Pyromania

PYROMANIA

Winter was upon us, the secondary windows were in place. In a small room all the furs, mufflers, boots and shawls were hanging at the ready.  During the night the first heavy snowfall had silently swirled down. Mad with excitement I don my warm garb and tumble into the garden. A world full of magic greets me. Sparkling, brilliant light and wonderfully soft beneath my cumbersome boots. I check out the rabbits. Their hutches have been moved under a lean-to roof. They want to know if I have brought food. Venturing down into the orchard I stare at the little row of beehives beneath their snowy roofs. Are they asleep inside in tiny warm cells, waiting for their queen to give orders? Not until the Spring will she contemplate that. The trees with their laden arms and fingers, stripped of their frothy blossom and succulent fruits. Babushka has gathered them all and in the chill larder rooms rows upon rows of glistening, compotes are waiting to me opened and smothered with sugared cream. The old bath used to conserve water for the animals and vegetables is now a frozen block.  I climb into it trying hard to crack it but to no avail.  I look at my deep footsteps marring the beautiful completeness of the perfect snow carpet.  A sense of shame comes upon me. I have ruined the perfect beauty with my blundering walk. I’ll ask Grandad to get my snowshoes down from the attic next time, so I can keep such beauty from ugliness. I return trying to use my original footsteps but fail miserably. I fall face down into icy softness. So good it is that I repeat the action again and again until exhausted. Double the shame comes upon me as I look at the devastation. The horrible mark I have left for nature to repair. Inside the house is overly hot and Babushka chides me for being so wholly covered in snow and proceeds to shake out my garments and boots.  Puddles form on the stone floor and I make a point of walking through them in my stockinged feet. More reprimands and then to the table for mountains of bread and compote of blackcurrant washed down with warm frothy milk. I am in heaven.

But, that was then. That was in Město Touškov, a far-off land in Eastern Europe.  I awake in the icy, damp of an Essex morning on a soulless, poor estate to the smell of burning rubber.

Winter is upon us and it’s murder down our way.

They rose high above the shed roof stacked on top of one another, black foreboding and always askew. We could see them from the kitchen window and with each passing month would wonder at the surreptitious growth. Only in the height of winter did they diminish in height and indeed, come springtime they were lost from view only to reappear in the Autumn once again. Covered by tarpaulin we never bothered to look at what lay beneath assuming it was just a pile of wood but once I did venture to ask

“What is that black mountain made of Dad?”

“Tyres” came the reply.

The garden shed was too big to be named thus in all honesty since it resembled a double-sized summerhouse built by Dad to house his tools, workbench, lathe, shoe repair apparatus, glue pots, pipes and wheels from redundant bikes and prams awaiting transformation into carts and wheelbarrows. The accommodation boasted a paraffin stove for heat, a radio and tea-making facilities of sorts. Indeed weather permitting and with something good on the radio Dad would often doze off on a little camp bed and remain until morning when he could be seen emptying last night’s tea leaves around the base of the bushes and filling the kettle from the hose. On such occasions, he would often do a whopping fry up on a huge square of tin placed on top of the little paraffin heater. We would all join in sitting on the London transport bus seats (there were two now). Salt and pepper on the shelf alongside the paint tins. Us kids loved that shed which smelt of Golden Virginia tobacco, cow gum glue, paraffin, leather and creosote in equal measures. We would breathe it in deeply. It was the smell of our dad.

On one such occasion after a good repast of eggs and bacon Dad disappeared behind the shed and returned pushing one of the aforementioned tyres ahead of him like a wobbly cartwheel. Thinking it was some kind of hoop the hoop game, Sis and I jumped up to take part. “Sit down and keep still” came the order. Plonking down on the bus seats and cautioned thus, we watched in muted anticipation for the circus act to begin. Ooooooh our Dad was so excited that we were spellbound.

Coming at us with a huge cleaver held aloft he nodded in our direction “Watch out”. There was a biblical moment of sun on metal before the tool of destruction came down like a guillotine and hacked into the thick rubber of the tyre. We squealed in horrified delight covering our faces only to hear the action repeated. “DONT move girdles” came the order. We hardly dared breathe. What on earth was he up to now? The old and now familiar feeling of overwhelming love and admiration tinged with a dollop of shame, entered our hearts. Already our neighbours were out in their gardens taking in the scene.

