When Samuel reached the kitchen he could not resist prodding the tray of parkin cake to check its consistency. He had spent a couple of hours the previous evening mixing oatmeal, scrumptious treacle, copious dollops of ginger, and greasing several cake trays in readiness for baking. Alas, the parkin was too soft and hot to test the final consistency before Samuel went to bed, and a somewhat restless night of sleep had ensued. However, at its morning inspection the parkin passed muster, and all that remained to be done was slice it when he got home from work. In fact, throughout the day Samuel's thoughts returned to the parkin. Would it taste alright ? Would it crumble ? And, more importantly, would the guests at the WI bonfire party like it ? Oh, the trials of being a cook ! There is something about Bonfire Night which brings out a touch pyromania in the British. In other parts of the world governments try to keep inflamed populations at arms length from incendiaries and explosives, but in these fair isles November 5th signals the adult population to fantasize that they are Guy Fawkes reincarnated; there to put parliamentary wrongs right with imaginary explosives under the House of Commons, and burn least favourite politicians, teachers and busybodies on tall bonfires. For youngsters, however, Bonfire Night is one of those esteemed days like Christmas or a birthday. A brief period of magic and thrills as brimstone and saltpetre cascade showers of sparks into the air and light up the night sky. Each year the local WI organised a celebration of the day at Vicar Wilbraham's, where a wilder part of the vicarage's back garden was set aside for such occasions. As usual the Dragon's chum, Brenda Higgins, organised invites to WI members and partners, and corralled local boy scouts into scavenging parties to locate wood and other suitably flammable materials for the bonfire. The icing on the cake, as any schoolboy or boy scout will tell you, is the Guy; put together with whatever creative imagination young minds can muster in the weeks before the night. And the local scouts usually did the event proud. At about seven o'clock Samuel and the Dragon joined other locals beginning to drift through the vicarage gates, and made their way towards the back garden where Vicar Wilbraham greeted his guests. As requested, each of the twenty or thirty invited guests and families brought fireworks or food, and deposited these with one of the WI matriarchs. After about half an hour the stockpiles of fudge, brittle toffee, parkin cake, and fireworks were quite large, so Vicar Wilbraham opened the festivities officially; gingerly climbing a ladder to plant a plump and floppy Guy on top of the waiting bonfire, then lighting the pyre with much pomp and ceremony. "Spplendid... spplendid," he chortled as the flames took hold, then announced: "Mrs Wilbraham and Brenda Higgins will be bringing some hot chocolate round later, but I suggest we make a start with the fireworks... So on with the show as they say." This was precisely the moment the kids had been waiting for, but the mad dash for the arsenal of pyrotechnics - now pooled together on a fine mahogany table out of harm's way - and frantic scrabble through the contents of boxes and bags of fireworks was interrupted by the Vicar. "One moment, children. Please ! You must let the grown-ups light the fireworks." This was the signal for several pre-designated parents sufficiently qualified to light blue touch-papers to step forward with a view to bringing some order to the frenzied search for the best fireworks to light. In fact the annual WI bonfire party was always well organised and safe; the odd bucket of water dotted around for dousing smouldering children, sand boxes to keep irritatingly awkward fireworks upright, glass bottles sunk into small trenches for rockets, and the fireworks let off in a duly orderly procession. "I don't think Ernie's here," said Samuel looking around for Brenda Higgins's husband. "He's on the late shift," the Dragon informed Samuel, referring to Ernie's role as bus driver to London's evening commuters. Samuel was disappointed since Ernie was the sort of person to brighten up those otherwise dull WI gatherings when spouses were permitted to mingle with the sisterhood of the teacup. Vicar Wilbraham departed to deal with a bed-ridden parishioner, leaving the delegated parents to light wave after wave of fireworks which gushed, fizzled, crackled and popped, and filled the night air with layers of smoke and the acrid scent of burning gunpowder. "The perfect place for a chemistry lesson," commented Samuel to one of the parents who looked completely non-plussed. "All those colours are are made by mixing different chemicals and metals." The parent remained totally bewildered and Samuel began to feel like a lemon in a gooseberry patch. Still, he thought, if parents are that ignorant there was nothing Samuel Wimbush could do to change things. Presently Brenda arrived with handfuls of polystyrene cups and a very large jug of hot chocolate, followed by Mrs Wilbraham with a tray of assorted cakes and sweets brought by the guests. On the quiet Samuel watched those who picked slices of his parkin cake; the approving looks on their faces giving him a small glow of satisfaction. "Keeping well ?" Samuel questioned Brenda as she poured him some chocolate. "Yes. Quite a good turn out don't you think ?" "All down to your splendid invitation routine," replied Samuel without meaning the slightest word of it. "Well I do like to think I'm well organised Mr. Wimbush," Brenda added in a rather imperious tone and then bustled