The story goes that the fire brigade were called by a neighbour across the fields who saw flames and ever since then they were invited, the firemen, not the neighbour, to the party in the Black Barn that my father threw for estate workers every November 5th. Mr Mayes began building the bonfire in October, huge, it had a door, this fascinated me, imagine living inside it before it was burnt. It was set in the field below the stud farm, lights were strung on the yard doors, this was important, a secret signal would be given. But first, a party. The Black Barn had a rounded roof, was made of wood, a dirt floor, wide open doors big enough for a tractor to drive in and turn around. Trestle tables were set on two sides, there would be hot, mulled wine, I remember the vats of it steaming, and beer I suppose though it passed me by. There would be sausages which didn’t. Freezing cold, winter already set in, was the Christmas tree up outside the cottage yet? I don’t remember. But I would see the bonfire grow and the stakes that would flame be stuck in the ground and the fireworks that would whizz bang explode be unloaded from a truck and set about, there was no string to stand back from. The firemen and fire engine, guests in uniform and the rest of us in wellies and anoraks, all the men and women who worked on the estate arriving in pickups and Subarus, the chatter growing louder, the barn growing warmer, the crowd shouting over each other, greetings, quilt jackets and flat caps, children running, weaving through legs, knocking elbows, asking for mince pies and my father, the king, at his happiest, saying time to ring the bell. It was almost heavier than me, it took two hands, I’d have to swing it low, back bent, ringing with all my small might, clanging the Black Barn to silence so that my father could stand on a crate and thank everyone for coming, for being part of his world, for making it better. And then a fire torch into our hands, my brother and me, and a procession, small flaming leaders for the length of half a country lane and into the field where there were no barriers or safety wardens, where everyone knew to stop while we carried on into the bonfire space and turned to watch, over the heads of the crowd, the lights on the doors to the stud yard for the secret sign. Two flashes of the bulbs, the bonfire door opened, our torches thrown in and up it went, a glorious fire lighting up the November night, our fireworks party, the whizz bang set off, our faces lifted, all of us happy, this version of family complete.
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I love this. Superb memories of that fire. Have you continued that tradition with your kids?
The bonfire, layered and made live.