Content warning for death, grief and depression.
Remember, remember the fifth of November
Agathe Soigne arrived home the evening after Mrs Blythe asked for an extra copy of Victor's drawing. She was pretty sure the woman genuinely wanted the picture, she wasn't asking just to be polite. Agathe believed her employer wasn't the type to ask for pity's sake. Mrs Blythe honestly seemed to like the piece. Agathe did, however, wonder what Victor's reaction would be?
She always felt sorry for her son, he would never know the joy of listening to music, or bird song or speech. Communication was always a struggle for him. They had a rudimentary sign language, but others did not; this kept him isolated. It was imperative for her to drum the importance of reading and writing into him and from an early age she started him on his letters. Prior to that, it had been a challenge and he would scream in frustration, unaware of how much noise he made.
Victor looked up for the kitchen table when she appeared. He hated being surprised, so he never worked with his back to a door, in any case he knew roughly when she was due home. The table and the floor beneath were strewn with discarded papers. Evidently he was working on something new. Judging by the mess, it wasn't working.
Some might say he was a handsome tall man, his broad shoulders were topped by handsome face, bright blue eyes were striking as they glinted out through his long black hair. He was continually wiping hair from his eyes as he bent down drawing, painting. Agathe thought he should cut it, but he liked it, he could hide behind his locks. His bushy beard also troubled her, but again he was too stubborn to listen to her. She never could tell if the beard came from laziness or a genuine desire to grow it.
During harvest time, when it was all hands on deck, a man of Victor's strength was a valuable resource in town. No one minding much that it was impossible to chat with him. A farmer would point him in the direction of the crop and Victor could be relied upon to harvest it, working like a machine. He brought in good money in those months and he said it provided him with inspiration for his art for months afterwards.
Agathe sat down by him and pulled a crumpled piece of paper over and asked for his pen. Then writing swiftly, told him that Mrs Blythe had liked his painting of the Avenue, and requested a spare copy for her daughter. Victor looked at her incredulously, no one had ever commissioned a painting before, roughly he shook his head, no. Agathe pressed him, telling him what a wonderful opportunity it might be. He stood up suddenly, scraping the chair back and swiftly walked out of the house.
"Victor," she called after him, "com..." eh it was useless, even after all these years she could forgot the futility of calling after a deaf man. Oh well, Victor wasn't a small boy, he could look after himself. Turning back inside she set about tidying up his papers, though she knew from past experience not to throw anything out.
Remember, remember the fifth of November. It was bonfire night, Guy Fawkes, commemorating the Irish plot to blow up the English Houses of Parliament. For the past few years the Davy and Millie had held a party, using the night as a chance to catch up with their friends and neighbours; one last hurrah before the cruel winter really descended upon them all.
Davy had been gathering refuse, old tree trunks, branches and other stuff all year and the pile was impressive now. Perched on top, as was traditional, Davy and his boys had made a rudimentary Guy. As usual they had invited a few friends and family over including Marilla and John. It was always fun to watch the pile go up in flames. Ever since he was a little boy, Davy had loved a bonfire. There was the heat of course, so enticing on a cold night; the sparks reaching up to the sky and then fireworks bought from the local store. The twins and their friends had been saving up their pennies for weeks. The Keith bonfire was known throughout the district as one of the best. They had an impressive pile of potatoes for later in the evening, to be thrown into the embers and cooked as people chatted, catching up on the local gossip. It was lovely chance for a catch up before Christmas.
Like most farmers, Davy had a special bonfire spot. Years ago, he had wandered around the property and marked out the perfect location, down a shallow hill. If something was too heavy to carry, it could be pushed down the hill and left to land on the pile. It was centrally located, so rubbish could easily be collected from anywhere on the property. By now the scorched earth told the story of bonfires burnt year after year. November was a perfect time, sometimes it was a little wet, though it was not on this night. The combination of cold nights, Guy Fawkes celebrations and an opportunity to get their friends together made for a wonderful night.
