by Helen Fisher
We already had our fireworks, Eddie had bought them the week before, and safely stored them high up in our shed. Bins and fireworks are Eddie’s domain; I mean, he does other things, but those two tasks are very definitely his responsibility. Eddie took the firework ritual very seriously, and had talked solemnly about coming home a little earlier on the Friday in order to nail the Catherine wheels securely to the fence, and prepare buckets of sand for standing the rockets in, while he still had enough light to do it. Clem’s husband Dave was also coming over early ‘to help’, which also meant ‘to drink’. It’s fair to say we loved Bonfire Night, and we loved Halloween and Easter, because they were fun, but involved very little pressure and not too much build-up compared to Christmas. Easter would become a very different experience when Eddie became a vicar. But that no longer worried me. I planned to relish it all, but the church would never get in the way of our Bonfire Night.
Eddie was surprised but pleased, I think, to hear I’d invited Louis. Our usual guests were Clem and Cassie, their husbands and children. A couple of Eddie’s mates at his financial company, and their wives and kids usually came and, this time, Eddie had also invited a man he’d met through his training, who was a little further ahead and had been ordained as a deacon, and his wife. Louis and I decided to get a taxi to my place after work rather than get the Tube, and in the days leading up to Friday we couldn’t stop talking about what was going to happen when I went to his place and then back in time.
‘It’s easier for me,’ he said. ‘Because when you get in the box, I only have to wait three hours to find out how it went. But for you, depending on how long you stay there, it could be days before you get back and tell me what happened. It could be weeks.’
‘But I’ll know what’s happening sooner than you, because I’ll be there, stupid,’ I said, giving him a friendly dig with an elbow.
‘Yes but you won’t know what’s going to happen on your second day there, for example, until you’ve been there twenty-four hours. Whereas I’ll know the whole story in less than four.’
‘Oh yeah,’ I said. ‘You’re right.’
We’d had to stay late at work, which we really didn’t want to do, because the courier with the old money Louis had ordered was on his way. Originally it was supposed to arrive on Thursday, then Friday morning. Now they promised it would be at the RNIB reception by 6pm, so we sat at the front desk, me smiling apologetically at the receptionist who wanted to leave and lock up. Louis constantly feeling his watch for the time, and tutting.
The reception area at RNIB is gaudy: bright yellows and deep purples divided by sharp lines that juxtapose in a seemingly random geometric pattern. There’s nothing random about it at all, it’s for the benefit of partially sighted people and helps them navigate the building independently.
The receptionist snapped her gum as if to say how much longer? and thankfully, just then, a leather-clad courier in a motorbike helmet strode in with a box. I grimaced, wondering how I was going to carry something that big into the past. We signed, we left and we got a taxi straight away; there’s always loads round there, picking up suits on a Friday night who are blind and drunk.
‘How the hell am I going to take this to my mother’s?’ I asked Louis in the back of the cab. ‘I can’t carry a box, there’s no way, and I can’t zip this into the ski suit.’
‘Once you’ve got the ski suit on, we’ll stuff as many loose notes as we can down the legs and into the arms and around your middle. When you take it off, all the money will just fall out, but as you’re planning to explain everything to your mother anyway, I don’t think the weirdness of that will matter. Plus, it’ll be extra padding for you.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘And maybe there’s a lot of packaging here.’ I rotated the box in my hands. ‘We’ll leave it sealed; you can take it home with the Space Hopper box later tonight.’
‘I won’t stay late,’ Louis said. ‘I’m keen to get the box and this money safely home. I’m looking forward to the party, but it’s not the highest priority right now.’
‘I know what you mean, but it’s strange,’ I said. ‘Because for me, this party feels like a very high priority.’ I put my hand on his and squeezed it. I know I’m going to come back, but I have to be realistic. Maybe I won’t. This could be the last time I see my friends and family.
‘The last supper,’ said Louis.
