A blaze of fireworks

I have been fascinated with the idea of going off as a firework for a while now. A couple of years ago I read somewhere that children's author Philip Pullman had rocketed his stepfather up to the stars in a firework display. Could it be the case, or was it part of his fiction? I wrote him a note and this was his reply.

The fireworks idea came to me when my sister and I were wondering what to do with the ashes. My stepfather died at the New Year, and his various children were scattered all over the world: one in Australia, another in America, one in Scotland, tow in England, and although those of us here in Britain could make it to the cremation, it was going to be vary difficult for my half-brother in Australia and my stepbrother in the USA to make it in time.

So I suggested that we regard the actual service as a formality, and set up a real farewell later in the year, when everyone could get there without difficulty. Then the question arose: what form should the farewell take? Obviously we’d have to scatter the ashes, but there wasn’t really anywhere in Edinburgh, where he spent the last couple of years of his life, that was special to him; there was no reason to go to sea and scatter them there; but we felt we ought to do something special.

“Let’s send him up in a rocket,” I said, half-seriously.

But my sister jumped at it, and so did the others. My stepbrother, when I suggested it to him over the phone, roared with laughter. It was such a zany idea that we couldn’t resist it. I only wish we’d thought of it before he died – he would have loved it.

So then the problem became – one rocket? Two? How many would we need? And should we do it ourselves? I had visions of buying a couple of big rockets from Woolworth’s or somewhere, and spooning the old boy in, and sealing him up with duct tape. But then they might be too heavy and make it un-aerodynamic, or something, and he might whizz up and turn round and come straight down again.

Anyway, my sister, who knows everyone, found a firework specialist in Edinburgh, where she lives, and handed the job over to him. He was a part-time firework man – in his day job, he’s an anaesthetist at one of the Edinburgh hospitals. He said we’d need thirty-five rockets, and named a price, and we said “Go ahead.”

So on the appointed day we all gathered in Edinburgh and had a boozy supper and drove out to the headland where the firework man did his displays, looking south across the Firth of Forth. As the daylight was fading we walked a mile or so along the shore till we came to the spot where the rockets were being set up, all along a big long rack, with the firework man just setting the fuses. It had been raining all day, but it was just clearing, although the clouds were still low. We could see the lights of Edinburgh across the water, and there were naval ships manoeuvring in the Firth. My sister’s children were very excited, and we were all a little drunk, I think, and when it was all finally ready my stepbrother – his oldest child – said a few words, brilliantly, actually; and then my sister set off the first fuse.

What a display! It was wonderful. Each rocket was bigger and more beautiful than the one before. It went on for minutes, and the sky was full of stars, and with each star there was a bit of the old man.

And my little niece, who was nine, looked up and said very decidedly “That’s the way I want to go.”

As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t mind going like that myself. The thing was, it was funny and happy and beautiful as well as being sad. So I think it’s rockets for me too when the time comes.

I hope that helps.

Yours, Philip Pullman