away. Brenda had never been Samuel's favourite person and such little asides of one-upmanship didn't improve his attitude towards her. The group of firework lighters sensed the children's interest was beginning to wane and handed out sparklers. Not wimpish little ones like pipe cleaners but meaty specimens which sparkled for a couple of minutes and permitted countless circles and squiggles to be etched in the night air. Jumping up and down and twirling her sparkler, one little girl's fingers slipped and her sparkler soared through the air to land in a box of fireworks on the mahogany table. An anxious parent scurried across the garden like a scolded cat and peered into the box from a safe distance. "Stand back everyone," the man called as a cascade of yellow sparks gushed from the box. "It's the last one in the box. We'll just have to let itself burn out." Everyone waited patiently for a minute or so chatting idly, but as the cascade of sparks died down the glow from the area of the firework dump remained illuminated by the burning box. Suddenly a firework from another box burst into life. And then another. Then, without warning, the whole heap of fireworks erupted into a raging ball of flame. "Dive," yelled Samuel. "Run for your lives." "Take cover." In an explosion which would have turned any Hollywood or BBC special effects man green with envy, fireworks shot out in all directions. Catherine wheels flew uncontrollably into the night sky, gobs of burning magnesium from roman candles shot horizontally in several directions, a handful of chinese crackers jumped around like toads on hot coals, and the explosions of a couple of mortars shifted part of the fireball to the ground. At that point a volley of rockets whizzed over Samuel's head towards the vicarage, and as he turned his head he saw three of them hit the virginia creeper covered walls and explode harmlessly. The fourth rocket, however, shattered the kitchen window; the kitchen where meek Mrs Wilbraham, and the not so meek Brenda Higgins, were making more hot chocolate. There were two terrified screams and then a blinding flash which silhouetted the women as the rocket disgorged its cluster of magnesium flares. Seconds later the two women shot out of the back door in hysterics; their clothes singed and scorched by gunpowder burns. At that precise moment a catherine wheel on a low horizontal trajectory across the garden whizzed between Brenda's legs, vomiting a furious yellow flame over the woollen stockings which covered her fat little legs. This was just too much for Brenda to take, and giving a final rendition of her banshee wail she fainted in a heap. Forgetting the dangers surrounding them the cavalry left their hideouts behind flower pots and tree trunks to hurry to Brenda's aid. "She's dead. She's dead," somebody screamed. "Don't be silly, she's fainted." "Somebody get an ambulance." "Anyone got a jug of water ?" "Someone phone her husband." As the commotion continued, and the cavalry tried to revive Brenda in her beached whale position, Samuel and the Dragon looked on. "She's not had so much attention for ages," Samuel muttered. "Samuel ! Shut up !" snapped the Dragon angrily. Samuel did as he was told and walked across to Mrs Wilbraham who was in a state of shock and gibbering wildly. Managing to make her sit down Samuel beckoned to the Dragon to attend, and then walked over to the kitchen window to inspect the damage. Surprisingly the kitchen wasn't really damaged, apart from several blackened streaks on the wallpaper where the cluster of flares had slewed and scattered, and a couple of burn holes in the worktops. The window, obviously, was a write-off; those slivers of glass which still remained in its frame reflecting the bonfire flames. As he studied the remaining slivers Samuel thought how strange it was that the glass exaggerated the bonfire and turned round. "F-i-r-e !" he found himself yelling. The whole of the back garden was ablaze; the privet hedge, wooden fence, and mahogany table. Pandemonium broke out among the ranks of guests who had been concentrating their minds and efforts on Brenda and Mrs Wilbraham. "Somebody call 999 !" "Get the fire brigade!" "Use the garden hose !" "There are buckets in the kitchen." In a scene that was a throwback to the days before fire engines every grown-up who could lift a saucepan or bucket of water was press-ganged into dousing the fire, while a couple of sturdy men took it in turns to spray the fire with the garden hose; merely retreating when the heat became too much to bear. The buckets of water were about as much use as an ashtray on the back of a motorbike and the fire became progressively worse; the heat drying out the plants in its wake then consuming them in an instant. By the time the fire brigade arrived the bulk of the fire had burned itself out, and all that really remained to do was damp everything down. When Vicar Wilbraham returned it was to witness a scene of devastation illuminated by the fire brigade's arc lamps. Everything in the garden which could be consumed by fire had been, including the apple and pear trees. All that remained were piles of grey ashes, the charred stems of the privet hedge, tree trunks, and four stumps that WERE the legs of mahogany table where it had all begun. Samuel watched the Vicar as he surveyed the smouldering scene in silent disbelief. 'There must be a moral to all of this,' thought Samuel, but he could not decide what it was. But maybe the Vicar was already planning his next Sunday sermon on fire and brimstone.Back to Previous Page
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