Fact or Fiction? - 2

I’ve put a hold on the writing tips for the moment. I’m going to a car show and won’t have the time to put into the posts.

I’ve just had what I believe is a brilliant idea (I reserve the right to change my mind on that at any time).

Read this story and have a think on whether it’s a memory or a figment of my imagination - or a mixture of both.

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Coming up to winter, nights drawing in earlier and the weather becoming more damp and cold of an evening, you could imagine we’d be at home, next to the fire, watching television.

Not always so. We had three channels to watch and if my father was at home, he’d be watching sport (I’m not interested in sport) or wildlife documentaries.

Mostly, we’d congregate on the street and decide what mischief we’d be getting up to.

One evening, cold, probably damp and dark, we decided to go beyond the pear orchard.

Down the little lane next to the Old Hall I mentioned yesterday, across the road and down the farm track past the orchard of massive pear trees. The trees were untended and tall, the pears small, hard and wasp-eaten by the time we got to them.

Anyway, pear season had come and gone. We went on past the orchard into the field beyond it.

A large, old tree stood on the edge of the field boundary. The boundary was an approximate guess to us, no fence, scrubby hedge and a house on either side, but quite a way off.

The tree shielded us from passing pedestrians and cars, the houses had no windows overlooking the field where we were, so we could pretty much get up to whatever we liked.

That particular night, some of the older kids graced us with their presence – apparently, there really was nothing on the television.

Some of the older kids smoked – and therefore, they were beyond cool to us.

It’s really weird. My parents both smoked and I hated their habit – the kids a little older than me smoked and they were cool.

The older kids huddled around the base of the tree for a little shelter.

I had the bright idea of lighting a fire to keep warm.

I built a little fire at the base of the tree, in the crook of the roots. The debris on the ground wouldn’t burn, it was too damp, but with enough dry twigs, leaves etc, I could get a little fire going.

The fire didn’t last long, it went out for want of dry fuel, but it served its purpose for the time-being.

I made sure the fire was out before we all went home.

That was the start of a regular thing, it seemed. If the weather was cold, not too windy (because the tree wasn’t that great for keeping us protected if it was windy) we’d congregate at the base of the tree. Sometimes when I got there, a little fire was already lit.

I didn’t keep matches with me, I didn’t smoke and I was scared to death that my parents would find either cigarettes and/or matches in my coat. The risk of a beating wasn’t worth it.

We’d crouch close to the tree base, huddled together for the slight warmth the little fire gave out. We would chat and joke, tell of adventures we’d heard (or made up) and it was good.

Until it got colder and the wind picked up.

We’d had a good run of it. The tree resisted the fires we lit, it never caught out of control – I suppose we’d been lucky.

One night, the wind must have been just right, the fire set a little too close to the tree and the ground drier than it had been.

The fire crept up the trunk, found its way past the protection of the bark and caught the tree trunk on fire.

We panicked!

Blowing on the fire did not help – use that wisdom for future reference if you like.

One of the lads finally had the brainstorm of peeing on the fire.

Success! The fire went out and we’d learned a valuable lesson.

We went home safe in the knowledge that we’d put out the fire.

I’m not sure what happened. I wasn’t there that night (I promise faithfully).

The fire was lit like so many times before, and it got out of hand again.

This time, peeing on the fire didn’t work. The wind whipped the fire further up inside the tree and they could see it glowing through the knot-holes of long-gone branches. Once the fire reached higher than their heads, they knew it was a lost cause and they made a run for it.

The trunk acted like a chimney, drawing up the fire, through the wood that had been slowly dried out and warmed over the nights.

That night the tree died.

Fire engines were called long after we kids would be in bed and I don’t recall hearing the sirens.

The tree remained upright for a few months after the fire, but one day, it had blown down and the devastation of the inside of that trunk was shameful to see.

I played my part in the slow murder of that magnificent tree and I’ve always been ashamed of it.

You’ll be relieved to know that I didn’t turn into an arsonist. I think the charcoaled innards of that tree cured me of ever wanting to start fires for fun.

So... true or false?

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Yesterday I wrote the first Fact or Fiction?

Here's the follow-up to the Fact or Fiction story – and an explanation of what’s true.

When I was around twelve years old or so, we played with the kids on the street and the streets close-by – around twenty kids at full-strength.

There weren’t that many kids in our area that got together for games. Not even from the surrounding areas because they had their own collectives and played elsewhere.

Other times, it wasn’t so good. If the older kids came to influence the games, sometimes it could get a little… dark.

True

We lived close to an old house, with high, stone walls surrounding it. We could see the chimneys over the wall and if we were feeling a little adventurous, we’d boost each other up so we could see the gardens.

True

Up the little lane, onto our street, if I turned left instead of going straight on, I could see my great-grandma’s home. She lived in a bungalow in a small collection of other bungalows built for the elderly.

True

Two bungalows from the little lane, there lived an old couple. Both died within months of each other and for once, the bungalow stood empty for more than a few weeks.

Fiction.

We got rid of the smaller kids and those with limited athletic ability and it ended up that I was one of the youngest. Three others younger than me and all three had their older sibling to guide them. I’m the oldest in my family and my younger brother and sister were persuaded to leave that particular adventure and go off with the other younger kids.

True – although the adventure didn’t start off as an initiation ceremony. We followed the big lads over the wall.

Without a word, the three biggest lads and one brother younger than me started climbing the old stone wall that surrounded the old house. It was easy-going, the stones made a great climbing surface, plenty of hand and foot-holds.

Fiction. The big lads didn’t help us. They didn’t want us littler kids following them and they hoped we’d not get past the obstacle of the wall. That showed them! We were like little monkeys! (Including the younger brother of one of the big lads, he was in our group.

carrying torches if the idea just occurred to them?
Two others stood at the bottom on the other side to catch us as we dropped.

Fiction – no torches and no help to catch us.

What we didn’t see at the time, was the wall on the other side was smooth and neat – no hand or foot-holds.

Could be fiction. I don’t recall the wall on the other side.

When everyone had made it to the ground, we split into three groups – one of the big lads headed each team – and went off in separate directions.

Fiction. The big lads left us to our own devices. If we got caught they wanted nothing to do with us!

One faded blue door hung off its hinges and we could see right inside. An old car stood off to one side of the massive garage. Covered in dust and droppings, the paintwork burgundy and cream, the headlamps pitted with rust and I thought that car was beautiful.

Part truth, part fiction. The blue door on the garage is true – the old car inside is fiction.

The rest of the story is fiction for the most part. We didn’t discover the bigger lad’s friend that had OD’d. His mum found him in his bedroom, not us.