Eva was lying in bed watching the night sky, which was filled with small explosions of glorious colours and shapes. She could hear a fire engine in the distance and smell the smoke of countless bonfires. She pitied all the women out there who were, at this very moment, catering for their families and guests at their bonfire parties. She thought back to bonfire night 2010, otherwise known as The Great Disaster. Brian had put up a poster at work which said:
CALLING ALL BRIGHT SPARKS!
Join Brian and Eva and celebrate Guy Fawkes’ death!
Catholics Beware!
Eva had shopped on the morning of the fifth. Brian had told her to prepare enough food for thirty people, so she had driven to Morrisons and bought:
60 pork sausages
2 kilos of onions
60 torpedo rolls
35 baking potatoes
a huge lump of Cheddar cheese
a slab of Heinz baked beans
30 novelty Guy Fawkes biscuits
a large bottle of Heinz tomato sauce
3 packs of butter
toffee-apple ingredients for 30
1 Guy Fawkes mask and hat
10 livestock-friendly Chinese lanterns
6 bottles of rosé wine
6 bottles of white wine
6 bottles of red wine
1 barrel of Kronenbourg
2 crates of John Smith’s.
She had hurt her back hefting the Kronenbourg from the trolley into the boot of the car.
On the way home she had spent almost £200 on two boxes of assorted fireworks, and sparklers for the children.
The afternoon was taken up dragging a damp mattress from the garage down the garden and manoeuvring it on to the small bonfire, constructing an effigy of Guy Fawkes, making toffee apples (including chopping kindling for toffee-apple sticks), cleaning the downstairs lavatory, vacuuming the sitting room, deep-cleaning the kitchen, selecting listener-friendly CDs and jet-washing the patio.
Brian had asked his guests to turn up at six, so Eva filled the oven with a first sitting of potatoes at five thirty, set out the cold food and the drinks, rinsed and dried the glassware, placed candles into windproof lanterns, and waited.
At seven ten the doorbell finally rang and Eva heard Brian’s voice saying, ‘Mrs Hordern, lovely to see you. Is this Mr Hordern?’ As he was taking their coats, he asked, ‘Have you come in a crowd? Are the others parking?’
She said, ‘No, we’ve come on us own.’
When they’d finally gone, Eva declared, ‘That was the most excruciating night of my life – and I include in that giving birth to the twins. What happened, Brian? Do your colleagues hate you that much?’
‘I can’t understand it,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps my notice fell off the board. I only used one drawing pin.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that’s what must have happened. It was the drawing pin.’
Later, as they were sharing a second bottle of burgundy, Brian asked, ‘Did you notice, when I let off my Beaver Special rockets? Neither of them gave so much as an “ohhh” or an “ahhh”. They just sat there, filling their stupid faces with carbohydrates and grease! I spent seven days building those. At great risk to myself. I mean, I was working with unstable materials. At any moment I could have blown myself and the sheds to smithereens.’
Eva said, ‘They were very beautiful rockets, Brian.’ She felt genuinely sorry for him.
She had watched his face each time he launched a rocket. He was as excited as a child, and had followed each projectile’s trajectory and height with the look of a proud father watching his baby walk for the first time.
Now, Eva looked around her white room and thought, ‘But that was then and this is now. I have absolutely nothing to do but to watch light move across the sky.’