Earlier in the evening Davy and the twins had conferred about the best spots to set the fire alight. Sometimes the fire was a bit tricky to get going, particularly if it had rained during the week, so Davy had started lighting it earlier in the evening. It was roaring by the time their guests arrived.
Mme Soigne had sent along a picnic, so John and Marilla were sitting nearby chatting with the neighbours. They sat in a circle, the warm glow heating their faces, the light casting wild shadows.
The bonfire was already alight when Davy remembered the last load waiting for him in the barn, so with a sigh he called the boys to him and together they made their way back to the barn to collect it. Eager to be of assistance, the twins happily left the crowd and ran back to the barn with their father. They buzzed around like hummingbirds bursting with excitement. They had almost been too little to enjoy the bonfire last year; but they were big boys now.
The cart drove slowly, burdened by the load, so the boys jumped down and ran ahead as soon as the fire came into view.
"Grandpa John, Grandpa John," Tommy called exuberantly and he started running down the hill towards his beloved grandfather.
There was endless, fruitless, examination later as to how it happened. Maybe it was the lay of the land, maybe the boy tripped slightly? No one would ever know. The outcome was devastating either way, as Tommy picked up pace dashing down the hill, he veered slightly off course. Instead of landing in John's expectant arms, he ran straight into the heart of the fire. His little legs going too fast to stop.
When he saw where Tommy was headed John lurched sideways in an attempt to gather him into his arms, but missed; his fingers just grazing the side of the boy's shirt before he was lost.
For Marilla, the whole scene played out in slow motion, much as it had when she had fallen the previous year. The desperate shouts of the adults; the small boy running, his little white knees pumping up and down; the look of desperation on his face as he saw where he was headed, unable to slow or stop; the sudden burst of red sparks heading up, up, up towards the sky when his small burst of energy hit the inferno.
Marilla thought she would never forget the sound of Davy's anguished cry, "NO!" as he watched Tommy in full flight, before he too, tried to dash into the flames to pluck Tommy out. The heat was too great and despite his best efforts he was unable to make headway. The other men sprung to his aid to pull him out. Tommy was dead by then in any case, killed by the radiant heat before he even had a chance to cry out.
Marilla gasped and went to Davy's aid, sobbing at the sight of his burned hands. Davy was unaware of the damage, as he held Millie in his arms, the two of them weeping, great gulping sobs. Matty stood between them, asking repeatedly with growing urgency, "where's Tommy? Mummy? Daddy? Tommy, where's TomMY?" His twin was more than a brother, the two made a whole. It felt as though half his body had been ripped away.
The fire burned on, the sounds of cracking, popping, small explosions, and hissing creating a terrible backdrop to the scene playing out. Their neighbours had come for a celebration and looked on in horror as the tragedy played out in front of them.
Marilla turned to John with a wild look in her eyes. "Come, let's sit them down," John suggested, though really, he had no idea how to manage the situation. No one did, there was no etiquette to follow. Millie leant against Davy's chest, he failed to save her when her legs buckled; his burnt hands unable to hold her as she fell. Marilla knelt down by her side and pulled her in close, both women weeping bitterly.
It was such a ghastly scenario, but no one knew what the protocol was. Should they stay, to keep watch with the ravaged family, or should they leave them to it? Most stayed, and those who left did so unobtrusively, silently easing back into the shadows and departing without a word.
When the fire died down to just burning embers, John asked Marilla, "are you coming?" as he held out his hand.
"What?" asked a dazed Marilla, "I'm just going home with Millie. She'll need a hand. I'll stay with them for a while. Could you fetch the doctor? I'm worried about Davy's hands."
"Of course," John kissed her and gave her a firm hug, "I'll see you soon."
Marilla absentmindedly hugged him back, her thoughts had turned to Davy's family now.
"Come now, Mr Keith," and when there was no response, "Davy, let's have a look at these hands of yours," Doctor Mustard ordered. Davy was unresponsive, but the doctor was adamant, the burns were nasty. It worried the doctor that Davy was not screaming in agony. He must have been in considerable pain; his catatonic state was a concern.
