Bonfire Night

By Julian Robert Breeds

A bonfire blazes in Outback Australia. Two men sit all night in its glow, commemorating their dead friend. He blew his head off with a shotgun. Bonfires burn across Lewes, England, commemorating Guy Fawkes Night. As crowds of revellers lurch through the streets, a boy stands teetering on the ledge of a bridge, waiting for the train to pass below. Two different lives, two different places, one story to tell.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley
• Release date: Nov 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463344163

Julian Robert Breeds

Julian Breeds was born in Rye, Sussex, in 1953 and moved with his wife to Sydney in 1981, where they raised three children. He has written a novella, a book of short stories and skits for a street theatre group that he led on tours of Outback Australia. His quest for fun, mischief and adventures shows up in his stories, as does his propensity to pathos.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Bonfire at Nymagee

A fire blazed to heaven. We sat in camp chairs, gazing with glazed eyes at its glowing heart. Wolfie took a slurp of Chardonnay. Cheap cask stuff. He called it fusel, I call it goon. I watched him as his fat, un-co fingers deftly rolled a cigarette paper into the perfect trumpet. Thin end you suck on, fat end you light up. He flicked me a glance.

‘You want one?’ he growled like a bear when he spoke. I saw the unkempt mat of facial hair silhouetted in the firelight and his bulky frame lumped into a tatty flannelette shirt. He spoke like a bear, he looked like a bear. The Isar Bear, I called him. From Bavaria, where the Isar River flows.

Every immigrant gets rechristened on arrival to this country. Wolfgang became Wolfie. Our friend Ulrich became Rick. I was christened Sheza, from Sheridan. Wolfie is definitely a misnomer for him.

He’s a bear, not a wolf. Wolfie is a roughy from the shop floor of a Munich factory. I’m a smoothy, from a little county town in southern England.

‘Thanks,’ I reached over and accepted the cigarette that he passed me.

I turned back and watched the embers fly up into the night, an army of fairy sprites, racing to heaven. The fire wasn’t for warmth. It was a summer’s night in outback New South Wales. The fire was warming our souls. The sky out here in Nymagee has no boundaries, like the bush around us.

There was plenty of space and plenty of dead scrub to pile up and torch to kingdom come.

‘Why did he fucking kill himself?’ the bear’s voice sighed from its cave. He didn’t take his eyes off the flames. I kept quiet and took a big swig of wine.

He dragged on his cigarette and growled low again. ‘What a fucking coward, that’s what I think.’

‘Who knows,’ I was trying to dodge the argument. We’d had our share of booze-fuelled arguments over the years. There’s nothing worse than a bear with a sore head. He wasn’t afraid to lurch out of his cave growling. But I was slippery smooth, an artful dodger, willing to do anything to wriggle out of a showdown, or anything else for that matter.

‘Well, you should know,’ he grunted insistently, ‘isn’t that what you do, help people like him?’

‘Wolfie, I’m a social worker, not a mind reader.’

‘Well, you didn’t help him enough in my books.’

He was still angry from it. Maybe I’d play my classic trick, stay quiet, let him do the talking. Talking helps, but it can’t change the past. I hunkered down in my saggy chair and hid in my wine. But Wolfie had already become distracted.

‘Look at those stars,’ he was tilted back in his chair now, staring into space.

An outback sky at night is hard to explain to someone who has never seen it or felt it. Immense, unfathomable. There are some things in this universe that leave me short of answers. The beauty of nature is one of them. Suicide is another. I sighed. Away from the fire, the sky was deeply clear. The stars were so big, so bright and close, you could throw a rock at them.

‘So how did you end up then being a social worker or whatever fancy name you call yourself?’

I winced, ‘It’s a long story.’

‘Well, I’ve got all night. Talk.’

I thought he was going to do the talking. Now he wanted my life story. Well, better than talking about Ulrich. So I started.

‘I used to run a wine bar in England. In a previous life. It’s weird,’ I laughed, ‘how much you learn about people, from serving them booze all night.’

‘So how come you ended up in Sydney, working as a shrink?’

‘I’m not a shrink, Wolfie,’ I paused, then started my story. ‘OK, twenty years ago, my journey started to where I am now. I remember the exact day it started, Bonfire Night, November the fifth.’

‘Same date that idiot blew his head off,’ Wolfie interrupted, nodding thoughtfully to himself.

