'Backfire' by Johanna Robinson

They reckon it was Joey who burned down the long, low shed. Couldn’t stand the pop-crack-creak-snap of the stems. Said the noise was like radio crackle, like they were trying to get in touch with him. “Who?” I’d asked him. “Spirits,” he said.

I asked him which ones, for we have many here, in our little Yorkshire frost pocket between the hills. Joey never answered.

Us girls did the work when the lads were away. We snapped the rhubarb like spines, our backs aflame. We yearned for the light, same as the crop did. We grew pale as the forced fruit blushed. We were safe, though, in our dark sheds lit by candles, as the planes ploughed the night above us.

When the boys came back, we gave them crumble, spooning it into their mouths. But the fruit was bitter; there was no sugar for the topping, only oats that stuck to their dry lips, and which they could not swallow.

We showed them what to do. We fitted them with our aprons and taught them ancient tricks. Sprinkle the shoots with water to pretend it’s spring. Give them heat. Deny them light. I taught Joey how to lever out each stem at its base. I watched his pupils grow large and told myself it wasn’t because he was scared.

Pop-crack. He’d flinch and I almost laughed: “It’s just the stalks. They groan as they grow.”

Pop-crack. “Everything sounds loud in silence, in the dark,” he said.

The shed caught easily, its floor bedded with wool from the mills to keep the crop warm. The roots gave up like tinder. The air smelled of blackened sugar. The shed burned so brightly, as we watched, that our pupils turned to pins and the flames danced in our eyes: red, yellow, crackling.