‘Oh God, don’t say that,’ I said, pinching him behind the top of his arm, which he hates (which everybody hates). ‘I know you’re a doubting Thomas, or at least you were. You’re not Judas are you? Are there thirty pieces of silver in here?’ I said, shaking the box, which made no noise at all, and laughing.
‘Don’t even joke about it. I don’t want to think about you not coming home. I need you to know something, Faye: you’re my best friend. Even if I’m not yours, and I don’t for a moment think I am. But you’re mine, and I can’t bear the thought of losing you.’
I laid my head on his shoulder, and shut my eyes. ‘You’re my best friend too,’ I said. ‘You know so much about me. Who else would help me with all this stuff? Anyone else would have called the men in white coats.’
We sat in silence for the rest of the journey, my head still on his shoulder, and I felt a tear, one of Louis’, drop onto the top of my head.
* * *
As soon as we got through my front door, I whispered, ‘Wait here,’ to Louis and left him in the brightly lit hallway while I dashed upstairs to hide the box of money. As I took his arm and led him to the back of the house, we heard voices coming from the kitchen and further away too. People were mingling in the garden. It was cold and we kept our coats, hats and gloves on, in anticipation of standing outside.
Cassie and Clem were in the kitchen, their wine glasses full.
‘Andy’s driving,’ Cassie said, raising her glass with glee, ‘I’m going to get so pissed!’
‘And we’re getting a cab, so I’m getting pissed too,’ Clem said. ‘Who’s your friend?’
‘This is Louis, we work together,’ I said, and Louis held his hand out steady; the girls stepped forward to take it.
‘Nice to meet you,’ everyone said, and I felt a bit sorry for Louis; it’s hard to go to a party where you only know the host. And I wondered if being blind made it easier or worse. Maybe it was easier, like a child who covers his eyes, he could pretend nobody was here at all.
‘Where is everyone?’ I asked. I heard the sound of laughter and low male voices, and the odd squeal of children’s laughter.
‘Men are in the garden, beating their chests and discussing manly things, like fire and meat. The children are gorging themselves at the sweet table in your living room, so they’re vacillating between vomiting and running round like Tasmanian devils.’
‘Nice one,’ I said, pouring myself a G&T, heavy on the T. ‘Isn’t there a deacon and his wife here?’ I added.
‘They’re in the garden too, with Eddie,’ said Cassie.
‘He’s like a hairy dog and his wife looks like a mouse,’ Clem said. ‘It’s sweet, it’s like you’ve invited pets to the party.’
‘I’m taking Louis out to meet Eddie, and get him a beer,’ I said, offering Louis my elbow and leading him out the glass doors separating the kitchen from the deck. We always kept the beers in a huge bucket of icy water at parties, and when Eddie saw me he came straight over, dipping down mid-stride to take a beer from the bucket.
‘You must be Louis,’ he said, taking his hand and holding it briefly. ‘Beer?’
‘That’d be great,’ said Louis, and there was a hiss as Eddie opened it and put the cold bottle into Louis’ hand. ‘So, what’s going on out here?’ Louis asked, and without hesitation Eddie efficiently described our back garden.
‘We’re standing on the deck, and it’s just a few steps down onto the grass. The garden’s about thirty long strides from here to the other end. We’ve got some outdoor lights and about ten strides away we’ve built a bonfire.’
‘
I didn’t know you were going to build a bonfire,’ I said. ‘That’s a first. It’s enormous!’
‘Dave was already here when I got home today, had all this kindling and wood set up. Said he’d been reading up on how to make the perfect bonfire.’
‘He got here before you did?’ I said.
‘He’s bored at work, too much pen-pushing,’ Eddie said, quietly. ‘I think he wanted to get his hands dirty.’
