The Fall and Rise of Gordon Coppinger. David Nobbs
of glittering starburst, noise and glitter and bursting greens and blues and reds. His guests ooohed. The locals aaahed. The guests aaahed. The locals ooohed. All was noise and light.
Dogs whimpered and hid. Cats hissed. Bewildered finches woke and fled. Nervous horses neighed and pranced and fell. Rabbits hared to their burrows. Sticklebacks in the streams felt the vibrations. Sir Gordon caught sight of the Greek Orthodox archbishop looking endearingly boyish and excited, and wondered again whether there was a plot to kill him or kidnap him tonight, under cover of all this excitement.
But most of the time his eyes were gazing into the sky, marvelling at the barrage of rockets, the titanium salutes, the wildly whistling missiles that burst into confusions of colours. Nobody noticed a frail old man slip through a gate with an agility beyond his years, but then he was nineteen again, he was in the Eighth Army, he was inspired by Monty, he was inspired by Rommel, who was that rarity, an enemy worth fighting. Nobody noticed him ride out the hail of bullets, dodge the wickedly whistling shells, and speed – well, totter, but it seemed like speed to him – towards the conflagration.
‘There are men in there,’ he cried, but his voice was frail, and nobody heard his cry. ‘There are men dying in there.’ But the noise was loud, and nobody heard his voice. But then he tripped, and the fall caught somebody’s eye, and voices were raised, Sir Gordon and others heard the cries, Sir Gordon saw his father, slender and tottering in the glare of the flames, getting to his feet again, shouting desperately but oh so feebly, stumbling towards the flames, but oh so slowly, men were catching him, Sir Gordon was running but he was too late, too late, his father fell again, arms reached out for him, a log spat viciously, sparks flew, his father’s straggly hair was on fire, his father screamed, then he saw his father pulled away out of the reach of the fire, there was a bag over his head, somebody was pressing the bag down so that the fire couldn’t breathe, but his father couldn’t breathe, Sir Gordon couldn’t breathe, a great pain shot through him, he was having a heart attack, he was dying, he was lying and dying beside his dead father.
But Sir Gordon didn’t die and neither, amazingly, did his father. They made them tough in Dudley, and besides, don’t forget, Clarrie was nineteen again.
The bonfire burned on, the fireworks continued to explode, many people hadn’t even noticed the kerfuffle beside the fire. Somebody found Dr Ferguson, who examined the old man with great tenderness. There beside the fire he was in the warmest place around. Dr Ferguson suggested that they let him recover a little from his shock before they moved him. And then, during the spectacular climax to the magnificent display, when almost all eyes were on the heavens, they moved Sir Gordon’s frail, shocked father carefully, and carried him with infinite care back to the protection of the warm, wonderful house. Dr Ferguson said that to move him to hospital, a twenty-mile trip in an ambulance, to transport him to a bed when there was a bed here safe from MRSA, would be senseless. He himself would stay beside him, tend him, treat him, dress the burn on his scalp, comfort him.
‘Well,’ said Sir Gordon Coppinger to his spouse of twenty-nine years, ‘do you think inviting him was sensible now?’
‘It might have been a good, brave way for him to go,’ said Lady Coppinger, the former Miss Danish Pastry (West Midlands).
Sir Gordon sighed. It was a sigh steeped in realism. She would always have the last word.
Some people knew what had happened and sent their condolences, but far more of the revellers had no idea that anything untoward had happened, such had been the splendour of the display.
There was mulled wine to round the evening off, and then, gradually, the guests began to leave.
‘Next year will have to be pretty special,’ said Hugo Coppinger to his brother.
‘To next year,’ said Admiral Lord Feltham of Banbury (retired). ‘If we’re invited, of course.’
‘Time for us to retire, my dear,’ said Field Marshal Sir Colin Grimsby-Watershed (retired) to Lady Grimsby-Watershed (retired).
‘Did you enjoy the fireworks?’ said Sir Gordon Coppinger to his daughter Joanna.
‘I don’t much like fireworks actually,’ said Joanna Coppinger to her father.
‘Well,’ said Sir Gordon Coppinger to Emma Slate, whose Rabbit Droppings Near Hornchurch was said by one critic to have lent a completely new and translucent complexion to the meaning of art. ‘There have been many panicking cats and dogs, ponds and marshes full of frightened frogs and terrified toads, well over a hundred expensive cars pumping carbon monoxide into the air, lights blazing in every room of a house of hugely unnecessary proportions, vast amounts of fine foods likely to be thrown away, most of which were produced by rearing and keeping animals in very dubious conditions indeed, and one dreadfully startled old man. Have you enjoyed it?’
‘Oh, Sir Gordon, I have. I have,’ wailed Emma Slate. ‘Does that make me a bad person?’
‘No,’ said Sir Gordon Coppinger. ‘It makes you human.’
Their eyes met. She wasn’t his type at all. His father had been right. She wasn’t very clean. And there had to be something a bit insalubrious in the mind of a woman who could create a picture of rabbit droppings. But sexual attraction didn’t run along smooth lines. There weren’t any rules. And he did wonder if there was just a chance that he could steal her off Luke. That would be fun.
‘You’re pissed,’ said Sir Gordon Coppinger to Vernon Thickness. ‘If we don’t win tomorrow you’re on your bike, sunshine.’
‘We will hammer Charlton Unthletic tororrow. We will larecate them utterly. One–nil. I promise you that,’ said Vernon Thickness to Sir Gordon Coppinger.
‘A message for you, sir,’ said Farringdon to Sir Gordon Coppinger. ‘A lady rang and left a message. A Siobhan McEnery. I believe her husband had rung earlier.’
Sir Gordon’s heart almost stopped yet again.
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