T i m e O u t

Fire Works Wonders

Fire Works Wonders

Tragedy Averted

At two minutes to midnight a cracking explosion rocked the sleeping town. Sirens, horns, dogs, screams, flames, then one continual flare-up like millions of champagne bottles popping together.

People fled from the houses near the Cracker Jack fireworks factory. Others approached the scene, and watched, fascinated, hypnotised. Phones and cameras recorded the event. The owner arrived and stared in horror, his whole life exploding before his eyes.

Firemen, a TV crew, police, reporters were all soon busily looking for the Scoop. Sky News was already running the headline banner but soon passed on the story when there weren’t scores of victims. In fact, surprisingly, there were no casualties.

Over the following days it emerged that the lighting system had been faulty, many of the employees were undocumented immigrants and traces of unchecked imported material were found among the ruins.

A fund was started to get the “Cracker Jack”, a beacon of the local economy, back on its feet. The Chamber of Commerce was generous and a tax relief scheme was availed of. Even those about to retire were given a lump sum. The irregularities were sorted and condoned.

Within six moths, the reopening of a state-of-the-art Cracker Jack factory again made headlines. A real success story – the Phoenix rising from the ashes. The owner smiled broadly and vowed that from then on things would be different. The employees applauded and, thankfully, went back to work.

An unfortunate coincidence

At two minutes to midnight, Rebecca Whitley, eight months pregnant, was startled in her sleep by a terrifying explosion. Her baby jerked violently and almost immediately Rebecca was soaking wet. Her husband Austin rushed her to hospital, wasting precious minutes as he tried to manoeuvre through screaming ambulances and police cars and chaotic traffic building up around the Cracker Jack factory that had exploded.

When little Carol didn’t cry the doctors nodded knowingly. At two a.m. she stopped breathing. Rebecca told them about the baby’s reaction to the explosion. There was a connection she said. They nodded understandingly and shrugged. How could anyone prove it? It was one of those sad tragedies that happen and that cannot be explained, they told her, looking over at another baby who had arrived just ten minutes after Carol and who was in perfect health.

Fireworks for us, darling

The evening was going according to plan. An enjoyable dinner, a few glasses of wine and some background music were creating the perfect build-up to the Moment. Bill decided he was going to do things the traditional way and at midnight would go down on bended knee to pop the question.  He manoeuvred his beautiful Noreen over to the bay window and he stood behind her and nuzzled her neck as they looked out at the lights of the town a few miles down below in the valley. A couple of minutes now.

Suddenly the night sky was alight with colour as fireworks shot upwards. The display went on for well over a minute. They were too far from town to hear much but the effect was incredible.

“Bill darling, you shouldn’t have! It’s magnificent. I do love you so.”

Bill silently thanked whoever had provided the perfect back-drop and whispered:

“Nothing is too much for my future wife.”

At the stroke of midnight he proposed, rather perplexed at how much she’d appreciated the fireworks. He really should have thought of something like that. Ah well!

The Fund

Since Phyllis, his dear wife of almost forty years, had died following a car accident, Ronnie Harrison preferred to watch tv in the living room until very late rather than face the empty bedroom upstairs. Most nights he dozed until at least 2 am.

A blast startled him awake and he watched, horrified, as the shelf high up on the wall opposite him came away and crashed to the floor along with the bits and pieces that had accumulated up there over time. Skip growled in his basket and went back to sleep.

Ronnie looked out but could see nothing. Some idiots celebrating, he supposed.

He bent down to pick up the pieces of crockery and, to his dismay, saw rolls of notes strewn on the floor beside a broken biscuit jar. He picked them up and started to count, his hands trembling. Hundreds of pounds!

He put on the kettle. He needed a cup of tea.

He sat at the table and recounted. In all, fifteen hundred pounds.

Phyllis had always managed what she called the “holiday fund” and he’d never even asked her where she kept it. He’d paid the undertaker and the other bills and now things were tight. But he was due to retire from the fireworks factory on the outskirts of  the industrial estate and he would manage on his pension. He’d completely forgotten about the fund. This windfall was a godsend.

He  looked at the photo of Phyllis on the sideboard and smiled.

“I knew I could count on you love” he said and switched off the light.

“Goodnight Skip, we’ll fix the shelf in the morning.”