The bonfire wasn’t lit yet, but it was beautifully erected. It looked as though shortish lengths of kindling had been used to make a central teepee, and then longer pieces of wood had been used to make another teepee around the smaller one. This pattern was repeated and the outer-most teepee was constructed of what looked like two-metre-long pieces of dry wood. In between the layers of kindling was what looked like screwed-up paper. It really was an impressive structure, and higher than any ordinary garden bonfire I’d ever seen.
‘Where did he get all that wood?’ I said.
‘Builders merchants apparently,’ Eddie said, looking at the bonfire and taking a pull on his beer.
‘He really does have too much time on his hands,’ I said, laughing. ‘Poor Dave.’
Eddie excused himself and Louis and I followed him over to where the group was standing. I was introduced to the deacon and his wife, and Andy gave me a hug followed by a theatrical, sad expression, as he held up a can of Coke.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry you’re driving,’ I said.
‘And that,’ he said, pointing in the general direction of the house and therefore Cassie, ‘is not a pretty sight when it’s got a hangover.’
There was plenty of good humour, and I was enjoying myself. I stuck with Louis, and he had my arm the whole time. The rest of our small party talked and joked as though life was the same today as it was yesterday, and the same as it would be tomorrow, but between Louis and me there was a secret, and I could feel my skin almost vibrating. We knew differently.
I closed my eyes and breathed in the cold air, relishing it. I could smell the homely smell of burning, and opened my eyes. ‘Have you lit it yet?’ I said in the direction of Dave – king of the bonfire – wondering if the smell was coming from our garden or elsewhere.
‘Yes,’ Dave said. ‘Baby’s burning.’
Louis and I moved closer to the bonfire, stopping a couple of feet away. I looked into the inner kindling teepee and saw the odd flame licking outwards like a cat licking the head of its kitten. I could hear tiny pops and crackling as it gradually came to life from the inside out.
‘Can you feel any heat from it yet?’ I asked Louis.
‘A bit, on my legs,’ he said, and turned his head to one side so his ear was facing the inner workings of the bonfire. ‘It sounds like there’s someone in there crumpling a cellophane wrapper.’
There was a louder pop, or crack, and I tensed. I was nervous of hot little rocks of burning anything spitting out of the fire. I squinted my eyes in anticipation that something might hit me in the eye. I’m the same when I fry bacon.
‘You okay?’ Louis asked, in response to my tightening grip.
‘Fine,’ I said.
‘What does it look like?’ Louis said.
I paused and cleared my throat. Louis didn’t ask me to do this often, because it’s so difficult. It was pointless using colours to describe anything, because they mean nothing to him and colours are so important for describing fire. I wanted to say amber, orange, red and gold, but I moved those descriptors to one side like so many objects along a mantelpiece, and tried to replace them with anything relevant that could be tasted, touched or smelled.
‘Imagine a dragon, cold, hard skin on the outside, it looks dead, but its heart is hot. A sharp kind of hot, a heat you would feel if you were thrown into a thorny bush. So hot that you can see it deep inside the dragon from the outside. This fire is an animal slowly coming back to life from the inside. It’s the most living thing you can imagine. And the heat from its core is so powerful it will make the whole creature move, you’ll hear it roar, and it will become angry and wish so much that it could roam about and rule the world, that it will consume itself in frustration. And later tonight, it will be flat, and uninspiring, but the heat at its centre will be the last thing to die, and its pulse will still be beating and deep down it has memories of a time when it could destroy you, and if you touch it then, it will still bite.’
I stopped, quite impressed with myself. But then I felt Louis shaking, and worried that I might have upset him, reminded him of what he was missing by describing a thing of such violent beauty. When I looked at him properly, however, I realised he was trying to suppress laughter.
‘Bastard,’ I said, and punched him in the arm, at which point he let out a whoop of laughter.
