Firework

His was coat was dark blue gabardine with buttons that shone and
made him feel smart. He buttoned them up feeling warm though the
evening was chilly. Then he picked up his satchel and headed for the
school gates. The rain was fine. More like mist. He could already feel
it in his hair so he pulled up his hood, feeling suddenly mysterious,
imagining himself a villain in a James Bond film. Miss Dickens called
after him so he glanced back in the direction of the Main Block.

'Is no-one here to pick you up, Jamie?'

She was a slim figure silhouetted in the doorway, pulling her cardigan
around her. The light from the classrooms was warm, bright like a
party. He hesitated.

'No, miss. I like to walk.'

She paused, passing a hand through her pale blonde hair.

'Hurry along then. And don't remember to bring you Algebra homework
tomorrow.'

Her voice was jocular but there was no mistaking the seriousness of the
statement. The algebra was important in ways Jamie found difficult to
understand and forgetting today had resulted in detention. Jamie tried
to smile, hoping to reassure her of his seriousness about Maths but he
was afraid of her and the smile felt false.

'I will. Its done. I just left it at home today.'

'Well, don't do the same thing again tomorrow, will you?'

'No, miss. Goodnight, miss.'

'Goodnight, James.'

She was already pulling open the door and retreating. He watched,
wondering if she ever went home or whether she lives in the school
building. He imagined her in her night-clothes sitting in the Maths
room and wanted to laugh. He turned, swinging the satchel, feeling the
books shift inside, and began to walk quickly towards the gates.

View Road was shadowy, the parked cars gleaming as the streetlights
came on. He knew he would say much about the detention when he got
home. His mother would be worried, of course, but he could win her
over. He would smile and change the subject. He knew how to be vague.
The tower of St Anne's loomed in front of him. It was getting too dark
for the graveyard route so he stuck to the road, humming the song about
Tigers, breathing the cold wet air and enjoying its smells of dead
leaves and smoke. He turned the Corner into Warrington road. The roar
of the traffic made a lonely sound but tonight it didn't bother him. He
was thinking about Halloween just a few days away. He was already
reading ghost stories in preparation for the party. His dog-eared copy
of 'Ghosts Go Haunting' was on his bedside table. He wondered if his
mother had bought the turnips, whether they would be on the kitchen
table when he got home, waiting for him to transform them. He loved the
coolness of the raw turnip when he cut into it, hollowing out the
insides, cutting scary faces into their blankness. He felt warm inside
when he thought of the little flames flickering inside them, the
scorched smell of them in the autumn night. They kept away the evil.
The party would be a good one. He imagined hide and seek in the dark
garden with Christian and Nicole. Bobbing apples in the pantry. He
quickened his pace, brushing the rain from his cheeks, passing
Greenways Sweet shop and Witch's House, eager to get home to start work
on the lanterns.

His footsteps made a rhythmic sound on the pavement. He repeated
nonsensical words in his head and made up a song. Now and then, he
looked up at the big houses on his right wondering if anyone really
lived in them. 'The laurels' always looked empty. Derelict almost. The
lights in Clifton Place looked eerie. He walked on, humming till he
came to the convent where he paused, creeping up to the elaborate iron
gates feeling like Jonathan Harker in Dracula. The place was in
darkness as usual. He thought about what it would be like to glimpse a
ghostly figure flitting through the trees beyond the sandstone wall. He
shivered deliciously and ran, satchel banging against his leg as he
turned the corner into Mill Lane.

The houses were smaller here. Suburban. He passed Jackson's Wine Shop
and the Grapes Hotel, taking the straight road up to Buckingham. He
could see his house from here, lights glowing at the top of the hill.
The rain was getting harder and he broke into a run, thinking about how
it would be when he go there. Home. Lamp lit and cosy. Curtains drawn
against the night, the radio on low in the kitchen. He could sit at the
table and work on the lanterns. His mother might have made something
tasty. Goulash or fresh Tomato soup. He loved the autumn. Halloween
then fireworks. It was a special time. A ritual, the October evenings
falling into their familiar pattern, always the same and full of
mysteries.

He slowed down halfway up the hill, breath coming in soft, rapid gasps.
Slowing, he peered through the rain at the house. Lights were on in the
upstairs rooms. Drawing near her notices an unfamiliar Blue Daimler
parked outside.

