Short Stories

This was a third place winner in the Gold Coast Writers Assoc Short Story Competition in 1999.

Bonfire Night was a special night when I was a child, fireworks were not banned, and every household made their own little pyre outside with rubbish and a handmade Guy Fox. This is a story about that time.

BONFIRE NIGHT

by Jill Smith ©Sep1999

approximately 919 words

I was a timid, curly haired, little girl. Mum would cuddle me and laugh when my dimpled little chin quivered when I felt afraid. I felt that was a lot, because, I had four very loud and domineering sisters. A few days before the fifth of November, I would dawdle home from school, counting the growing mounds of rubbish being piled outside each house in our street. I marveled how each household could find so much to set alight on that one special night of the year.

Bonfire night was always very special for me. I looked forward to the night when fireworks crackled and boomed, shattering the still night air, with a brilliant show of haphazard explosions. The spectacle of flashing lights illuminating the sky in vibrant cascades of colour left me breathless. I loved it.

The year I was only about seven, on the eve of Bonfire night, I fell sick. My mother anxiously awaited the Doctors verdict at my bedside. These were the days when Doctors did still visit people at home. His words dashed my hopes of enjoying Bonfire night, I had a virus. I had to stay in bed, and, I could definitely not go out in the chill night air.

I hoped desperately that I would recover in time, but, the germs were against me, inside I had to stay. Disappointment filled my mind as I had wanted to see the Community Bonfire ablaze, as well as our own sizable mound of waste. The Community effort had been growing steadily for weeks on the nearby oval, and stood as a monument to mankind’s ability to create junk. Crowned in layers by rubber tyres it was magnificent in height and stature. The tyres promised dense black smoke to obliterate the brightness of the fireworks. It was very common, at this time, for each household to have their own ‘incinerator’ to dispose of household garbage. The black ash that would result must have been accepted part of the evening’s entertainment.

Dad had told us all some story about an Englishman called Guy Fawkes who started the whole event by getting killed. I couldn’t quite understand it then, and since learning that the poor man was tortured and hung for his views, I find it more amazing. People really do the strangest things to remember special historic moments. Naturally, at the time, it didn’t matter a fig to me how it all began, I just loved the fireworks and the street fires.

My mother was resourceful and did not let me feel left out of the preparations for the night. We all joined in making our own Guy Fox. It was a combination of a ragged shirt and old trousers stuffed with paper, mounted on an old broom handle. The face was a huge paper bag filled with paper and crowned with an old hat. We drew a face on our ‘Guy’ then stood back to admire our handy-work. One older sister commented on how much better her friend from four doors away dummy looked. Much better and string tied trousers and shirt. We didn’t really care about that though, he would burn just the same.

Although I pleaded to go out, my cries went unheard. I had to stay inside. Again Mum thought of a way to have me see proceedings. She sat me up on the kitchen bench top. It was a high bench and I was small and a bit afraid of falling. My head was thick and my eyes runny, my temperature high and I did feel miserable. Especially so when my sisters all followed a beaming excited Dad outside.

From the bench I could see smoke rising from the Bonfires although the six foot fence blocked the view of the flames. My mother gave me sparklers which I clung to, attempting to bring the joyful lights closer, hoping to feel part of the occasion. I could see the rockets shooting towards the stars to explode in a bountiful eruption of colour. Everything in the sky was clear to see and dazzling. As for the ‘Flower Pots’ and ‘Catherine Wheels’ which gave their best show close at hand, I could only see the top of the show.

Mum would appear through the gate yelling up to watch a spot she pointed to on the fence. Dad was about to light a ‘Catherine Wheel’. Naturally I tried to get the best out of what I could see. The whole sky seemed to light up from all angles and it was wonderful to see. I soon wished my family would come inside though, as I was feeling fired and a bit giddy. When my sisters did barge in through the door, they smelled of smoke and giggled. I felt envious even though I’d probably had a better view of the whole streets antics.

Dad was still outside cleaning up the remaining residue from the burnt out fireworks when Mum lifted me off the kitchen bench. She declared I had a temperature. She asked if I had been crying. No, I declared, I’ve just got runny eyes and nose. I remember Mum holding my hand as she led me back to bed. She pulled back the blankets and made sure I was snug and warm. Next year, she said, you’ll be able to go outside. Yes, I thought happily, it’s only one year to Bonfire night. With that in mind I closed my eyes and went soundly to sleep.

