Hot Cross Buns

There were five of us.  Jacquie, Owen, Nellie, Tommy and me.  We were about seven or eight years old and we absolutely ruled the whole length of Beach Road in our tiny village near Porthcawl, in South Wales.

Our village consisted of the Dotted Duck pub by the bus stop on the "big road" to Porthcawl.  Right opposite was Howard's Farm where we brought the cows down from the fields for milking.  Further along Beach Road, in the center of the village, was Bardolph's General Store where endless supplies of Tizer pop and Cadbury's chocs were to be found.  Next door was Mrs. Craggert's riding stable at the top of Rope Lane.  We went to school in Porthcawl but that was a foreign land as far as we were concerned.

Beach Road was about a quarter of a mile long.  It was our home base and our respective houses were strategically stationed along its whole length.  For the last one hundred yards or so it became a steep slope down to the village and turned sharp right towards the Dotted Duck.  We had hair-raising races on our bikes and roller skates that always ended in front of or, in case of miscalculation, just inside, Mr. Bardolph's shop.  The wild screams of the victorious and violent protestations of the vanquished were usually mixed with Mr. Bardolph's own cries of outrage and alarm.  A stand full of bottles was once knocked over and they all smashed.  We were duly reported to unduly concerned parents and our bikes and roller skates were taken away for a whole week.



Apart from the three fields that led down to the sea, Mr. Oliver's field was our principal playground.  The so-called field behind his house was actually his garden.  We called it a "field" because it had grown wild and was far too big to be a garden in the accepted sense.  No green lawns and neat herbaceous borders here.  When we climbed over the stone wall, we literally disappeared into the high grasses, ferns and fearsome stands of stinging nettles that had to be carefully skirted.  Unlike Granny Green who lived next door and kept an eagle eye on her garden, Mr. Oliver rarely appeared.

On one memorable morning, he unexpectedly came down to the front gate, somewhat unsteadily we thought, to gather up the pile of newspapers that had collected there.  He shouted at us, waved his arms around and told us to get off his wall.  He stumbled back to the house still hurling abuse at us.  Little did we know that Mr. Oliver preferred to remain indoors with his bottles.  While we were careful after that incident, we used his field for imaginary trips down uncharted rivers and for fierce clashes between cowboys and Indians or marauding pirate bands.

Mr. Oliver's field was also the scene of an epic day-long battle between the British and the "Nasties" whom our parents sometimes mentioned in unflattering terms.  We took the usual one hour lunch break to eat our sandwiches and apples and then returned to the slaughter.  Jacquie and Nellie happily took on the role of the Nasties without our even asking them.


They fought valiant rearguard actions as the boys pushed them further down the field firing guns with exploding "caps" that, to our untrained ears, sounded  like real gunfire.  The odd stone would also be lobbed at them for good measure.  The girls would then advance with guns blazing while throwing much larger stones at us, forcing us to retreat towards Mr. Oliver's house.

During one of the battles that day, the girls ran out of "caps" and their guns fell silent.  They ran back into the tall grass to hide--or so we thought.  Sensing total victory, we charged at them, screaming and shouting as we ran wildly through the long grass until we found them, defiant, brandishing stinging nettles that they held with crumpled newspapers from their sandwiches.  Once again, we were forced to retreat as whirling nettles came perilously close to exposed legs, necks and arms.

It was one of our best days ever.  We all came home bloodied, scratched by brambles and stung by nettles but happy about our life-like battles. We learned early that girls could be savage and intelligent all at once.  Who would have thought of overwhelming our guns and stones with stinging nettles? They were brave beyond imagining and, deep down, we knew we were no match for them.  We knew nothing about Amazons in those days.

On the day that cast a shadow over my future, there was just Owen and me on the loose.  I cannot remember where the others were but I do remember that it was Hot Cross Bun Day.  The religious implications of Good Friday were unknown to us--in spite of endless hours of instruction by Brenda, our lovely, shy and soon to be pregnant Sunday School teacher.

Owen and me were grumpy.  Our mothers had told us to go out and play.  It was rather an overcast and uninspiring day--one of those days that should be spent indoors raiding the pantry and drinking pop.  My mother told us a little sharply that we couldn't have any hot cross buns until later in the afternoon.  Probably because she had to make them from scratch.

We decided that a visit to Mr. Oliver's field was probably in order.  We pushed through the high grass, beating it back with sticks and trying to avoid tangled branches, brambles and the treacherous patches of stinging nettles.  We played there for several hours and then settled down for lunch under the shade of a tree.  We tucked into the usual cold ham or tongue sandwiches with an apple or orange for afters.

While we were eating our sandwiches under the tree, Owen pulled out a box of green and red Swan Vestas matches.  You were never allowed to go anywhere near a box of matches at home so I was both impressed and fearful.  Owen suggested that we light a fire with some of the newspaper left over from our sandwiches.  I really did not think it was a good idea and told him so.

