Bonfire Nights on The Level

By Sue Clement

I was born in Brighton General Hospital in 1948. I have strong childhood memories of St Peter’s Church. I remember it as austere and forbidding. But I also remember feeling proud that it was part of our neighbourhood. It seemed to guard us all as it towered over The Level, our tiny Hanover streets, and our mountainous hills. St Peter’s was huge, a monumental monument, a solid dependable rock. But I never saw its doors open, they were always closed.

From the age of about six, I went with my parents and my brother Ken to Bonfire Night on The Level, just across from St Peter’s. November was always an exciting time for me and my brother. Our beautiful mum gave us permission to leave our upstairs flat at 165 Queens Park Road to go downstairs and visit Nanny and Grandad in their ground floor rooms to ask for a pair of old trousers, an unwanted shirt, and a worn-out coat.

We gathered all the newspapers we could find from the whole house and the Hildens next door. Soon we were covered in dark printers’ ink as we separated each page of the Daily Mirror, the Sketch and, if we were lucky, the scandalous News of the World and set about scrunching them into tight balls. Meanwhile, our mum would tie string around the bottoms of the trousers and the wrists of the shirt and jacket.

We took the next stage of the process very seriously and put maximum effort into stuffing the trousers, ramming the newspaper as far down as possible until the legs were bulging with muscles. It always took a couple of days to complete the stuffing. The clothes took on a life of their own as we added the important ‘extras’: the gloves, the socks, the tie. And finally, we made the trip to the shop to choose a paper mâché mask for the head.

Guy Fawkes had arrived. We were delighted and so proud of him. It took both of us, me and Ken, to carry him down to meet our grandparents, who fed us Wonderloaf and sugar sandwiches as a reward.

Once Guy was ready, Ken and I were allowed to take him to our bus stop on Queens Park Road by St Luke’s Church hall (long since demolished and rebuilt as houses). We propped him up by the wall with a borrowed flat cap perched on his head and a large ‘Penny for the Guy’ notice strung from his neck. People were generous with their pennies, half-pennies and farthings.

Ken and I counted the coins and divided them into two equal piles. Dad took us across the road to the sweetshop at the top of Islingward Road (only recently closed, sadly), which sold our much-loved weekly treats of Fry’s Five Boys chocolate, sugar mice, and liquorice wheels. In the glass and polished wood cabinets lay the treasure we hankered after – fireworks. It took us ages to choose between ‘Golden Rains’ and ‘Emerald Volcanos’ and to decide whether we had enough money for two rockets or just one and a Catherine Wheel.

The big day arrived, and we were so excited! Bundled up into our winter coats with hats and gloves, we manhandled Guy out of the front door and ran along to Southover Street followed by Mum and Dad. At the bottom of the hill, we stood in terror and amazement before the magnificent, towering volcano of a bonfire that lit up The Level right next to St Peter’s.

We watched in awe as Dad tossed Guy onto the fire and he flared, shrivelled and disappeared into the flames. Then there were fireworks and sparklers. And the final delight, home-made toffee apples. And lastly, the steep walk home.

My family left Brighton when I was ten. When my husband and I came back house-hunting nearly six decades later, St Peter’s was the landmark to tell me I was home again. It was still there in all its glory, still towering over the rainbow fountain, reminding me of my routes to the Prince Regent swimming pool where I swam with Brighton Ladies, to the Lanes and North Laine where I roamed alone as an eight year old, and to the seafront to find Nanny and Grandad patiently waiting for their weekend charabanc ride to the Sussex countryside.

St Peter’s is no longer remote, austere and grey. It is busy, bright and welcoming. It is still filling people with memories, standing tall over local people and visitors from all over the world. It is much, much more than a monument, it is a haven of friendship, safety and food, both earthly and spiritual. It’s a safety-net, a place of joy, and colour. A place that gives confidence and pride to the people it serves. Its doors are open.