Guy Fawkes

Thursday 5th November was Guy Fawkes Night.

Barry Brand had been informed of this several times during the week, largely because he had developed a number of questions about the occasion which were proving difficult to answer without someone needing to sit down.

“Why did Guy Fawkes want to blow up Parliament?”

“Because he was unhappy with the King,” Mr Brand explained.

“Why?”

“Because they disagreed about religion and politics.”

“Why?”

“Because people have been disagreeing about religion and politics for hundreds of years.”

“Why?”

Mr Brand looked at Mrs Brand.

“I’m beginning to understand why Guy Fawkes wanted to blow something up.”

Alfie, who had been listening while arranging his school reading book, homework diary and pencil case into a neat pile, sighed.

“Barry, it was a long time ago. They caught him. He didn’t blow anything up. That’s why we have fireworks.”

“Did he like fireworks?”

“No,” said Alfie. “I don’t think he got to see them.”

Barry considered this.

“That’s a bit unfair.”

By Thursday afternoon, the excitement had reached a level which meant that very little productive work was likely to be achieved in the Brand household. Barry and Marmaduke had been discussing fireworks since breakfast. Marmaduke had drawn a picture of a rocket, which looked rather like a carrot having a difficult day. Barry had drawn an enormous explosion with several people flying through the air.

Mrs Brand had suggested that perhaps the people could/should remain on the ground.

Barry had explained that this was not how explosions worked.

The plan was for the Brands and Jacksons to walk to the local playing field that evening, where the community was holding a fireworks display. It was close enough to walk, which was fortunate because parking on Bonfire Night was generally an activity best attempted by people who had given up on happiness.

There would be fireworks, music, a small food stall and, if the organisers had their way, a reasonably orderly crowd.

The parents were looking forward to it.

The children were practically vibrating.

The cats, meanwhile, had very different views.

Snowball was entirely untroubled by the prospect of fireworks. She was sitting on the sofa, washing one paw with the sort of dedication normally associated with people restoring priceless works of art.

A loud bang from somewhere outside made no discernible difference to her.

Mrs Brand looked at her.

“Snowball?”

Nothing.

“Snowball!”

Snowball continued washing.

Mrs Brand walked over and gently touched the sofa beside her. Snowball looked up, blinked and began purring.

“She’s either remarkably relaxed,” Mrs Brand said, “or she hasn’t heard a thing.”

Alfie had already investigated the possibility that Snowball was partially or totally deaf. Her blue eyes were one reason he had researched the subject, and her apparent inability to react to certain sounds was another.

“She’s definitely not bothered by fireworks,” he said.

“Lucky her,” said Mr Brand. “I’d quite like to be completely unaware of the noise, too.”

Bubble, however, was a different matter.

Bubble belonged to Marjory and was a perfectly pleasant cat, provided that he was not required to experience anything remotely unexpected. He was not a fan of loud noises, unfamiliar people, sudden movements or, as far as anyone could tell, the general concept of containment.

Marjory had already decided that Bubble would be staying indoors for the evening. Before the family left, he needed to be fed, brought inside and made comfortable with music playing.

This sounded straightforward.

It was not.

At half past three, the children arrived home from school.

“Bubble!” Barry announced, dropping his school bag in the hall.

“Don’t just shout at him,” said Alfie. “He won’t understand what you want.”

“I want him to come inside.”

“Yes. But shouting isn’t going to help.”

“Maybe he likes shouting.”

“He doesn’t.”

Marmaduke had already removed his coat and was peering through the front window.

“I can see him!”

Bubble was sitting in the garden, on a low wall, looking out towards the road. He appeared to be enjoying a peaceful afternoon and had no intention of allowing a group of small people to interfere with it.

“Right,” said Marjory, appearing from the kitchen. “Let’s get him fed and indoors before we start getting ready.”

She put a little food into Bubble’s bowl and carried it outside.

Bubble looked at her.

He looked at the food.

He looked at the boys.

Then he walked away.

“That’s helpful,” said Mr Brand.

“Perhaps he’s not hungry,” suggested Marmaduke.

“He’s always hungry,” said Marjory. “He just likes to make us work for it.”

Barry approached the wall.

“Bubble. I’ve got food.”

