one of the panes.


‘Right - shut the window,’ Mum gasped, ‘Put the lights out.’


Hands to mouths, we stood shivering in the dark. We waited for the Knock on the Door.
When it came, Mum snapped back into Sensible Grown-up Mode. Patting her hair and straightening her dress, she put on a brave face and switching on the hall light, went to answer the door.







The next day Dad arranged for a glazier to fix the H’s window and neighbourly harmony was restored.


But I had learnt something about grown-ups.: Mum had been as scared as a naughty child. And for a moment had been prepared to take the ‘dishonest’ path, and to pretend that it was not our fault.


I’m glad she thought better of it!