Marilla undressed the children and put them to bed, hugging both boys, particularly Matty who looked in as much shock as his parents. Doctor Mustard wordlessly handed over a glass of milk for Matty to drink. It had a small dose of laudanum, he had dosed the whole family. They needed sleep.
Marilla went to check on the sleepy Millie. She was sat on the edge of her bed, still fully clothed. Her dress smelling of smoke and stiff with dried tears. Gently and with little murmurs, Marilla undid Millie's buttons and lifted her dress over her head. Millie looked up at her through the neck of the dress and asked in a small voice, "is he really gone?"
"Yes darling," Marilla's heart broke to tell her.
Remembering her inability to find the right words when Anne lost Joy, Marilla spoke as little as possible, instead preferring to sit in silent vigil with Millie, hoping that she found some sliver of solace in her presence, if nothing else. Religious platitudes meant very little in time of extreme grief, Marilla had learnt, so Marilla sat by the bed watching Millie. Happy when at last Millie moved her hand closer to hers so that she could easily reach out to take it. She held it firmly, sending as much love as she could muster through her hand to Millie's. She would sit there all night if she had to and would be there to care for them all for as long as necessary.
The morning came brisk and bright in mockery of the dreadful night. Marilla stretched her back stiffly, as she heard the clink of dishes being moved in the kitchen. Getting to her feet, somewhat annoyed, as she didn't want to disturb the family, she was surprised to see Mme Soigne setting out the breakfast things, "I expect they won't be hungry, but I felt I should get something ready just in case, Mrs Blythe."
"Mr Blythe told you then?" Marilla stated flatly, sitting down at the table.
"Mrs Blythe, I am so terribly sorry. What a terrible tragedy, that poor little boy."
"He was ... such a gorgeous little soul," Marilla hastened outside, her grief was not equal to Davy and Dora's she did not feel it was right to weep in front of them.
Mme Soigne followed her outside, "It is all right to cry, Mrs Blythe. He was your grandson. There is no shame in it."
"But my grief is not equal to theirs."
"It is not a contest Mrs Blythe. Grief is grief. We all grieve in different ways, you are entitled too. It is better to cry, non? You must allow them to cry and you must let yourself cry with them. This is a terrible thing."
"Just awful. The sight of him running down that hill," Marilla stopped, all of a sudden sinking her to knees, "I won't be able to support them if I am this distraught." Mme Soigne looked at her mistress, tears in her eyes herself. "I think you need to let yourself cry, Mrs Blythe. It is healthy to do so. Then when you have cried by yourself, you can cry with them."
Wiping her eyes on her apron after she had sobbed for a while, Marilla nodded at Mme Soigne and took her hand as she got back to her feet. The women walked back into the kitchen where Marilla sat back down, while Mme Soigne prepared the breakfast.
"Davy love, I know you are hurting dreadfully," commented Marilla with a hand on his shoulder. Davy had taken to his bed and had not risen for some days, craving the abyss of sleep and forgetfulness. He turned away from her roughly muttering, "g'way".
But she continued on relentlessly, "you have a family to care for. They need you. They're grieving too."
Davy turned around at that and stared at Marilla with blank eyes, "I can't. I can't. I just can't. They'll be better off without me. I'm no good as a father, I just can't do it. I'm a failure. I let him die, I couldn't save him, Marilla. I can't be trusted around them. I just can't." Marilla sat with him for a while longer unable to think of a way to persuade him that he was so very wrong and desperately worried about his mental state. He was veering into dangerous territory.
"I can't get through to him either," Millie said through swollen, tear stained eyes when Marilla walked back out of the room. Marilla strode over to envelop the bereaved mother in her arms and they wept for Tommy and for the family left behind.
Davy heard a small insistent voice by his bedside and someone's small finger prodding him. Turning over to rudely tell them to leave him alone, his opened eyes revealed Matty kneeling on the mattress. "Daddy, I miss Tommy. I need a hug." At the realisation that his grief was as nothing compared to Matty's, Davy opened his arms as Matty scrambled in. Matty had not only lost his brother, his best friend, his confidant but his twin. Davy thought he would die if anything happened to Dora and now Matty was facing that very dilemma.
