HERNE BAY
The Little Restaurant on the Prom
A childhood memoir of life before polio, and immediately after, and my magical childhood adventures in and out of a wheelchair
Fireworks
My first memory of fireworks was seeing my grandfather blow himself up. Sparks had gotten into the firework box and they had all gone up at once. He was just standing in the back garden, whilst we watched from the safety of the kitchen window, demonstrating the art of safety with a Golden Rain in each hand, when there was a huge bang. I remember Granddad bending over a small white pudding basin filled with hot water. There was blood on his forehead and the smell of Dettol.
My memory then shifts to the night of the 5th of November when we had a bonfire at the end of the Lemonade Jetty (I cannot to this day find out why we called it The Lemonade Jetty). I remember a policeman turning up. My father had a quick word with him, telling him that he would personally see to it that the remains of the fire were pushed safely into the sea.
That night 'Bangers' that I had hoarded in an old biscuit tin were ignited in shop keyholes, the blast of which nearly tore the lock out of its socket. My wheelchair could just be seen in the distance making a rapid escape. We would hurl Bangers really HARD, when they first spurted into life, hurled them into the sea with such force that they would descend like a glowing torch then erupt in a muffled GEERLOMFF, bubbles bursting on the sea's surface like a gigantic fart in the bath. Bangers attached to rockets, the fuse of which was turned around to bask in the blast of the rocket's lift-off power. When in the air we would cover our ears against the mighty explosion. Sometimes it never came and we would hunt the next morning in the graveyard of dead fireworks for the live one. We never found it but instead smelt the sulphurous remains of dead fireworks, mourn their passing and dream of next year!
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