Bubble glanced at him and moved further along the wall.

“Look,” Barry said, holding out his hand. “It’s delicious.”

“Don’t put your hand in his face,” said Alfie.

“I’m showing him.”

“He can see it.”

“Maybe he can’t smell it.”

“Barry, he’s a cat.”

“Exactly.”

Marmaduke decided that the best approach was to sit on the grass and wait.

This was an interesting strategy. It was also unsuccessful.

Bubble walked past him, jumped down from the wall and disappeared behind the garden shed.

The boys followed.

“Don’t chase him,” Marjory called.

They stopped.

Bubble emerged from the other side of the shed, walked across the lawn and disappeared beneath a hedge.

“That’s chasing,” Alfie said, looking at his younger brother.

“We’re not chasing,” Barry replied. “We’re following.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“It isn’t if you’re being polite.”

Marjory put the food bowl down near the hedge and stepped back. Bubble’s head appeared between the leaves. He sniffed the air.

Everyone held their breath.

Bubble crept forward.

He took one step.

Then another.

He was almost at the bowl when a delivery van drove past the house.

Bubble shot backwards into the hedge.

“Brilliant,” said Mr Brand. “We’ve been defeated by a van.”

The next twenty minutes involved several different strategies.

Marjory tried calling Bubble in her usual voice.

Barry tried whispering.

Marmaduke tried singing.

Alfie suggested leaving the food in one place and giving Bubble time.

Mr Brand suggested that they could all go out and buy another cat.

This was not well received.

Eventually, Bubble emerged from the hedge and wandered towards the far end of the garden. He stopped beneath a tree and looked upwards.

“Oh no,” said Marjory.

The cat climbed.

He was not particularly high, but he was high enough to make it clear that he had no intention of being collected by a four-year-old.

“Bubble!” Barry shouted.

Bubble looked down.

“Come down!”

Bubble looked away.

Marmaduke folded his arms.

“Maybe he’s going to watch the fireworks from there.”

“He can’t stay up there all evening,” said Marjory.

“Why not?” asked Barry.

“Because he’s a cat, not a garden ornament.”

Alfie examined the tree.

“I think I can reach him.”

Mrs Brand, who had just arrived at the garden door with a bag of warm clothing, looked at him.

“Reach him how?”

“Climb up a little way.”

There was a pause.

“Alfie,” said Mr Brand, “I appreciate your confidence, but I would like to avoid explaining to the neighbours why our evening entertainment has become a rescue operation.”

“I can do it,” Alfie said. “I’m not going very high.”

Marjory considered the situation. Bubble was not far off the ground, and the lower branches were sturdy. She stood close by while Alfie carefully climbed onto the lowest branch.

“Slowly,” she said. “And don’t lean too far.”

Alfie reached out.

Bubble moved.

Alfie reached a little further.

Bubble moved again.

“He’s doing it deliberately,” Barry observed.

“Cats don’t have a personal vendetta against you, Barry,” said Mrs Brand.

“Snowball does.”

Alfie finally managed to get one arm around Bubble, who appeared deeply offended by the whole arrangement. With a little help from Marjory, he brought the cat down safely.

Bubble immediately wriggled free and landed on the grass.

“Got him!” shouted Marmaduke.

“Don’t celebrate yet,” said Mr Brand. “He hasn’t agreed to stay.”

Marjory scooped Bubble up, carried him indoors and shut the door behind her.

The cat looked around the room.

Then he ate his food.

Then he wandered towards his favourite chair.

Marjory put on some gentle music and made sure he had water, food and a comfortable place to settle.

“Right,” she said. “That’s Bubble sorted.”

Alfie brushed a few bits of bark from his trousers.

“Good job,” said Mr Brand.

Barry looked at him with admiration.

“You climbed a tree to get a cat.”

“Yes.”

“Can you climb a tree to get me?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because you can walk.”

Barry thought about this.

“Not always.”

By the time everyone was ready to leave, the house looked as though a small expedition was setting off for the Arctic.

There were coats, hats, scarves, gloves and several discussions about whether the boys really needed to wear two layers under their jumpers.

Barry had decided he needed to bring a torch.

“Why?” asked Mrs Brand.

“So I can see.”

