Matchbox->Child-> “Don’t play with matches”. How often did I hear those words. Like a thunderous message from God, but they were always around, and I am curious. The end of the garden is a good distance away from the house, so I’ll play with them down there. I like the way the edges of the drawer catch slightly. This is late sixties we’re talking about so the box is not actually cardboard, but some sort of light ply construction, with a colourful picture pasted on top. If I’d looked close enough I might see the words ‘made in India’ somewhere on it, the tail end of empire, a crumbling relic.
The matches rustle as that box opens and I hold one of the thin splinters of wood with the bulbous head between tiny pincers. In awe I stroke it along the scratchplate, it bumps half catches and then flares into life. I watch transfixed, I fall into the flame hypnoitised. Another, flare and fascination, another. Over and over until I’m through the whole box and I’m a zombie. I’m sitting behind the caravan, no one’s seen me I think. I wander down to the park next door. At five years of age there I am free as a cloud, taking in the drowsy sun like a cat to catnip, wandering aimlessly and then I return, to find most of my family gathered around the caravan with, pots and pans and buckets, trying to douse an apparent fire. Panic and fear grabs my throat and squeezes- yes it’s my fault. I rush back to the park and grab a handful of grass to help…..
Later I receive the first belting of my life, well deserved I think, lying across his knee as the leather rips into my tender backside. “Stupid boy” or words to that effect are drilled into me. “I will not play with matches”. My bottom Stings like I’d been sitting on thorns. I try to imagine how those expired matches could possibly have set the caravan on fire, but it’s beyond my child brain. ” I will not play with matches”