Making Memories

By Jill Smith©Nov2011

 

As I grow older I’m reflecting more on my life. I guess that’s what everyone does, and photos from those early years are always fun to look at and treasure. Last Christmas my cousin sent me a Christmas photo taken outside the old weatherboard that was my Grandmother’s property, home to her, my Aunt and Uncle and their family.

I’m sitting on the step beside two of my sisters and my older cousin. In front of me are my other two sisters and younger cousin. Behind me, stood my father and mother, grandmother and aunt and uncle with their youngest David in front of Aunty Marg. We are all dressed in our Sunday best.

Looking at the picture I realise that I’m wearing a brown dress with yellow flower pattern all over it, with long sleeves and roll neck.  All my sisters and our eldest cousin Faye are wearing white dresses. Even the youngest cousin Robert is wearing a tan shorts and jumper over a white shirt. Only my second eldest cousin Chris, about fourteen at that time, and going through that brooding teenage rebellious period, wore a blue jumper and jeans. Whoever took the picture, may have been Uncle Dan, set up the shot with me one side of my sisters and white clad kin, and Chris on the opposite side to give it a balance.

My grandmother and matriarch of the family, was wearing a blue dress with a collar and a large brooch, she was always a finely dressed woman. Mum and Aunty Marg were wearing white either side of her and my Dad and Uncle Ron stood either side of the back line with me and Chris in front.

I often wore dark colours and now that I reflect on it, I was covering myself up and making myself unnoticeable.  My hair was pulled back in a pony tail cascading down my back. I didn’t smile. My eldest sister Pam smiled beautifully and so did Faye. They were they both seemed to me to be self confident and happy with themselves.  Of course, not everyone smiles in the obligatory Christmas photo. Chris looked surly. My baby sister Sue looked about to cry and my next younger sister Judy, halfway to smiling, she seemed to be grimacing as a result. Aunty Marg had her hands resting on baby David’s shoulders in a reassuring way, he looked like he had been crying. My mum and my grandmother were holding hands.

The three ladies spectacles seemed to line up, while my dad had his shirt and tie on over a brown cardigan and his hands behind his back, he looked comfortable. Uncle Ron on the other hand had his open neck shirt collar sticking out from his light tan jumper had his arms folded across his chest, clearly ready to run as soon as the photographer had finished the task. Like a loving embrace the old weather board behind, its main entrance and name plate announcing Salisbury Five, shouted comfortable family home. The grass the three youngest were sitting on patchy and sun-dried.

 Many years later as a gift for either Gran or Mum,I’m not sure which, all the girls sat for a portrait photo. We all smiled this time, all married and moved on to different stages in our lives. Gran was again resplendent in a patterned dress and large brooch. My mother wore a purple patterned top and her precious pearls. Between them were the five girls, two between Mum and Gran and three others behind. I recall the photographer groaning when I walked in with a red and black horizontal striped jumper as my next eldest sister Wendy had arrived in a cross patch jumper. Fortunately my next younger sister Judy had worn a dark patterned shirt that separated the two offending patterns.

A few years after that I had moved interstate and apparently deserted the family. My mother came to visit and happily attended Grandparents day at the Primary school at the end of our street. She clapped and heaped praise on our son when he ran in his races on Sports day. I remember whenever we were together we held hands. Just as mum had done with Gran and we sought out each other’s touch. It was very precious to me as her stays were so brief and the time in between her visits undetermined. I only knew that I felt as though my mother was the most caring wonderful person in the world. I valued everything about her and enjoyed every opportunity to walk and talk and hold hands.

Several years later our son brought home his girlfriend for Christmas, she was surprised we had gifts for her. I thought she must feel unloved if she had not realized that gifts were given freely in a loving family environment. We soon discovered the truth of the situation and I did strive to be a good mum-in-law when they married, to offer her support and open affection. She rejected my son and my advice was considered interfering. The one good Christmas we had with our future daughter in law, she was still very much an insecure child that we had welcomed into our family home, at that time she was glad to be there.

Now as another Christmas day approaches, the decorations are up, the Christmas tree in the corner of the family room with presents piled beneath it, we look forward to making new memories for our two beautiful grand-daughters, I can only hope that they will grow into secure happy women, with me holding their small hands in mine and helping them along that path.

I look back at how I changed from a timid young teen and became the woman I am today. That shy gangly girl has transformed herself into a happy person, learning and growing still and being glad in every achievement. I think that that is the very best Christmas present I can give myself, confidence to go and share my thoughts, to write and enjoy sharing my craft, to live and share the abundant love I have for my family with them, making memories that they will recall all their lives.

My parents on their wedding day                              

Four Henley girls and cousin me with the ribbon on top