“It’s a fireworks display. There will be lights.”

“What if the lights go out?”

“Then we’ll use the torch.”

“What if the torch goes out?”

“Then we’ll use our eyes.”

“What if my eyes go out?”

Mr Brand looked at him.

“Then we will have bigger problems than fireworks.”

Marmaduke had brought a small packet of biscuits, which he insisted were essential for the evening.

Alfie had packed gloves, a hat and a spare pair of gloves because, as he explained, “You never know.”

Mr Brand looked at the bag.

“Are we going to a fireworks display or crossing the Antarctic?”

Marjory arrived a few minutes later, looking rather pleased with herself.

“Bubble is settled. Music is on. He’s eaten. He’s got everything he needs.”

“Excellent,” said Mrs Brand.

“And Alfie, thank you for helping.”

Alfie smiled.

Barry looked disappointed.

“I wanted to climb the tree.”

“You’re four,” said Mr Brand.

“I can climb.”

“You can also fall.”

“I won’t.”

“That’s what people generally say immediately before they fall.”

They set off on foot.

The playing field was only a short walk away, but the streets were already busy with families heading in the same direction. Children carried glow sticks, parents carried bags and everyone seemed to be wearing at least one item of clothing that was too warm for the weather or not warm enough for the occasion.

The boys walked ahead, holding hands in pairs for approximately thirty seconds before deciding that they had more important things to do.

“Look!” shouted Barry, pointing at a glow stick.

“Look!” shouted Marmaduke, pointing at a dog.

“Look!” shouted Barry, pointing at a different glow stick.

Alfie walked beside his parents, hands in his pockets.

“It’s quite busy,” he observed.

“Ah, thanks Alfie,” said Mr Brand with a big smile and a wink to his eldest son. “I’d been wondering why it was taking us so long to walk twenty metres.”

Alfie smiled back and rolled his eyes. 

As they approached the field, the sound of music and excited voices grew louder. A queue had formed near the food stall. There were children with flashing headbands, adults holding cups of hot chocolate and a man carrying what appeared to be a very large inflatable dinosaur.

Barry stopped.

“Can I have one?”

“No,” said Mrs Brand.

“Why?”

“Because you already have a dinosaur at home.”

“Not an inflatable one.”

“Precisely.”

The boys were now fully energised. They ran a little ahead, bounced on their toes and repeatedly asked when the fireworks would start.

The adults, by contrast, had begun to look as though they had completed a long-distance hike.

Mr Brand checked his watch.

“We’ve been out for twenty minutes.”

“Feels like three days,” said Mrs Brand.

Marjory laughed.

“It’s the children. They have unlimited energy.”

“I’m not convinced,” said Mr Brand. “I think they are powered by something we haven’t discovered yet. Possibly sugar. Possibly chaos.”

The boys were delighted by the field.

There was space to run, other children to watch and a huge amount of anticipation in the air. They found a good viewing spot and immediately began discussing where the fireworks would come from.

“Will they go up from there?” asked Marmaduke, pointing to a cordoned off area. 

“Probably,” said Alfie.

“Will they go up really high?”

“Yes.”

“Will they explode?”

“That’s generally the idea.”

Barry was watching the sky.

“I want a green one.”

“I want a blue one,” said Marmaduke.

“I want one with a dinosaur.”

“Fireworks don’t have dinosaurs,” Alfie explained.

“They could.”

“Not unless someone makes one.”

Barry looked at Mr Brand.

“Can you make one?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I have a law degree, not a fireworks factory.”

Eventually, the lights around the field dimmed.

A voice came over the loudspeaker asking everyone to stand back and remain behind the safety barriers. The boys went quiet for almost five seconds.

Then the first firework shot into the sky.

A bright golden burst opened above the field.

“WOW!” shouted Barry.

Marmaduke grabbed his arm.

“LOOK!”

The sky filled with colour. Red, green, blue and gold lights exploded overhead, followed by showers of sparkling trails that drifted down like glittering rain.

Barry’s mouth was open.

Marmaduke was bouncing.

Alfie was watching carefully, occasionally commenting on the different patterns.

Mr Brand and Mrs Brand were watching too, although they were also trying to keep track of three children, two sets of gloves, one torch and a packet of biscuits that had somehow become empty.