Winter had descended on us in cold, perishing, Essex. and with it a freezing, penetrating dampness. I can honestly say that I have lived in a country where full fur coats, hats, and gloves were an absolute necessity during winter months: I have come out of churches in Eastern Europe after Christmas mass when the fountain in the square was frozen in the act of spurting forth. Have had sleigh rides when the hair in my nostrils has frozen, but, I have never before or since suffered so much from the cold as in those early days in Essex. Near the marshy banks of the Thames, there was a dampness and mist of the most depressive and painful nature. A mist so cloying and stealthy that it would worm its way into every crook and cranny. The windows ran with condensation which froze at night. Jars of pickles stood in rings of water, salt and pepper pots no longer working, their contents lumpen and unmoving their metal screw tops corroded with crusty salt. Washing took forever to dry, draped around on clothes horses. Big old things three bars high. Clothes horses were a permanent fixture in every household around the fireplace, steam rising from the raggedy garments, which when almost, but not quite dry would be replenished with the next lot of sorry laundry.  In some houses which did not boast an outside wringer this resulted in hand-wrung apparel which dripped forever onto old newspaper laid beneath. What other way was there? NONE!

All but one that is.  The Novotny residence. Our Dad, our man of the house, our clever, our brilliant engineer of a patriarch had fathomed a way to deal with this calamitous situation and it was not long before our neighbours cottoned on.

I would awake coughing and spluttering and Instantly leap to my feet to alert little Sis to the routine required to save life. Bash open the metal framed windows stuck fast by the frost! then, cupping my hands around my mouth I would bawl down the chimney flue just one word. Loud and clear one word was all it took. STOP! the little wall grill which allowed warm air in from the chimney would carry my signal down to the sitting room where Dad knelt below at the hearth.  “STOP” through the sliding grill. This small foot square opening had a middle knob which opened and closed the slats.  Mum would make sure they were open during the winter since the warmth from the fire downstairs would filter through into our bedroom and warm our school uniform on the nearby chairs. A form of early central heating I suppose. We certainly loved putting on our cosy clothing on those bitter, icy days. But sometimes, not always, Dad overdid it.  The poor man would light the fire downstairs before he went to work We only ever had the cheapest boiler fuel which would sit heavy and radiating an intense heat which bore no flame. It lasted ever so much longer than regular coal, thereby affording the economy. Being nigh on impossible to light however, with kindling and not in possession of a gas poker, Dad turned to a resourceful method of jump-starting the whole procedure with immediate effect by dispensing with the tense little ritual of trying to make a wigwam of damp paper and kindling and went instead straight for the kill. It was a sure-fire tactic.

Remember those piles of lorry tyres which would slowly disappear in the winter months? It was these which started our morning fires. Chopped up into handy-sized pieces by the glinting rapier and stored in the coal bunker, Dad would layer two or three rows in the grate and then top it with the grey, anthracite boiler fuel. The result when lit was explosive. Like a volcano eruption, the rubber would burst into flame and begin to roar. Within minutes the reek of burning tyre would fill the house sending plumes of billowing black clouds from the little chimney pot. It was as though an eclipse had taken place as the vicious jet of noxious smoke forced its way out of the little stack, mushroomed and thickened and billowed and hung above the entire terrace of houses. In our little bedroom sparks would issue forth from the wall vent whilst lethal gasses filled the air. Thousands of tiny sparks would rain down outside our window. It was morning yet looked like night it was black yet it was daylight. Sometimes there would even be a rocket-like explosion as a whole piece of burning rubber ejected itself into the air from the tiny chimney; Sis and I would watch as it turned and nosed down into the yards of our neighbours, below.

“Dost Daddy” I would yell, and Dad awaiting this command would quickly shovel last night’s ash on top to calm and pacify the flame. Normal business would be resumed. The motorbike would roar into action. He was off to work with the household well and truly up and a cosy house.

I sensed it of course. It would not take long. Neighbours began to notice. It would be hard not to. Our street resembled something out of a mining village and smelt intoxicatingly like coal. Somewhere some households had already got a blaze going. Mothers dragging reluctant children from their warm slumbers onto freezing linoleum down to bleak kitchens where maybe the luxury of a single gas jet on the stove was the only nod to warmth, caught the intoxicating whiff of warmth on the air. Women in fluffy slippers with blue hands, stopped with wooden stirring spoons held aloft, as sparks rained down on their gardens and the kiddies screeched with delight. Someone was already lighting their fire, someone had the resources to do it. Someone must be well off. Who was that someone? That would be them foreigners with their strange habits. Those that stuck their feather ticks out of the window every morning.

