Night-time came early once upon a time, when I lived at Oakwood House, Gately, Cheshire, my family sharing our house with the Cooperative grocery store. Although I’d shared my early years with the grocery store’s staff I’d always kept clear of the manager – but on this particular day the adults were bustling about in the store yard and, as a very young child, I was most upset. Frank the delivery boy didn’t take me out with his parcels in the funny bicycle, and Mr. Shrigley didn’t open his shop to the good folk of the village. That was very odd indeed!
In a store outhouse there was a sharp noise of breaking panes of glass and I could see a lot of flickering candles. What the heck was going on? My tiny befuddled mind (I was only two and a half then) went round circles as my terror grew. My dear mother and other adults were far too busy and excited to worry about one screaming toddler. Was this all for another bonfire night?
My older brother Clarence helpfully got hold of my cold hand, and after giving me a good shake tried to explain. As I understood our discussion, he said: “That bright thing up there in the sky is the sun and it sends light down to us so that we can see everything in the yard. Right!” I dared not say no, so I said “Oh!” He went on: “Well very soon that sun is going to turn off, the yard will go dark and you will not be able to see. Right!”
“Is that why everyone is lighting candles?” Not the exact words at my young age , of course.
Back to Clarence: “No, bonehead!” (I used to think that was my name). “Look at Frank in the outhouse. He’s holding bits of broken window glass over smoking candles to make them black.” Clarence chatted on: “When you gaze at the bright sun you must look through those bits of dark-
ened glass to save your eyes. Right!”
“If the sun’s going dark why do we need bits of dark glass?” I thought. But true as Clarence had said, on that day – June 29 1927 – the daylight went away, frightening the daylights out of me, so to speak. Before I could think of a religious comment, all the adults were a-going “Woor-arh”.
They heard a passing lay preacher in Oakwood Avenue calling out in the darkness; “By all the Saints! The Divil himself has come to Gatley!” But some people answered him. “He’s been here for many long years!” After all the noise and excitement, I started to think about the next bonfire night in the yard, when they switched off the sun all night and not just for a measly few minutes. There wasn’t even time for a sparkler to burn. It wasn’t much fun for me.
Peter Boden
