The Willow Pond. Mervyn Linford

to a pocket-full of bristling fuses. Fortunately for the boy - who was by now writhing around on the ground giving a fair impression of the verbal restraint exhibited by stuck pigs – quick-witted adults had the presence of mind to pull his trousers down over his unforgiving boots. The sight of that lad slithering bare-arsed across the wet grass closely followed by his exploding trousers was a vision never to be forgotten. The iconoclast has not been born who could shatter the deep, spiritual satisfaction associated with that sacrificial image. The fiery immolation of the guy itself - with all the undertones implicit of paganism - could not compete in kind with that striking portrayal of a juvenile Via Dolorosa. Luckily injuries sustained - other than those to his pride - were negligible. To this day warnings about the dangers of fireworks pervading the air-waves on the well-meaning voices of TV pundits, brings vividly to mind not only that lad’s trouser-less, knobbly-kneed embarrassment, but also the thousand and one blue-eyed indiscretions committed in the name of gunpowder, treason and plot.

      The days following the event - especially if of the school-less variety - were almost as exciting as November-the-Fifth itself. The surrounding countryside was scoured for the burnt out remains of the once majestic bonfires. Within the rocket-falling, banger-throwing radius of those sacred ruins were often to be found the relics of the previous night’s festivities. Working on the maxim that you can’t get enough of a good thing, the season of sun-propitiating ritual, was prolonged for as far into the distance as possible. Trophies were collected and disposed of in the traditional ear-shattering, smoke-belching manner. Embers were stirred, fuel added, and fires revived. Around the rekindled flames - flickering with the lambent glow of smouldering memories - parleyed the indigenous worshippers. Talk of burnings at the stake, smoke-signals and baked hedgehogs proliferated. Mention was made of the walking on fire initiation ceremonies performed by certain exotic tribesmen. Someone suggested a reenactment in the name of authenticating our proclaimed savagery. The potential headhunters amongst us prepared ourselves by war dancing in the peripheral puddles. Those too young or thought of as unworthy - for whatever reason - to participate in this particular rite continued to occupy themselves by raking out the hot, glimmering coals. Words of encouragement were offered, strongly laced with insults for those thought to be tardy in the performance of their sacred duties. The task proved to be well within our capabilities and a number of runs were made. Sparks flew and cheers followed. Not satisfied with the effectiveness of wet-shoed magic a bare-footed attempt was proposed. I for one thought it rather unnecessary. But not wishing to lose face in front of the assembled multitudes, agreed to give it a whirl. That day I came closer than I have ever been to achieving the Olympic qualifying standard for the hop-skip-and jump. I have since received correspondence from articulate kangaroos complimenting me on my near marsupial agility. The sound of my post-ceremonial feet sizzling through the grass was no less sibilant than the noise to be heard coming from a nest of disgruntled vipers. The sight of pustulant, discharging blisters has the same mortifying effect on me now as it did then in the days subsequent to that inflammatory event. Slippers and a footbath are now my constant companions.