I let my gaze drift over the bonfire and couldn’t help but be impressed by the workmanship. It was a shame to let it burn, but the flames were taking a good hold now, and burning was what it was made for. At eye level I noticed the details of a newspaper clipping, something about someone raising funds for a children’s hospital, and an advert for a local garden centre, which looked familiar. Our recycling must have been raided for this tower. My eyes rested momentarily on the edge of an old notebook I’d filled up with shopping lists and other reminders to myself, and felt a tiny pang of sorrow to know it was going to burn; I’ve always been a bit sentimental about anything I’ve written on, even shopping lists.
My gaze travelled upwards to the very peak of the bonfire, where it was darker, unlit by lights from the house, framed by the black sky and yet to bask in the glow of the fire’s burning heart. I tried to work out why the top wasn’t pointed, but instead looked squared off, and I saw that something was perched there, at a jaunty angle, something that topped the structure off like an ill-fitting hat. I was suddenly reminded of a hot day last summer when Eddie borrowed one of the girl’s baseball caps to wear while he mowed the lawn, and it sat ridiculously small on his head. Whatever it was up there, I didn’t envy its fate, like Guy Fawkes, it was just waiting to burn.
I could make out some letters, upside down, and found myself reading them one at a time, trying to work out what word was spelled out at the top of the pile. The flickering glow from beneath it momentarily lit the letters up, then waved them into darkness again, and then I realised, like a knife to my stomach.
Sitting at the top, like a crown on the bonfire, was my Space Hopper box.
28
What had seemed like gentle crackling before now sounded like a car being crushed, and I trumped that sound with a scream that came from somewhere deep inside. A roar that a lion makes, or that primal scream in labour that tells you new life is on its way. Or death. Or fear of never seeing someone you love ever again.
I wrenched my arm from Louis and ran to the fire, teetering on the edge, my feet touching embers; the edges of my shoes smoking. Terror gripped me entirely as my unblinking eyes fixed on the box at the top of the fire. To my mind of course, my mother may just as well have been propped up there, the flames beneath her thrusting upwards, trying to grab at her like the burning arms of convicts swiping at a gaoler’s keys through the bars of their cells. I screamed for Eddie as though one of our children were in that fire. And Eddie came running.
But before he got to me, I tried to get closer to the box: leaned forward and put my hands on the wooden sides of the bonfire. The structure took my weight though I disturbed a frenzy of sparks: an electric orange snowstorm. Thousands, millions, of tiny burning fragments flew upwards promising something painful. But no flames could touch me yet.
There was an extraordinary beauty about being too close to the fire. It was mesmerising in a way that only forbidden things can be, like looking into the mouth of the dragon. While I clung to the outer wood, I peered downwards and it was like gazing into hell through a crack in the floorboards. The heat on my face was like a furnace door being opened. I looked upwards at the box, could see it blackening in the light of the growing flames, charring in places
; I saw the surface that was nearest the fire bubbling gently and was filled with fear.
It’s bizarre what I recalled in the next moment: a scene from a movie where the good guy and the bad guy both spot the object of their desire at the same time: might have been a key – probably a gun – and after a stealthy glance at each other, they both make a dash for it at the same time, each hoping to get to it before the other. It was like that with me and the flames. My physical self recoiled at the thought of pressing my weight into the structure beneath me. I could have been standing on ice at the thinnest part of a frozen lake, I could have been standing on the loosest clod of earth at the edge of a crumbling cliff, and I would have felt the same. The pressure required to make a run for it was the exact pressure that was going to lead to my doom, and it was now or never as I felt the flames lick my hands, burning through my gloves.
All this took probably the best part of ten seconds, so that before I surged for the top of the bonfire, before I forced my right foot down to give me enough momentum to heave myself up onto the unstable surface, before I was able to kill myself, or scar myself for life, Eddie was there.
He flew into the bonfire after me, grabbing me round the waist and throwing us both back onto the ground. I was winded but safe in his tight embrace, though all I could think about was the burning box on the top of the fire. I struggled against his grip, desperate to free myself, but he held on to me so tightly, I could hardly move.