The Joyful Return of Carshalton Fireworks
On Tuesday, when the ducks at Carshalton Ponds began practicing their “ooohs” and “aaahs,” the town felt a tingle—like a woolly jumper fresh from the dryer. The noticeboards whispered first: a scrap of paper here, a chalked star there, a shy comet doodled on a café menu. Gossip then gusted through the plane trees: the Carshalton Fireworks were starting again. They had been dormant, the Fireworks, hibernating in the park keeper’s shed between the lawn roller and a box of lost-and-found mittens. Not ordinary fireworks, mind you. These were locals. The Rockets cleared their throats like tenors. The Catherine Wheels muttered, “Left a bit, dear,” in voices like old bicycle bells. The Sparklers wriggled in their packets, practicing cursive loops: hello, love, welcome back. All week, the town prepared. Mrs. Patel strung fairy lights around the corner shop until it looked like a jar of stars. The Osei twins, professional whisperers of good news, announced to every lamppost, leaf, and passing dog: “It’s really happening!” Nana Eileen knitted three new bobble hats and declared them “bang-proof,” which wasn’t strictly scientific but felt important. Shazia from the café invented a cinnamon-lavender hot chocolate and named it Pond Glow. Even the bus timetable seemed to wink. Down by the Honeywood, the Ponds shone their best silver, polishing ripples to mirrors for the spectacle. Moorhens rehearsed elegant glides. A swan tried on its reflection at several angles and decided to be majestic from every side. The clock at All Saints Church coughed up a practice chime and settled in for the grand countdown. On Friday afternoon, the volunteers—known in secret circles as the Rocket Whisperers—took the Fireworks out for a stretch. They sorted the boxes: LAVENDER COMET (mind the fragrance), LEMON DRUM (loud), STARLIGHT CUSTARD (not edible), and ONE BIG DRAGON (do not tickle). Old coils of fuse braided across the grass like sleepy snakes. The park keeper, who kept an official-looking handlebar moustache and an unofficial fondness for spectacle, tugged at a tarp to reveal a brass lever labeled, in earnest handwriting: “RESTART (Only Pull If You Mean It).” “Do we mean it?” asked the town, as one. “Oh, we do,” said the children, already sticky with toffee apples they hadn’t yet been given. Evening strolled in wearing a navy coat. The Ponds gathered the first stars. People came—strollers shushing, wheelchairs humming, prams beeping gently like hatchling satellites. Someone passed a thermos. Someone else passed a rumor that this year the rockets had learned polite handwriting. A dog in a luminous jacket sat down with the look of a critic preparing to be convinced. The park keeper put on his gloves of consequence. The Rocket Whisperers checked their lists twice, then thrice, in the tradition of people who like all their eyebrows to remain in the usual places. The town inhaled. The lever gleamed like a promise. “Ready?” said the keeper. “We’ve been ready for ages,” said Carshalton. He pulled. At first, there was a fizz, the sound of lemonade turning into lightning. A small, eager spark skittered down a fuse, tripped, laughed, and sprinted faster. Then the night lifted its hat and something magnificent happened. A rocket rose, not like a shout but like a cheer that’s learned to sing. It stitched a green seam through the dark and burst into a meadow of tiny bells. People clapped with their faces. Another followed, a violet bouquet that smelled faintly—impossibly—of lavender fields on a July afternoon. A Catherine Wheel spun on the fence and wrote polite spirals that said, “Mind how you go!” in soft punctuation. The Osei twins invented a new dance on the spot. The dog in the luminous jacket forgot to be a critic and became a fan. Bangers performed their important thumps. The Ponds caught every color and doubled it, a generous mirror with perfect manners. Reflections of people—bright eyes, mittened hands, mouths making round astonished rooms—wobbled and steadied on the water. Above, a rocket unfurled a gold willow that hung and hung and wouldn’t quite come down, as if the night had grown a chandelier and invited everyone to stand beneath it for free. Then came the Dragon. It rose red and sly, hissed (politely; this was Carshalton), and cracked the sky into glittering scales. In its wake, the first rocket’s promise returned in silver smoke letters: WE’RE BACK. The town laughed, and the laugh lifted more sparks than any match. People who’d never met before traded gasps like sweets. Mrs. Patel wiped a happy tear with a sleeve already glittered in fairy dust. Shazia handed out cups of Pond Glow and discovered it tasted even better under fireworks, as all good things do. Somewhere at the back, Nana Eileen’s “bang-proof” hats nodded in agreement with every bang, steadfast and bobbling. For ten, twenty, thirty minutes—the kind of minutes that go by like a moment and stay like a story—the sky told everyone the same shimmering secret: that joy, once invited, likes to bring friends. The smoke made soft ribbons across the moon. The church clock forgot to be solemn and giggled one extra chime by mistake. The ducks nailed their “ooohs” and “aaahs,” and someone said they deserved medals. And when the final piece—a courteous comet with a gold tail—curtsied out of the night to a chorus of wow, the town didn’t sigh. It breathed. The kind of deep, relieved breath that says: we missed you, and now you’re here, and look at us, we glow a bit too. The Fireworks tucked themselves in again, warm beneath their blankets of applause. The Ponds smoothed their ripples and hummed. The park keeper stroked his moustache and put a protective arm around the Restart lever, which had gone shy. People drifted home slowly, as if reluctant to stop starring in the sky’s big story. Carshalton slept that night with bright afterimages on the inside of its eyelids: spirals and willows and silver words that wouldn’t fade. In the morning, children drew the sky in chalk on pavements, and grown-ups found themselves smiling for no practical reason at all. Because the Fireworks had restarted—again!—and the town, stitched together by light and laughter, remembered exactly how it feels to be joyfully, brilliantly itself.
