Fireman
By bob
- 433 reads
FIREMAN
Henry was as tall as a story and as thin as a wish. Six feet and six
inches nearer the sky than the ground is. He always wore striped
trousers that gave his legs the appearance of two large broken sticks
of rock. A tatty embroidered waistcoat half-covered a once-white
T-shirt. His top lip, always part of a huge smile, was crowned with a
magnificent handlebar moustache.
Henry lived in a van.
*
After leaving the pub at closing time I decided to descend upon Henry
and his girlfriend, Sarah.
I walked across the market square, and onto the high street.
After passing a dozen shuttered shops the lampposts on the high street
diminished and I joined a short lane of cottages that received no such
illumination. The only light present was emanating from an old red
telephone box rooted on a corner.
A further three hundred yards and I was past the cottages and into the
shadowy countryside beyond.
*
Eventually I reached a waist-high hedgerow and beyond it I could see a
huge Mercedes camper van glowing orange and spouting smoke.
"Looks like they're in." I said to myself
I followed the hedge round to a break, entered the field, and traversed
the mud up to Henry's door.
I stepped up and banged twice with my palm on the small window.
"Ah, a visitor." came Henry's muffled shout from inside.
I stepped back in perfect time for the door to swing outwards and miss
the end of my nose by inches.
"Good evening sir, do come in." he invited.
And I entered.
"Sit, sit, sit." demanded Henry amiably.
I took a place on the floor and crossed my legs.
A wood-burning stove, whose black chimney punctured the centre of the
room, exuded warmth and pale light.
"Hello," said Sarah from the bed in the cab of the van. She sat like a
blonde gnome, with honey hair and blue rock-pool eyes. Forever clad in
a massive woolly jumped that looked like it was borrowed from a fat
uncle.
"Hello Sarah," I replied
Neither Henry nor his partner ever questioned my reason for visiting.
Sharing some time was reason enough. They were gracious and undemanding
hosts who kept their guests sustained with mulled wine, biscuits and
conversation.
Tonight however, Henry had other plans for me.
"Come with me." he said softly and walked out through the door I'd just
entered.
*
I stood next to Henry and watched the sky with him for a moment or two.
Had he wished, Henry could have quite easily rested his elbow on my
head.
Instead he raised his arms and inhaled noisily.
"Beautiful, isn't it." he breathed, scanning the night sky.
It wasn't a question, so I didn't answer him. No discussion or argument
could ever dispute Henry's point. It was beautiful.
"Right," Henry disappeared behind the van," let's get on."
I remained where I stood and Henry quickly returned holding two giant
cotton buds.
Upon closer inspection I realised that they were in fact two
broomsticks with oily rags tied to each end. Their function was still
to be revealed.
"That's yours." said Henry, handing me a pole.
He again walked behind the van, but this time indicated that I should
follow.
The only difference between this side of Henry's home and where we'd
just stood, was the addition of two large tin cans sitting on the
floor. They were the kind of cans that caf?s get their beans in. Your
regular beans' big brothers.
"What are they for?" I enquired, pointing to one of the cans with my
cotton bud.
"Fire." replied Henry lustily.
Henry dipped one end of rag-wrapped stick into the can, rotated the
pole carefully and repeated the action.
"Now you."
Henry gestured towards the second can.
I replicated Henry's routine, included the careful rotation, and stood
brandishing my petrol soaked stick.
He produced a brass lighter from his waistcoat pocket and, without
warning, applied the flame to each end of his pole.
I was getting the idea now.
Henry lit me up.
"What do I do now?"
"Well," said Henry, "I'm going to play with fire."
So was I.
Henry began to rotate the flaming rod above his head, a hell-borne
helicopter with blazing blades. Each revolution was accompanied by a
whooshing noise and a hot wind. I stood back.
Not wanting to merely emulate Henry, I held my staff in front of me, at
arm's length and twirled it. I call this one the Maniacal
Majorette.
As my confidence grew so did the speed, until eventually I held a
burning circular shield, it's rim ablaze and spitting sparks.
Henry's helicopter was now flying around the van, his long legs
striding, his arms revolving, eyes burning in competition with the fire
above his head.
He was as lost as I.
I stopped spinning and held the pole horizontally to the ground.
The tip's hot orange tongues licked the air around them.
I threw it straight up and the glowing trails built a ladder above
me.
But some ladders shouldn't be climbed, and the pole dropped into my
waiting hands.
Henry was still circulating the van, so I waited until he came round
into view and I called him over.
He was panting and sweating.
"What's up?" he asked breathily.
"Nothing at all, I just wondered how you put these out."
He walked away holding his pole like a torch and I followed behind
trailing one burning end on the grass. A blackened snake-like path
followed my steps along the ground.
Henry stopped in front of a low stone wall and gently balanced his
broomstick atop.
I did the same.
"Just leave them there," said Henry, "they'll put themselves
out."
? Graham Woods 2001
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