When the Spanish Armada was defeated in 1588, the news was spread around the country by beacon fires blazing on prominent hilltops. Dunworth Beacon, just outside Great Dunworth, boasted the biggest and brightest of all the fires. That’s what Mr Glazier said, anyway, and because he was Chairman of the Parish Council, and because nobody else had ever bothered to give the matter much thought, it was generally accepted as true.
To commemorate the event, every year on 29th June Mr Glazier lit the fire again, bright enough to be seen from Biggleswade in the east and Clophill in the west. He also lit fires to celebrate the King’s birthday, the birth of a royal baby, 8Empire Day, Trafalgar Day, Christmas, New Year, Easter and the birthday of William Pitt the Elder who, he claimed, spuriously, had some connection with the village.
Mr Glazier liked fires. And he didn’t think any fire was complete without fireworks. He made these himself to his own recipes. They banged more loudly, flew higher and whizzed more fiercely than anything you could buy in the shops.
Guy Fawkes Night, 5th November, was always his greatest triumph. For weeks he would have the lads of the village carrying fissionable materials up the hill, where they would be scientifically arranged with reference to draught, ashfall and pyrolysis. The lads did as they were told because Mr Glazier was such a commanding presence. Some of the younger ones found him terrifying. A head taller than anybody they’d ever seen; he wore spectacles with one lens made of black metal instead of glass and extending down towards his mouth to conceal an empty eye socket and unsightly scarring. His left hand was a hook, which he used with great speed and dexterity, manipulating a log, for instance, then smacking the point of the hook into it to hoist it into the air, shaking it off, catching it and twisting it into its required position.
The injuries had been sustained during the war, in which he had served gleefully in the Royal Engineers, blowing up bridges, buildings, tanks, hills and forests, and generally having a fine old time.
But tonight, Guy Fawkes Night, though the bonfire had been built higher than ever before and though he had 9devised many new fireworks that, he hoped, would be heard in several counties and possibly cause light structural damage to nearby property, a gloom had descended. It was raining. The fire was soaked and there was a grave danger that his rockets and Roman candles would all end up damp squibs.
Nevertheless, at 7.30 he decided for the sake of tradition to brave the weather and light the damn thing anyway – give the villagers something cheery to see out of their windows. So, in sturdy boots, trench coat and sou’wester, a gallon can of petrol in his hand, a second gallon dangling from his hook, he made the ascent of Dunmore Beacon.
He removed some of the outer material so as to gain access to the inside of the fire, where the petrol would be most effective at drying out the whole. It caught with an audible ‘whoosh’. So entranced was he by the movement and growth of the flames that it was several minutes before he noticed that it had stopped raining. The sky was clear, and there were people, with electric torches and hurricane lanterns, braving the mud and coming up the hill. They’d expect a show.
George Sonning was the first to arrive.
‘I didn’t bring the fireworks, George,’ Mr Glazier said. ‘Thought it’d be too wet. I should pop back and get them, I suppose. Tell everybody there will be a short delay, would you?’
Geoffrey Spencer had finished his homework by half past six. His dad had looked it over and criticised him for 10underlining freehand rather than doing it properly with a ruler.
‘Nobody underlines with a ruler. Not even the teachers.’
‘It doesn’t matter what other people do, though, does it? If they want to produce sloppy work, that’s up to them. But at Carter and Royal’s we always use rulers.’ Carter and Royal’s was the insurance company where Dad worked.
It soured the atmosphere in the house already slightly soured by the fact that it was far too wet for any bonfires or fireworks. Mrs Spencer tried to ease the tension, but mostly they ate their baked potatoes and sausages in silence.
After supper, though, Geoffrey saw that the rain had stopped, and Mr Glazier had lit the fire after all.
‘Shall we go up and have a look?’ Geoffrey asked.
‘No, it’ll be muddy.’
Geoffrey watched the blaze from the window.
‘I think I might go up,’ he said. He was nearly sixteen. ‘I’ll put my wellies on.’
Mum looked at Dad, who rolled his eyes. It was up to her.
‘All right, then. But be back by ten. Keep your scarf wrapped round your mouth so you don’t breathe in the smoke. And don’t get too close. You know what happened to Jeremy Fleming.’
Every bonfire night the name of Jeremy Fleming – Three Fingers Fleming – was invoked as a reminder of what happens to those who use Catherine wheels incautiously.
On the corner of Keeper’s Lane, Geoffrey ran into Jeannie Crowson. This was all right. He’d had his eye on Jeannie 11Crowson ever since the cricket match when she’d helped with the teas and said his face looked very brown against the white of his shirt.
Both of them had electric torches, but halfway up Keeper’s Lane, Jeannie’s torch flickered and died, so Geoffrey pretended his had bust, too. Then he made ghost noises and Jeannie pretended she was scared, so he put his arm round her, and she didn’t seem to mind that at all.
Just ahead of them, around a bend in the lane, there was a whooshing sound and a great sheet of flame shot into the sky.
‘Blimey, that’s a big ’un,’ Geoffrey said. ‘What is it? Roman Candle?’
They ran towards it.
‘Somebody’s done their bonfire in the middle of the road,’ Jeannie said. But even before she’d finished speaking they could see it wasn’t a bonfire. Somebody had set a car alight.
‘I bet it’s them kids from Clophill,’ Geoffrey said, trying not to sound scared. He was petrified of the kids from Clophill. Beyond the flames, they could see somebody running away. ‘I wouldn’t get too close if I were you, Jeannie. It might explode or something.’
But in fact, after the initial whoosh, the flames seemed to have died down.
Jeannie screamed. ‘Oh, my God,’ she said. ‘There’s somebody in it.’
Geoffrey moved closer. There was a figure, almost unrecognisable as human, behind the wheel. The skin had already blackened. 12
Once, Geoffrey’s dad had burnt a pile of leaves. He didn’t know there were frogs hiding in it. As the frogs burnt, their legs had slowly extended and stiffened. The driver’s arms were doing the same, moving slowly upwards, away from the wheel.
Jeannie, hovering now near the edge of the flames, stuck out an arm to see how close she could get, then pulled it back fast and edged away.
‘We should try and get him out, Geoffrey. He might still be alive.’ This was a stupid thing to say, and she knew it. ‘Or get some water, pull him out with a stick.’
‘We can’t do nothing,’ Geoffrey said. ‘I’m going up The Bell to get help.’
Rather than trying to get round the car, he climbed over the fence and took a straight line to the pub, stumbling across a ploughed field, with Jeannie following. He tripped and hit his head on something hard but got straight back up and kept running.
The rain started again.
On Stubbs Lane, they could see a group of blokes running towards the pub to get out of the rain. A couple of them had already noticed the light of the flames over the hedgerows.
Geoffrey shouted, ‘There’s a car on fire up Keeper’s and there’s somebody in it.’
A couple of the blokes ran into the pub to raise the alarm. There was confusion among the others because some of them had lights and some of them didn’t, and some went the Stubbs Lane way, and some came over the gate into the field and went that way. 13
Geoffrey bent over, breathing heavily.
Jeannie came up behind him and put her arm around him.
‘You all right?’ she asked.
‘I hurt myself a bit,’ he said.
Jeannie helped him into the pub and sat him down.
‘You’re bleeding on your head,’ she said.
She took her hankie out, spat on it, and dabbed at the blood, then held the hankie tight against the cut to stop the bleeding, keeping the other arm tight round his shoulder.
Geoffrey put both his arms round her waist and held on tight.
They’d seen the face. That was the trouble. It was grinning and there were flames coming out the top of the head.