      Somebody else tormented to distraction during that season of witches and whizzbangs, was a poor, wretched, dishevelled old lady known locally as Topsy. To all of us children she was definitely a witch. Whether or not she wore the tall pointed hat that my reminiscing mind so richly adorns her with is hard to say for certain. But the long black cloak, from its silver clasp at the neck, to its frayed edges trailing along the ground, is without a doubt no imagined garment. She lived in a house about mid-way along the bridle path between Pitsea and my own estate. If you saw it now you wouldn’t believe that anyone could have lived in it. Although brick-built and slate-roofed - a rarity thereabouts - It had as they say, seen better days. Windows were either cracked or non- existent and hung with rags of hessian. The roof had as many slates missing as it had intact and was neither impervious to light or rain. One corner of the house had split open from the eaves to the damp course and the equally derelict character of its insides could be seen through the gaping brickwork. Set in its own copse, comprised mostly of elm and hawthorn with a couple of stag-headed ancient oaks for company, it had all the appearance of a setting for a story penned by the Brothers Grimm. Down the bridle path there was a general store known locally as the back shop. One of my not too infrequent chores was to visit that shop whenever my mother had forgotten anything on one of her own shopping expeditions. The dread of bumping into Topsy on any of those excursions was constant. I’ve run faster past that house than Roger Bannister’s shoelaces. Once, at full-pelt, I met her coming towards me on the curve of a sharp S bend in the path. Unfortunately, at that point, the path cut its meandering way through a blackthorn thicket. Veering off at an angle - and in need of a machete and a pith helmet - I left a boy-shaped hole in the hedge only to come out on the other side streaming with blood and as prickly as a porcupine. On another occasion - being more courageous than usual - owing to Eddy’s older brother Reg being with us - we crept into the copse and taunted her from behind the relative safety of the trees. Much to our terrified surprise she was much quicker on her feet than we expected. She came screeching out of the woodshed - axe in hand - like a reincarnation of Boudicca. “I’ll kill yer, yer little barstards,” she croned. Before our legs - in my case and Eddies, very little legs at that - could overcome the lack of traction, she let fly with the axe. To my heathen amazement, my swift and extremely breathless supplications in the direction of my Maker were answered in full and the hurtling weapon bounced harmlessly of the bole of a life-saving tree. “May the saints preserve us!” as my mother used to recite in moments of high anxiety. Needless to say, our shocked selves, and the far horizon, were soon to become acquainted. It was rumoured in the neighbourhood that this old lady and water were natural enemies and that periodically she was taken into hospital by the authorities to be scrubbed, fed, and checked out in general. During one of those enforced absences, we decided - cowards that we were - to take revenge. We ‘acquired’ a couple of short scaffold-poles from one of the building-sites on our estate and made off in the direction of demolition. It was easier than we thought. The mortar had lost most of its adhesive properties. Very little in the way of ramming and levering was necessary before the cracks in the brickwork became crumbling holes. That was just another episode in the sorry history of my childhood that I’d far sooner forget. If anyone was a candidate for Bell, Book, and Candle in those days, then it was I. It seems strange to me now that I didn’t even think of it as wrong. I made up lies in the confessional, inventing mere peccadilloes because the priest wouldn’t believe in my pleas of innocence, yet it never occurred to me that I had committed enough real sins to keep the staff at the Vatican on overtime until well after The Second Coming!

      To my remembering mind the culmination of that season so resonant of the ‘Old Religion’ always coincided with that other recusant activity - mushrooming. The emergence of those mysterious subterranean entities - whose phallic symbolism though not fully understood, was nevertheless immediately recognized and commented upon - signalled the commencement of a form of worship more associated with the Twentieth Century than anything to do with our mythic past. Money! What else? My idolatrous relationship with ‘the root of all evil’ started at an early age and mushrooming was one of the highlights of the fiscal calendar. Some of the less scrupulous local greengrocers were prepared to buy them by the sack-load. How much they paid for them I can’t recall now, but you can rest assured that it was considerably more than the starvation wages offered by that scourge of the under-aged and oppressed classes; namely, the newsagent. The Essex marshes in autumn - and in my opinion at all times of the year - were a wonderful place to inhabit. Before the ravages of Dutch-Elm disease those tall, stately, undulating, top-heavy trees added a rhythm to the otherwise more monotonous music of the level deltas. Rooks and jackdaws joined in with the pitch of their raucous voices and the shallow pools of standing water were replete with the echoes of a sky-wide symphony. Redshanks tewked, curlew fluted, and shelduck curved into shrieks of eerie laughter. Creeks were sinuous, dykes deliberate, and fleets feathered with whispering reeds. On the slightly drier meadows - much grazed by cattle and nibbled by horses and rabbits - grew the desired crop. Sometimes the harvesting would be a mob-handed affair but on other occasions I would work alone. Although I had no shortage of friends - even when I was quite young - I often felt the need of solitude. The uncharitable amongst you might think that that had something to do with wanting to keep all the mushroom money to myself. How dare you, think such a thing! No, the truth is that even at a tender age I communed with nature as easily as I do today. I did not have then, or have now, any need