“That’s brilliant,” said Marjory.

“It is,” Mrs Brand agreed.

A particularly loud firework boomed overhead.

Snowball, at home, would presumably have continued washing her paw.

Bubble, by contrast, was probably considering whether the music was sufficiently loud and whether he could arrange to have a different family.

The display continued. There were crackling fireworks, enormous bursts of colour and one particularly impressive sequence that made the entire field gasp.

Barry turned to his father.

“Can we have fireworks at home?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because we don’t have a fireworks licence, a safety area or the slightest desire to lose a garden fence.”

“What about a little one?”

“No.”

“A tiny one?”

“No.”

“A sparkler?”

Mr Brand looked at Mrs Brand.

“We’ll discuss it.”

This was not a promise. Barry had learned that the phrase “we’ll discuss it” was adult language for “probably not, but we’re hoping you’ll forget”.

The final fireworks were announced.

A series of enormous bursts lit the sky, one after another, until the whole field was illuminated. The crowd applauded. Barry and Marmaduke cheered as though they had personally organised the event.

Then, quite suddenly, it was over.

The lights came back on.

The music started again.

And the crowd began moving towards the exits.

“Can we do it again?” asked Barry.

“No,” said Mrs Brand.

“Tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Next week?”

“No.”

“Next Guy Fawkes Night?”

“Yes,” said Mr Brand. “If we survive the walk home.”

The journey home was rather different from the journey there.

The children were still excited, although the energy was beginning to turn into the slightly unpredictable behaviour that comes with being four years old and having stayed up past a sensible bedtime.

Barry was talking about the green fireworks.

Marmaduke was talking about the blue ones.

Alfie was explaining how fireworks were launched and why they made different sounds.

The adults were walking at a steady pace, each silently calculating how quickly they could get home, remove their coats and sit down.

“I thought that was lovely,” said Marjory.

“It was,” Mrs Brand agreed.

“Really lovely,” said Mr Brand. “I especially enjoyed the part where I carried three coats, two hats and a child who insisted he was not tired.”

“I wasn’t tired,” Barry protested.

“Of course not.”

“I was just resting my legs.”

“While being carried.”

“Yes.”

When they reached Marjory’s house, they went inside to check on Bubble.

The music was still playing.

Bubble was curled up on his chair, looking thoroughly unimpressed by the entire evening. He opened one eye as they entered, then closed it again.

“Hello, Bubble,” said Marmaduke.

Bubble did not move.

“Did you miss us?” asked Barry.

Bubble remained still.

“Probably not,” said Alfie.

Marjory checked his food and water, gave him a gentle stroke and turned the music down slightly.

“Good boy. All settled.”

Back at the Brand house, Snowball was exactly where they had left her, on the sofa, looking as though she had spent the evening supervising the furniture.

Mrs Brand sat down beside her.

“Did you miss us?”

Snowball purred.

“That’s nice.”

Mr Brand removed his shoes.

“Well, that was a success.”

“Definitely,” said Mrs Brand.

“Excellent fireworks,” said Alfie.

“Best night ever!” declared Marmaduke.

Barry climbed onto the sofa beside Snowball.

“Snowball, you missed the fireworks.”

Snowball blinked slowly.

“I think she heard you,” said Alfie.

“No, she didn’t.”

“Maybe she did.”

Barry leaned close to her.

“Next year, Snowball, we’ll take you.”

Mrs Brand looked at him.

“I’m not sure she’d enjoy that.”

“Why?”

“Because she doesn’t like being outside.”

Barry considered this.

“Then we’ll bring the fireworks inside.”

“No,” said both parents.

And so ended Guy Fawkes Night: three delighted children, two exhausted families, one rescued cat, one entirely unbothered cat and a pair of parents who were beginning to suspect that the real explosive event of the evening had been the energy levels of their four-year-olds.

Somewhere in the house, Snowball purred.

Somewhere a few doors away, Bubble slept.

And Barry, who had already begun planning next year’s display, whispered to Marmaduke:

“Next year, we need a dinosaur firework.”

Marmaduke nodded solemnly.

“Definitely.”

Alfie closed his eyes.

“Please don’t tell Dad.”