Eric told me all this as we packed the boxes into his car, ready to drive them to the park. It was four thirty. The public would start to gather at six. Traditionally, the Malbry fire is always held on a Friday night, the closest day to November 5. The bonfire begins at seven o’clock. At eight, there are the fireworks. But for now, there was no one, except for a few stalls setting up at a safe distance from the cordoned-off area around the unlit fire—Hook-a-Duck stands; coconut-shies; stalls selling toffee apples and gingerbread men. Funny, how these things never change. When we were boys, it was just the same.

Funny; I’ve always loved this time of year, and not just because Bonfire Night happens to fall on my birthday. At my age, I no longer celebrate the years that pass so quickly, but I’ve always loved the drama of the seasonal changing of the guard; the fallen leaves; the scent of smoke; the fires lit to the old gods. Of course, after what happened last year, you might have expected me to hate anything connected with bonfires, birthdays, or fireworks. But strangely enough, last year’s events seem even less real to me now; ghost stories told on an autumn night over hot ale and roast chestnuts.

“Thanks for doing this, Straits,” said Eric as we stacked up the boxes around the pyre. They would burn, once it was lit. Most of the contents were paper.

“Think nothing of it,” I replied, secretly thinking of my knees. They haven’t been good in the past year, and all this lifting and carrying wouldn’t improve my joints a bit. Still, what price a friend, eh?

Eighty boxes later, my knees were feeling like broken glass, but at least the living room was clear. We’d made five runs to the bonfire by then. The clock on the mantelpiece said six fifteen.

“We won’t clear all the boxes tonight,” Eric said. “But at last, I’m free.”

That was an odd thing for him to say. Eric is neither demonstrative nor given to hyperbole. But losing a parent can be hard; even when the loss is marbled with relief.

“Sit down and have a drink,” I said. “Then we can decide what to do with the rest of Margery’s things.”

I have to say, I was surprised that he hadn’t opened any of the boxes. Most of them had still been sealed, labeled in his mother’s hand. I hoped he wouldn’t one day regret the decision not to go through her effects.

“Not a chance,” he told me, when I happened to mention it. “What would I want with old newspapers, or bank statements, or baby bootees?”