Remember, remember, the 5th of November,

Gunpowder, treason and plot.

I see no reason,

Why gunpowder treason,

Should ever be forgot.

It was a typical cold and damp November evening. The Harris household was alive with an unusual bustle. Inside the humble brick house, within the working-class streets of an English town, three young sparks were fizzing.

Mick Harris, a man whose hands were calloused from years of labour in the local mine, was overseeing an operation of great importance. His sons, Tom, Jack, and Craig were his eager accomplices. The boys’ faces were illuminated by the soft glow of anticipation rather than the harsh fluorescent light that usually filled their home.

Their living room, a mosaic of worn brown furniture and frayed rugs had been transformed into a dedicated workshop. On the floor lay the components of what would soon be the most formidable Guy Fawkes the town had ever seen. Two old pillows lay naked on the floor, the innards a little lumpy, their cases a covering of sepia-circled patterns from years of headrest. These would form the body of the conspirator, given shape by their dad’s old work trousers and a shirt that had been used for gardening. Mick’s Grandad’s old top hat, plucked from its resting place in a dusty box in the loft, was jammed onto the makeshift head fashioned from mum’s cushion. She’d taken off the embroidered case before they had it ruined and shook her head at them all.

The boys stuffed the Guy with straw pilfered from Farmer Lee’s field and old clothes that couldn’t even find a second life at the church jumble sale. Tom, the eldest brother, took a piece of charcoal from the hearth and sketched a villainous face on the pillowcase. The Guy looked sinister, and for a moment, as the dusk purpled outside, he looked lifelike in the half-lit room. Jack landed a playful punch on Guy’s chalked face causing the head to loll sideways. Laughter burst from the brothers like the crackling fire yet to come. The sound carried a warmth that the room’s heating seldom provided.

“Don’t be rough with him, kid. We need him in one piece for the night,” Mick chided, though his eyes sparkled with amusement.

They heaved the Guy into an old, rusty wheelbarrow and made for the door. The cold air greeted them with a slap but it couldn’t cool their enthusiasm. “Penny for the Guy!” they shouted, breaths visible in the evening air as they trundled down the streets.

Doors opened to their chants, faces peering out – some amused, some annoyed, but many conceding to the tradition with a smile and a flipped coin. The tin can they carried clinked and clanked with their growing treasure. When it was nearly full, Craig, with his young heart sewn to his sleeve, jumped for joy nearly spilling them out.

“Now we can ‘ave fireworks and some of Mrs Wilson’s bonfire toffee!” 

The streets became a blur as the boys ran, their footsteps echoing a rhythm against the pavement. They took turns pushing the wheelbarrow and hitching a ride, Guy’s silhouette juddering against the street lamps that flickered with amber warnings. On Hazeldene corner they startled a group of young girls by making Guy lurch towards them with a life of his own. Shrieks and laughter chased them down the street, mixing with distant fireworks cracking and booming from the estate back gardens.

The town common was a beacon, the site of the bonfire that had been growing day by day and built by the town’s people. The pyre stood like a monument; a great offering for the lucky spirits. As they approached, the fire was just catching light. The first licks of flame tasted the air, hungry for the feast of wood, old news, and the traitorous Guy Fawkes.

The crowd gathered, a mass of shadows paying homage to history and celebrating the now. The boys with their dad at the front approached the fire. Together they hoisted the creation of rags and rebellion and flung him on top of the bonfire. His clothes caught with a whoosh, the fire claiming him as its own. The boys stood back watching him burn, their eager faces painted with the flickering light of the blaze.

Above, the sky exploded in a myriad of colours: rockets soaring, Catherine wheels spinning tales of light, and sparklers offering close-up magic. Tonight, the 5th of November, became the reflection of an old English plot and the warmth of family and community.