‘Yes, funny coincidence. In England, Bonfire Night is a big celebration, especially where I come from, the small town of Lewes. Bonfire Night started to commemorate a failed attempt at blowing up the English parliament and kill the king. A small band of Fanatics, Roman Catholics, led by a man called Guy Fawkes piled barrels of gunpowder in a cellar under the House of Lords. They got caught. Guy Fawkes was tied to the top of a big bonfire and they burned it to the ground.’

‘You are weird, you English,’ Wolfie growled humorously. ‘I would have given them a medal.’

I laughed. ‘Anyway, burning an effigy of Guy Fawkes or the Pope on a big bonfire has been re-enacted on November the fifth ever since. It’s an excuse for a night party outdoors with fireworks and parades. There’s even a poem that people recite.’

‘Remember, remember, the 5th of November The Gunpowder Treason and plot;

‘I know of no reason why the Gunpowder Treason should ever be forgot,’ I chanted as I waved my mug in the air.

Wolfie smiled, filled my mug up to the brim, then he filled up his own.

‘So, what happened next?’

We settled contentedly in our chairs. Wine in one hand, roll-up cigarette in the other.

Chapter 2

Bonfire Night

In Lewes, November the fifth has got to be the busiest time of the year. They love Bonfire Night. Great, noisy processions pass along the streets, one after the other. The town is always packed. My little wine bar was down the side road of a side road, frustratingly removed from the action and the potential customers. I stood outside the front door, listening to all the commotion going on up the road, less than a hundred yards away, hoping against hope for some customers to find their way through my door. Even from here the racket permeated every part of the building. I could hear explosions, screams, the noise of marching bands, horns blaring and the rhythmic clattering of snare drums. But where I was standing, it felt quiet. My street was almost deserted. I was on my own and hurting from it. A sulphuric, acrid haze from spent fireworks rolled down the hill in a blanket of smog on the cold damp air. The sky was hidden by a thick veil of murk, glowing ominously from fires, torches and orange fluorescent street lights. Occasionally a random renegade rocket would puncture the sky above me with a burst of light, spraying sparks across the inky gloom. There was nothing of the stars or the moon here, no glimmer of hope from creation, just the noise and signs of human mayhem. The apocalypse had come and the whole town was infected with its madness. But not me, I was left out of it. By myself, again. I wanted to be up there, with everyone else, on the threshold of hell. But here I was.

Lewes has a long history of bonfires. In 1555 the Catholic regime of the day built bonfires in the high street and burnt seventeen men and women alive for being Protestants. Fifty years later, Guy Fawkes and his aristocratic friends wanted a return to that regime, only this time, it was them that got burned. To celebrate, the people of Lewes built a great fire on top of Cliffe Hill, amongst the Iron Age burial mounds. That was in 1606. Since then the tradition has stayed. Bonfires are built, effigies are placed on top, and the mob cheers as torches set the whole thing ablaze. Vengeance is theirs, for one night only, every year. Cleansing fire, holy smoke, to make even the demons cower. I turned and went in. Empty tables, empty chairs, upstairs my two bedroom apartment was empty. I went down to the bar and looked at the whisky bottle. No, don’t drink your profits—where there’s life, there’s hope. I sat on the stool behind the bar and gazed at the wall opposite me. Then the front door opened. The sound of footsteps marked their progress across the wooden floor above me and clumped down the little flight of stairs.

One tell-tale sign of inebriation is in the eyes. They remain remarkably unfocussed, even in direct conversation. These young men were loose, well-oiled, and they didn’t look eighteen.

‘Two Southern Comforts,’ the dark-haired one said with confidence only booze can give.

I didn’t hesitate, I served them and threw in a smile.

‘There you go. Any food? I can do you a burger, or a bowl of chilli con carne with a fresh roll?’ Business is business. I needed the money, I have a mortgage to pay. They were drunk and looked underage. I waved a menu at them.

‘We’re OK.’

I didn’t argue. Food takes effort. Booze is easy and more profitable.

‘Nice place,’ the tall, blond, skinny one said vaguely as he looked around.

‘Yep, nice, and quiet,’ I joked, ‘especially down here.’

They kind of nodded to themselves thoughtfully as they looked around at the cellar bar.

‘Big possibilities,’ the shrewd-looking dark one said, ‘I’m Laffy,’ he offered his hand.

