Oh-oh. That’s five-year-old-speak for, ‘I’ve got one of those questions.’
I tuck her in.
I balk. What the heck have they been teaching her at that school?
“It’s what they did to Guy Fawkes. We learned about him today. He couldn’t write his name afterwards: after the torcher.”
Why can’t she ask the standard stuff like ‘where do babies come from?’, ‘Why is the sky blue?’ or even ‘why are there rich people?’
I gather my wits.
“Well, er, it’s… for example when they shine bright lights in your eyes when you want to go to sleep, or… erm… hurt you if they want you to tell them something… something they want to know.”
“Like, who helped you with the gunpowder?”
“Guy Fawkes didn’t tell them.”
Dear God please don’t let her ask me what ‘hung drawn and quartered’ means…
“He must have been very brave.” Hmm: that probably wasn’t the right thing to say.
“Is that why we have fireworks? Because we want to remember how brave he was?”
Er… “No… no, that’s not it.”
Something whizzes overhead. The drawn curtains flash white, a split second before a deep boom echoes, outside and in.
“Did your teacher tell you how Guy Fawkes was found? In the cellar?”
“Yes! One of the Lords was… a friend, of the gang who wanted to blow up the Houses of Parliament. And he wrote him a letter saying, don’t go. Pretend to be ill. He didn’t say why. But the man thought… anyway he told someone. Like a policeman. And that’s how they found Guy Fawkes.”
“So they found him out without having to ask anyone anything.”
“Yes…” She frowns, puzzled, then brightens: “Without having to do any torcher!”
I’d never thought of it before that question.
So now, whatever other people may be celebrating tonight – the saving of hundreds of lives; the confounding of Treason; the preservation of the Mother of all Parliaments to live to fight another day – when I bite into that lump of pitch-black parkin and gaze at the fireworks that light the sky, I lift my glass of blood-red punch to the tale that shows by example:
Torture doesn’t work.