"Aren't you very hungry Daddy?" Matty asked a while later. Davy nodded, waving his bandaged mitts in the boy's direction. "Oh," getting on his knees Matty pulled the bowl of cold stew over to Davy's lap and took a small spoonful, guiding it carefully towards his father's gaping mouth. Matty giggled as a bit of stew slopped out of the over full spoon, "sorry Daddy."
"Bit ambitious there?" Davy smiled weakly. The spoon scraped along the bottom of the bowl as Matty collected the last of the sauce, then he wiped his father's chin with a corner of the sheet, "are you tired Daddy?"
"Thirsty," replied Davy thickly. Matty looked at the big jug of water and hopped up to pour a glass, but it was too heavy for him. He looked at his father, who shrugged, looking down at his heavily bandaged hands. Matty turned and in the way of all boys yelled, "Muuummmy!"
"He sounds so like his brother," stammered Millie, out in the other room.
"I'll go," said Marilla.
"No, leave it to me. I'll do it," Millie brushed past Marilla, who held out her hand and squeezed Millie's as she walked past, receiving a brief squeeze in return.
"Yes darling?" Millie asked as she walked in. Seeing her boys in the room together warmed her heart.
"We need a hand here," Davy replied.
"Of course," Millie walked over to the jug, poured a glass of water for Davy and held it to his lips while he drank.
"Mummy...," Matty patted the bed.
Millie turned to him, tears in her eyes and lay down on the bed next to her husband. Matty climbed in between his parents. Davy longed to feel them both, but all he could do was lightly bat them with his bandaged hands. Millie caressed his cheek, wiping away the tears that were freely falling. Davy let out an anguished cry at that and the three of them wailed and sobbed in the bed.
Marilla, listening from the kitchen was pleased to hear it, she rose and went to check on baby Artie who was still sleeping soundly. She heard the front door click and returned to the kitchen to see John walking in, "oh, am I pleased to see you," she leaned against him for a hug and a kiss.
"How are they?" he enquired.
"Better. They're all in there together, having a good cry," she explained, somewhat needlessly, the keening could easily be heard from the kitchen.
"Good. Now Mme Soigne has offered them the services of Victor. He'll look after the farm while Davy is out of action," John explained.
"Milty and Ralph were going to help I think."
"Yes, well they are good to offer, but they have their own places to run. Victor is able and free and I think the money would come in handy too," John suggested.
Mme Soigne brought Victor over the next morning. Victor had been initially reluctant, but she urged him to help, reminding him that if nothing else the income would be welcome. She introduced the Keiths and the Blythes to Victor. They looked at his strong shoulders sizing him up. He certainly looked as though he might be able to help while Davy was out of action. "You just have to write your instructions down on paper," explained Mme Soigne, "printing is best."
"What can he do Mme Soigne?" Millie asked.
"Well he can start by milking the cows and chopping some wood, then you can write down a list of instructions if you like. Do you think you could give him a tour of the farm, first?"
The next day, Victor visited Green Gables. When a bleary eyed Marilla answered the door first thing in the morning, he wordlessly thrust his extra painting of The Avenue into her hands with a brief smile, before he stumped off down the road towards Davy's farm.
A/N this did in fact happen to a family friend's little brother, he saw a jackaroo (cowboy) he liked who was by a bonfire on their farm, ran down to greet him and ran straight into the flames.
Guy Fawkes Night, is an annual commemoration observed on 5 November. Its history begins with the events of 5 November 1605, when Guy Fawkes, a member of the Gunpowder Plot, was arrested while guarding explosives the plotters had placed beneath the House of Lords. Celebrating the fact that King James I had survived the attempt on his life, people lit bonfires around London; and months later, the introduction of the Observance of 5th November Act enforced an annual public day of thanksgiving for the plot's failure. Fawkes was hung, drawn and quartered for his part in the plot.