“Joe my Ada wants to know how on earth do you get your bleeding fire to light?” they would enquire. “My coal is so damp just can’t get it to catch in the morning. How come you can afford to light up so early?”

“Boiler fuel it’s cheaper”

“But HOW on earth do you get the bleeding stuff to light Joe?”

Dad was of a generous nature and told his secret ignition ploy.

“Tyres, George” was the reply.

“Tyres?”

“Lorry tyres?”

Furthermore, he presented all the enquiring neighbours with a starter pack of sliced Michelin tyres. These proved so popular that he would actually roll a complete tyre across the road upon request. Kids would get roped in and given knives to slice off pieces as and when needed. Following on from this, folk got their own supply from the same place as Dad. We never knew where it was but were no longer startled at the sight of a sidecar with a tyre or two inside. Wheelbarrows piled high and sometimes doorstep deliveries.  There was of course a tacit agreement amongst friends and neighbours down our way to keep shtum about the clandestine goings on and it would never do to let on to the swaggering bullies our dirty secret. This, however, didn’t prevent Sis and I being teased mercilessly.

“Smelt your Mum’s cooking again. Yuk!”

“Your Mum burned the toast again?

“Where d’yah get your coal from?

“Has your Dad dug his own coal mine in the garden?”

We would cringe of course and worried by it I mentioned as much to Dad one day.  He leaned back in his chair and looked up at me. “Well, daughter the answer is a simple one. It’s the difference between being hot or cold”. Enough for us, we preferred the warmth of course. And there was an ‘upside’ to the verbal news from our nearest and dearest families.

“Joe, we even get hot water when we pull the chain.

“We have a bath whenever we fancy”

“Clothes dry so much quicker.”

“My budgies chirp all day now it’s warm it’s marvellous.”

It wasn’t long before our street smelt like a valley mining town and a layer of smut lay on the roofs and sheds. We often had late-night callers too. A kid would be on the doorstep enquiring “Me Mum says ‘ave you got some tyre slices to spare . She will pay you back”. SHE never did of course, but the main thing was, we were all warm down our way. We had the heating sorted and there was never a shortage of tyres to go around.

Our fire was roaring in the grate and the little chimney grids were open in the bedroom emitting warm air and rubbery smells. However, if it was particularly cold the little paraffin stove from the shed would be lit on the landing for backup.

On one particular day, the heater had been placed in my parents’ bedroom.  I had been sent on a mission to check on the baby asleep in her cot. This I did and being thrilled at the vision of her doll-like beauty, I lifted her gently and cradling her closely to my breast I tiptoed into my bedroom and laid her in my doll’s cradle. “There, there my little one, mummy will sing to you”. I proceeded to murmur the rhyme ‘Rockabye Baby’. Alexandra continued to slumber unaware. Desiring a little more action I picked her warm, sleepy person up and returned to my parent’s room. Here I repeated my lullaby with the added thrill of surveying my reflection in the mirror. My long hair parted in the middle and cascaded over my shoulders giving me, I thought the look of the Madonna. I was entranced by the ethereal beauty that young motherhood had upon me: so entranced was I that I failed to notice the end of the shawl which wrapped the baby had dangled into the open top little stove. Blissfully unaware. There was a full ‘boom’ sound whilst at the same time a huge flame leapt up the shawl. Instantly I tossed the baby into the air in the direction of the bed.  I remember seeing her unravelling mid-air like a tiny chipolata sausage landing atop the thick feather tic.  The flaming shawl snaked along the lino. A cold hot water bottle lay on the bed. Pulling the stopper out I doused the lot. Stamping out the flames on the Lino I yelled for help. The baby lay squawking unhurt but very offended by the feathers. Bursting into the room my mother took in the scene and got it in one. “You were prancing about with the baby and looking at yourself in the mirror again weren’t you?”. Shamefaced I nodded. : and Dad? he just smiled and said “Mala decera”. (little daughter) “Well done” You handled the situation well, nobody was hurt, but let that be a lesson to you. It will teach you not to admire yourself in front of a mirror. Don’t be vain it’s not a pretty attribute in a female: it’s an ugly one”. Another life truth learned!

Nothing too shocking then. I certainly was not going to lose sleep over it especially since small in-house fires were rife down our way.

You see all the households had insurance. Nobody could really afford them and nobody could boast much in the way of valuable house contents.

END OF PART 1