‘Laffy?’ I queried as we shook hands.

‘Short for LaFranchie, my surname, they call me Laffy.’

‘Right, I’m Sheridan,’ I winced inside at the sound of my name.

‘Harry,’ the skinny blond one held out his hand, I squeezed it firmly. He was a classic. Like Michelangelo had sculptured his fine features, or Raphael had painted his deep grey eyes.

‘Where is everyone?’ he asked.

‘High Street? Bonfire sites?’ I shrugged, ‘That’s where the action is tonight.’

‘Too much action,’ Laffy smirked at Harry. Obviously they’d been in trouble up there. Probably got kicked out of a pub.

And here I was, desperate for their business.

‘Yeah, two more, one for yourself.’

‘No, I’m all right.’

‘Go on,’ Laffy waved a twenty pound note at me.

‘OK, a scotch.’

‘Good,’ he put his arm around Harry’s shoulder and pulled him in. ‘We’re celebrating his birthday,’ I quickly took the money and poured and distributed the drinks.

‘To Harry.’

‘To Harry! Eighteenth?’ I smiled hopefully.

They chuckled. ‘Maybe,’ Laffy smirked.

‘Maybe not. To no more birthdays!’ Harry grinned and raised his glass.

‘I don’t want to hear it!’ I cautioned them, ‘you both said you’re eighteen, right? Anyway, cheers.’

‘Cheers!’ We all drank as one. I glimpsed a fleeting shadow pass across Harry’s face. He caught my glance and quickly hid behind a smile.

‘How long’s this place been here?’ Laffy broke into the moment with a question.

‘A few weeks,’ I guessed.

‘You do all this by yourself?’

‘More or less,’ I was thinking of my more-or-less wife. Where was she tonight?

Harry must have seen something in my eyes too and tried to catch it. I looked into my glass.

‘Good luck,’ he half whispered.

‘OK,’ Laffy announced, ‘let’s find the others.’

My heart sank. These were my only customers and I was already losing them.

‘See you later, alligator,’ Harry called as they raced up the stairs.

I washed the glasses then slowly walked back to my lookout spot behind the front window, scanning the road for potential customers. Surely, there must be one or two more lost souls out there who would stumble through my door tonight? I stood there trance-like for a while, then looked at my watch, quarter past ten. My supper licence only went to eleven o’clock. I had already broken the law three times tonight; serving minors, serving drunks, serving liquor without a meal. Oh well, at least I served someone. I would close at eleven. I walked away from the window and slumped in a chair. Annie and I should be together, right now we should be doing life together. But here I am on my own. But even when we’re together we’re alone. It saddens me, and I think it saddens her. She lives in her world and I live in mine.

Out there, the bonfires started to spring up at the different sites. I walked down to the bar, turned up the music and poured myself another scotch. Then I returned to my spot and sat on the floor. Bobby Vee was singing The Night Has a Thousand Eyes. A wave of despair came over me and I started crying. It was like milk boiling over, spilling out in a sudden gush. Then nothing. I wiped my eyes, downed the scotch and sat there quietly. She slipped through the door and moved softly across the floor. She didn’t see me at first. I stood up and tried to smile.

‘What are you doing?’ she flushed.

‘Getting ready to close up.’

‘Been busy?’ she said brusquely.

‘No. So what have you been up to?’

She avoided looking at me. ‘I went for a drink, with some people from work.’

‘People from work?’ I delved.

‘Shouldn’t you be worried about this place?’ she countered, ‘We need business—what have you been doing?’

‘What can I do?’ I protested, ‘If I knew, I would do it.’

‘Do what you like. I’m going up,’ she brushed past me and went up the stairs.

I sighed and looked at my watch. Time to shut up the shop. I went down to the cellar bar and turned off the music. I was sitting there gazing into space when I heard the front door open again. A clatter of feet crossed the floor and cascaded down the stairs. Laffy and Harry were at the spearhead. Countless young, drunk revellers, mainly young men, but with a smattering of some equally drunk young females flooded the bar. I gawped, speechless.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll behave,’ Laffy said unconvincingly.

‘Is anyone else coming?’ I shouted through the escalating noise.

‘Isn’t this enough?’

‘It’s my licence. I need to go up and lock the door.’

‘OK, we’ll wait. What music have you got?’