Of all the kids, Owen was the one who usually went too far.  My mother had warned me on many an occasion not to copy Owen.  When he bundled the paper into a small pile and added a few twigs, I moved well away from him.  "Don't light the paper," I told him and, stating the obvious, I said "we'll get into trouble".

Trouble was Owen's second name. I knew that if we were found with matches, we would get an awful thrashing from our irate fathers.  Owen did not listen and certainly had no fear of the strap.  He struck several matches but they broke and fizzled out.  What I didn't know then was that Swan Vestas matches never fizzled out--even in rain and high winds.  They were, after all, "The Smoker's Match".

Sure enough, a small flame appeared at one corner of the paper pile, grew rapidly and then both paper and twigs burst into flame.  I was stunned.  If that was not bad enough, some grass began to burn as well.  When I saw flames shooting up the tree, that convinced me that I had better make myself scarce.  I ran home but didn't go into the house.  I didn't want my mother asking why I was home early.  I sat on the front wall, puffing and panting, in general panic mode.

Mr Oliver's house was a good way up the road from ours but I could see smoke coming from the field behind his house.  I sat there transfixed.  The smoke kept billowing up into the sky and I could even smell it after a while.  My mother was at home but did not come out.  Nobody came out of their houses.  I seemed to be the only spectator.  Where was Owen?  Probably cowering at home like me.  Boy, was he in for it.  He had started the fire.  I was totally innocent--a mere bystander.

At some point, I heard voices up the street and then a lot of shouting and, at last, people running up the road towards the smoke.  After what seemed an age, my mother came out and asked what was going on.  I gave her a blank stare. "I can smell smoke," she said, sniffing the air.  I pointed to the smoke up the street as if it was a surprise for me too.  My mother ran off up the street yelling at me to stay where I was.  I had no intention of going anywhere near that smoke.  It had nothing to do with me.

I have no idea how long this general hullabaloo lasted.  I was getting a bit bored just sitting there watching the clouds of white smoke.  Maybe I should go to have a closer look?  Find out what my mother was thinking, see if Owen had ventured out at all. While I was considering such a move, I heard the clanging of a bell in the distance.  A bell?

The sound of the bell drew closer.  Then a speeding fire engine, brilliantly red, rounded the corner down by Bardolph's Store and came clanging up the road right in front of me.  I was flabbergasted.  A real fire engine on Beach Road.  But that was nothing.  What captured and then riveted my attention was a figure leaning out of the window waving wildly at me.  It was Owen.

As I learned later, he had run all the way down to Porthcawl, just over a mile away.  He had told the firemen about the fire and there he was, leading them to the scene of the crime.  My heart sank.  We would be discovered.  What on earth was he thinking?  As it turned out, he must have been thinking outside the match box.  He decided that he could play the hero while I just sat and stared at the inferno.  Owen might have been in big trouble; but everybody agreed afterwards that he had been "a brave boy" to run down to Porthcawl to get the fire engine.

Being slightly on the portly side, I could no more have run to Porthcawl than a hobbled hog with three legs.  Quite apart from my physical constraints, it was not a good idea to alert adults to the fact that we had some association with a mysterious, self-combusting fire.

I knew that it really was a terrible idea when my father came home, heard the news about Mr. Oliver's field going up in smoke, and gave me a good hiding with the strap.  I was sent off to bed without anything to eat and, worst of all, with no hot cross buns.  No hot cross buns on Hot Cross Buns Day? I was desolated and cursed the day that Owen had been born.  I would kill him.

I became even more enraged when I learned the next day that Owen had been yelled at by his father but that no strap had been applied to his skinny hide. Why? Because he had "saved the day".  Good grief.  Saved the day?  He had been responsible for the whole stupid mess.  It was my first real experience of the injustice in this world.  No wonder I became a lawyer.

Mr. Oliver was evidently furious, had attempted to pour buckets of water on the fire and had turned quite black by the end of the afternoon.  And here's the really sad thing.  He was the one who told my Dad that Owen had "saved the day".  There was no real damage--except to the tree that had totally burnt down--and, of course, a lot of black grass and dead ferns and nettles.  Mr. Oliver was by all accounts just grateful that he hadn't been burned alive with his bottles.

However, we lost a perfectly good field for our wars and other adventures.  I told Owen that it was all his fault and tried to make it clear to Jacquie, Nellie and Tommy where the blame lay.  Owen seemed totally unconcerned.  The girls and Tommy were unimpressed by my protestations of innocence.  With Owen now a certified hero, I sensed that they and other people were starting to suspect that I was the one who had started the fire.

Every Good Friday I am forced to remember the whole sad affair and to wonder what became of Owen.  He is probably a clergyman or something.  Maybe a convicted arsonist.  I would love to know.  My only consolation these days is that I get to eat hot cross buns on Hot Cross Buns Day--a lot of them.