44 Penny for the Guy

Halloween was an event that promised much and delivered little. Making turnip lanterns had been fun but on a damp, miserable night, the thrill of carrying them into the darkness soon vanished. Kevin and I, along with my brothers Dave and Mike, made ghostly noises as we walked along Crundale Road to the corner of Milsted Road, where we turned around, walked back and continued to the alley that leads to Wingham Close. Back and to we went for twenty chilly minutes, encountering few people and scaring none, until we gave up and went in.

Bonfire night was a much bigger occasion and something eagerly anticipated. Once again Mam made us a Guy Fawkes and once again she did us proud, making a proper job of sewing together a full head and body that was stuffed with newspapers. With the addition of a pair of stuffed socks, our guy was much better than the feeble efforts usually seen around Twydall shops; a mask on a bundle of rags.

‘Take it up to the shops if you want,’ said Mam, ‘but I don’t want you pestering anyone.’

 So my brothers and I took our guy to the shops, first pitching up outside Forbuoys, where we were swiftly moved on. The wall outside Doctor Ashford’s at the bottom of Twydall Lane seemed a good spot and free of competition so we relocated there, only pennies were scarce and when pleading eyes got us nowhere, we took it in turns to waylay people.

‘You ask her.’

‘I’m not asking her, I did the last one. You ask her.’ 

 Though we could see people coming down Twydall Lane from a long way off, the reverse was equally true and our targets were prepared well before they reached us.

‘Please can…’

 ‘Sorry, I’ve got no change.’ 

True or not, this answer was politer than some we heard. With just a few measly pennies to show for a full morning’s effort, we went home to resume work on our bonfire. That Dad allowed a bonfire in the corner of the back garden was a blessing not to be questioned but allow it he did and, as in previous years, our mate Kev was deeply involved in its construction.

 When a friend of Mam’s said she wanted rid of an old settee, Mam had the perfect solution. Thus, it came to pass that Kevin and the Lynch boys should be pushing a settee along Minster Road one afternoon, having collected it from a house on Goudhurst Road.

‘Where are you going with that?’ asked a passing lady, running her eye over the settee.

When four enthusiastic boys told her the settee was heading for a bonfire, the lady seemed surprised. ‘Hmm, if you swap it with mine I’ll give you ten shillings,’ she said, opening her purse. ‘Would that be okay?’

In a matter of seconds we were pushing the settee up the garden path to its new home on Minster Road, where an older boy I’d known by sight at Twydall Juniors, Kenneth Kinski, came to the door and assisted in making the swap. I assumed, therefore, that our benefactor was his mum. Good old Mrs Kinski.

We could hardly contain our excitement when we arrived home and told Mam what had happened. She’d already bought us some fireworks and Kevin had already bought his, but a vote for extra fireworks was carried unanimously and that’s what we got, when we shot straight up to the shops for a ten shilling box. 

As the big night drew closer, bundles of newspapers that people had tied up and put out with the bins, were liberated for our bonfire which, with an upright settee as the centrepiece, promised to be our best ever.

‘Don’t put them on like that,’ said Dad. ‘Newspapers have to be separated and the pages scrunched up or they won’t burn properly.’

 Kevin and my brothers did their bit, but I was alone when I tackled a particularly large bundle. As soon as I undid the string the whole lot slid over, revealing some glossy magazines stashed in the centre. How my eyes popped when I picked one up and saw it was full of bare ladies. 

Whilst keeping an eye on the house, I crouched to flick through the magazine. Naughty or not, I felt compelled to turn the pages, ignoring the twitch in my pants until I got scared, whereupon I ripped up the magazines and shoved the torn pages deep into the heart of the bonfire.

My brothers and I had always enjoyed bonfire night; sometimes with the northern addition of black peas, parkin and treacle toffee, and sometimes with jacket potatoes roasted in the fire, courtesy of Kevin. And sometimes the neighbouring kids turned up, eager for more once their own fireworks were spent. The bonfire night of 1965, though, was the best of the lot. An old settee and an abundance of fireworks saw to that.