He sat under the table. It was a dark, enclosed place. A den. He could
see through the windows from there, past the rabbit hutches and across
the dark lawn to the trees at the back of the garden. The wind moved
the branches and disturbed the rain. It was odd that she hadn't drawn
the curtains but inside it was warm. He poured the marbles out of the
their linen bag. They moved like water, lamplight caught in the glassy
hearts. Passing them through his hands, he enjoyed their cool
smoothness. His mother came in with a mug of hot chocolate. She knelt
down smiling and peered in at me through the framework of chair and
table legs.

'Your dad's home.'

He knew this already. The air smelt different, of cigarettes, of Blue
Strattos. He took hold of the mug in both hands, looking up at her,
thinking about his dad. The hot chocolate was frothy in the mug. It
smelt good. He was excited. Afraid.

'Where is he?'

'He's asleep. It was a really long flight.'

The house was quiet without him. The air was clean and smelled of
furniture polish.

'Is he coming down later?'

'I should think so. He'll be hungry and -'

'Did you get the turnips?'

'Turnips?'

'For Halloween.'

'Oh, Jamie, I forgot to get them. Its been such a topsy-turvy day.' Her
lips had a sheen on them. She smelt of flowers. 'It'll be nice to see
your dad, won't it? After so long.'

He thought the last time he had been here. Months ago. Years. He
remembered him as dark presence. A smell of tobacco on the stairs.
Music in the small hours. He interrupted their rhythms with something
unfamiliar. His dad.

'But we're still having the party, aren't we?'

His mother stood up, ruffling his hair.

'Well we'll see what your dad says, Jamie.'

The beard made him look like a pirate. Black and flecked with grey. .
He sat on the sofa in the back room strumming his guitar and singing
'Screwball was race-horse'. He was in his black dressing gown, breath
was sweet with drink. Gold rings flashed on his fingers as they moved
on the strings. Rings with big stones. Amethysts. Jamie always wanted
the garnet ring he wore on his little finger. A blood coloured stone in
elaborately worked gold. It was warm in the room. He sat at his feet on
the floor watching him closely, listening to the radio on in the
ktichen and the sounds of my mother clattering cups and plates. His
father strummed a few more chords and reached for the can of beer on
the arm of the chair. It was empty. He called through the closed
door.

'Pat. Bring another beer in will you?' Pausing, waiting, his hands
lightly touching the guitar, a silent minute passed. His mother did not
appear. 'Pat.'

The door opened and Pat came in.

'Did you want something?'

'Another beer.' He was irritable,fingers tense on the strings.

She looked at him for a few seconds and Jamie thought something passed
between them.

'Another beer coming up', she said lightly and disappeared back into
the kitchen. Dad relaxed and started to play clumsily. Jamie relaxed
too without really understanding what had made him tense. Dad played a
few bars, smiling and suddenly drowsy and then Pat walked in, handing
him a couple of cans. I felt her hands on the back of my head, cool
from touching the beers.

'Its time for you to get to bed.'

'Can't I stay a bit longer?'

'Nope, its way too late for little chaps like you.'

'Dad, can I stay up a bit longer.'

His eyes were bright, tanned cheeks flushed.

'Maybe just a little longer then.'

'Frances, it's nearly midnight.'

Frances smiled down at Jamie.

'Everything changes when your dad comes home.'

And it was true.

The lamp next to his bed was Oriental and shaped like a house. He was
under the covers staring into it, making up stories in his head. Each
of its tiny windows was bright with soft amber light and imagined the
kind of people who would live in it. I pulled the blankets around me
and imagined tiny figured moving in the lamp's golden interior. Little
patches of light fell onto the books piled up next to the bed. The
curtains were drawn and he could hear the October wind gusting against
the glass. He was warm in bed waiting for his mother to come in and
kiss me. He could here them talking downstairs and the low hum of their
conversation was comforting. It was late. His mother was usually in bed
at this time too. Reading in her room. But his father always changed
things. The air smelt different when he was here. Like a party. Like
Christmas. Beer, brandy and cigarettes. He could hear the muffled music
and knew my mother might not come up at all, that there would be no
halloween. His eyes got heavy and he started to drift. From somewhere
in his dream, I could hear them the coming up the stairs. In the
distance. the crackle of an early rocket, rising into the dark. Then
all the night went quiet.

..............................................