blaze, and faced it from the safety of the pavement opposite. My heartbeat roared in my ears like a locomotive. The fire was real in its frightful intensity. Thick smoke oozed through the roof and curled into grey spark-loaded columns. Hot stink wafted in our faces.
“Smells like we’re burning garbage,” said a woman with silver spectacles and wrinkly skin. Others laughed; their laughter sounded eerie against the whine from the fire.
Many people had come to watch the house burn. Onlookers stood in small clusters, their hands in their pockets, their faces muffled with shawls.
My mouth was dry and tense; cold prickled on my skin, and I put my hand into my father’s coat pocket to hold his hand. “I want to go home, Pa. Please.”
“Watch.” He grabbed my shoulders and turned me towards the fire. “Watch and learn. Learn about what happens to garbage.”
I tried hard not to look, but the glow drew and held me. I knew the house: The shop on the ground floor sold magazines, lottery tickets, ice cream, my favourite Werther’s toffee sweets and Mum’s cans of mushy peas. Above the shop was a flat, and above that, an attic under a gabled roof.
The façade looked thin and vulnerable. The upper windows contained dark emptiness, and the bow windows of the shop screamed with orange heat. Everything looked black against this orange. The house reminded me of the lanterns we’d been making at school, black cardboard with rectangular cut-outs, with brightly coloured translucent paper behind.
I didn’t mind the rows of mushy peas cans burning, but I regretted the Werther’s toffee and ice cream chest.
“Are they in there?” a young woman asked in a thin voice. She carried a small white dog in her arms and stroked it incessantly. She tilted her head at my father. “The Eversons and the Arabs aren’t still in there, are they?”
“I’ve only just arrived. I know nothing.”
“If they were at home, they’d have come out by now, wouldn’t they?”
When he gave no reply, she turned to the tall bespectacled woman. “The fire fighters are taking their time, aren’t they?” She stepped from one foot to the other, either nervous or cold. “They’ve been notified, haven’t they?”
“Yes,” the other woman said.
“Well, they’re volunteers, I suppose they can’t be expected…”
“No.”
“Still, why…”
The sea breeze whipped the flames into further frenzy. In the distance, seagulls screeched.
“I don’t know anything, so don’t ask.” The older woman turned away. The younger one stopped talking, and pressed her face into her dog’s coat.
Not everyone was quiet, though. Darren had met up with other boys from his class. They hurled stones at the windows of the upper stories, smashing the panes the fire hadn’t reached yet, chanting something about cleaning up the town. Their teacher stood by, and I expected him to call the boys to order, but held his hands folded behind his back and watched.
Within moments, the sash windows of the upstairs flat lit up at once like a garland of festive lights. Glass crackled and tinkled, a beautiful chiming sound, dotted with poufs and bangs. The smoke grew darker and thicker, turning dirty brown and charcoal black. Plaster blistered and peeled off the wall. Embers flew.
Wind blasted from the site and threw furious heat at us. My face felt like a roasting sausage, but when I averted it, the icy night air made my hair stand up.
Sirens howled, the dog yapped, and people made room on the pavement for a shiny police car. Two uniformed policemen jumped out and shooed people back from the site, including the chanting boys. Then they stood, inactive, hypnotised like the rest of us.
Now smoke seeped from the small attic window, then it lit up as if someone had switched on a hundred lights behind a red curtain. A collective “Aah,” rose from the crowd. A couple of people started to clap, but stopped when a policeman threw them a stern look.
I wasn’t sure
“Smells like we’re burning garbage,” said a woman with silver spectacles and wrinkly skin. Others laughed; their laughter sounded eerie against the whine from the fire.
Many people had come to watch the house burn. Onlookers stood in small clusters, their hands in their pockets, their faces muffled with shawls.
My mouth was dry and tense; cold prickled on my skin, and I put my hand into my father’s coat pocket to hold his hand. “I want to go home, Pa. Please.”
“Watch.” He grabbed my shoulders and turned me towards the fire. “Watch and learn. Learn about what happens to garbage.”
I tried hard not to look, but the glow drew and held me. I knew the house: The shop on the ground floor sold magazines, lottery tickets, ice cream, my favourite Werther’s toffee sweets and Mum’s cans of mushy peas. Above the shop was a flat, and above that, an attic under a gabled roof.
The façade looked thin and vulnerable. The upper windows contained dark emptiness, and the bow windows of the shop screamed with orange heat. Everything looked black against this orange. The house reminded me of the lanterns we’d been making at school, black cardboard with rectangular cut-outs, with brightly coloured translucent paper behind.
I didn’t mind the rows of mushy peas cans burning, but I regretted the Werther’s toffee and ice cream chest.
“Are they in there?” a young woman asked in a thin voice. She carried a small white dog in her arms and stroked it incessantly. She tilted her head at my father. “The Eversons and the Arabs aren’t still in there, are they?”
“I’ve only just arrived. I know nothing.”
“If they were at home, they’d have come out by now, wouldn’t they?”
When he gave no reply, she turned to the tall bespectacled woman. “The fire fighters are taking their time, aren’t they?” She stepped from one foot to the other, either nervous or cold. “They’ve been notified, haven’t they?”
“Yes,” the other woman said.
“Well, they’re volunteers, I suppose they can’t be expected…”
“No.”
“Still, why…”
The sea breeze whipped the flames into further frenzy. In the distance, seagulls screeched.
“I don’t know anything, so don’t ask.” The older woman turned away. The younger one stopped talking, and pressed her face into her dog’s coat.
Not everyone was quiet, though. Darren had met up with other boys from his class. They hurled stones at the windows of the upper stories, smashing the panes the fire hadn’t reached yet, chanting something about cleaning up the town. Their teacher stood by, and I expected him to call the boys to order, but held his hands folded behind his back and watched.
Within moments, the sash windows of the upstairs flat lit up at once like a garland of festive lights. Glass crackled and tinkled, a beautiful chiming sound, dotted with poufs and bangs. The smoke grew darker and thicker, turning dirty brown and charcoal black. Plaster blistered and peeled off the wall. Embers flew.
Wind blasted from the site and threw furious heat at us. My face felt like a roasting sausage, but when I averted it, the icy night air made my hair stand up.
Sirens howled, the dog yapped, and people made room on the pavement for a shiny police car. Two uniformed policemen jumped out and shooed people back from the site, including the chanting boys. Then they stood, inactive, hypnotised like the rest of us.
Now smoke seeped from the small attic window, then it lit up as if someone had switched on a hundred lights behind a red curtain. A collective “Aah,” rose from the crowd. A couple of people started to clap, but stopped when a policeman threw them a stern look.
I wasn’t sure
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