‘It’s down there,’ I pointed to the cassette player, then ran up the stairs.

‘Quick, Annie!’ I shouted up the stairs to the apartment, ‘I need your help!’

I snuck a peek out of the front door—all quiet. Then I locked it and turned off the front lights. I scooted back down to the bar as fast as I could get there. People were waving their cash at me and money is what I needed.

I quickly handed Harry and Laffy a Southern Comfort each.

‘These are on me, thank you.’

They smiled and raised their glasses ‘Cheers, big ears,’ Harry toasted.

‘Happy birthday,’ I answered, ‘OK, who’s first?’

Everyone was first. Fortunately, Annie appeared and ducked under the bar hatch.

‘OK, let’s do this. I’ll pour the beers, you do spirits and the till.’

So that’s how it started, my friendship with Harry.

Chapter 3

Walking with Annie

The day after Bonfire Night was Sunday, the day of rest. I rolled over in bed and felt Annie’s body, warm and soft. Our legs zigzagged together, everything fit, the way it should. But she was very still. Not like a person sleeping, but like a person feigning sleep, holding her breath, waiting for me to roll over, give in, admit defeat. I did, rolling onto my back and staring at the ceiling. I lay there for a little while, hoping something would change, then I got up. I put on my clothes from yesterday. They smelled of stale cigarettes and beer. I would clean up, shower and then hope for a better day.

Downstairs I made coffee and drank it while I cleaned the kitchen. We had sold some chilli con carne and a few burgers. I went through the till receipts with an optimistic eye—things were looking up.

In the basement though, things were a real mess. I saved the toilets until last. I hate cleaning spew—the smell, the look of it makes me want to vomit, too. I mopped up the piss with its rancid stench. Then I gagged, held my breath, scrubbed out the crap-splattered toilet bowl, picked up the wet used paper thrown on the floor and finished the job. It was worth it, last night was worth it. If I could make this happen every week, I could survive. I washed my hands and walked back up to the kitchen. Annie was up and dressed, reading a magazine and drinking tea.

‘It’s all clean,’ I announced.

She didn’t even look up ‘Good, it’s Sunday, we should be enjoying ourselves.’

‘What do you want to do?’

‘Not hang around here all day.’

‘Drive to Brighton?’

‘No.’

‘A walk then?’

‘Where?’

‘Anywhere.’

So after lunch, we headed south out of town. I was being put to the test. Could I organize a simple walk, or would it turn into another fail? We followed the levee bank south along the side of the River Ouse. South of Lewes the great rolling chalk downs give way to more gentle curves. Either side of the river opens to gently undulating fields, cropped short by sheep and cattle. Thin lines of hedgerows run along the edge of the pastures and canola fields. The river snakes lazily out to the sea at Newhaven a few miles south. As luck would have it, it was low tide. The moon was resolutely on the far side of the earth, causing the water to sink low and the muddy river flats to give up their stinky nitrogen smell. I threw a rock and watched it plop into the beige mud, leaving a little dark grey crater of mankiness where it had hit. Annie was silent, brooding. I was growing edgy. At least the sun was shining and Lewes looked quite pretty behind us on the little hill.

I wanted to make it to Rodmell—it was a place to aim for, a goal we could achieve together. It was an ancient and pretty village, home of a famous author, Virginia Woolf for twenty-one years. Her cottage was run by the National Trust. Perhaps they had a little shop or café there. It would be good to have such an experience as a couple. Who’s afraid of Virginia Woolf? I thought, Me, and that hilarious, painfully depressing play that bears her name. Not funny. Too close to the possible bone. Maybe the tide would turn for Annie and I, and she would smile at me, and enjoy the day. But she wasn’t smiling. She was buried deep inside herself. I wished she would at least try like I was. I was virtually bursting with effort. But we could not even look at each other, let alone hold hands. We walked alone, in silence, she in her world and I in mine. We continued like that for an eternity. I don’t know what she was thinking. My head was swirling with anxious thoughts. I wish I knew how to express them.

‘What can we do?’ I finally found the courage to ask.

‘About what?’ she seemed startled by the sudden question.

‘Us.’

She scanned the far horizon, looking for an answer. Or an escape route. I don’t know which.

I spoke again. ‘How can we keep going like this?’

‘I don’t trust you,’ she finally said.

‘You don’t trust me?’ I was incredulous. ‘At least I’m trying. I’m