Guerillas In Our Midst

by Claire Peate

  Fourteen

  I made my way to the Mini Mart with a spring in my step.

  Things were most definitely coming together. Robert was in and the weirdness of having a (paying) man about the place was receding slightly, much as it had probably done for Babs when her boyfriend got the wrong address... Beth was sad she was moving on from me (hurrah!) and I had become a secret, mysterious guerrilla gardener. But more than all that, the spring in my step was because of Guy and the way he’d kissed me on the dig that night at the station. The sexy gardener thought I was a passionate militant red-head from dispossessed Highland stock but hey – maybe I was and I’d simply not yet realised my full potential. Not long until the next dig and then, perhaps, if I put myself forward more, actually initiated a conversation… Maybe I should learn a bit about Che Guevara and then we could have meaningful conversations about him.

  The sun was shining and Brockley was looking beautiful. There were fresh new leaves on the trees and not a cloud in the sky. I bounced passed Fox Estates and waved a jovial hello to Eustace who was polishing the brass and he stopped to salute me with a Good morning to you, my dear. I marvelled at the station planting, feeling a sharp stab of pride, and bounced right into Mr Iqbal’s for emergency provisions. And then I did a double take.

  “Good morning, young Edna.” Mr Iqbal said from behind a glossy new counter.

  “Hello…” I looked around – was I even in the right shop? It was the right owner talking to me, and it was next door to Gloria’s Flowers, the new florist’s shop, but apart from that everything was different. The clutter and the ethnic foods and the back-of-a-lorry-from-1989 stock had gone. As had the peeling lino tiles and the humming grey strip lights.

  “You like my new shop, then, Edna?” Mr Iqbal beamed at me.

  “How? Why? How?” There were wooden floors, light bulbs in etched glass shades, things in brown boxes and tall glass jars. There were no vats of ghee or Filthy Exterminator cleaning products.

  “Organic cereals,” Mr Iqbal swept a hand along a tidy wooden shelf, “Fairtrade sugars, tea and coffee – all organic of course – responsibly sourced chocolate, recycled tissues and paper. Biodegradable cleaning products – none of that nonsense I sold you last month, my dear. And did you like my awning?”

  “Your what?” I followed where he was pointing to the outside of the shop. I must have completely missed it as I’d bounded in: a striped red and white awning over the door with strings of onions hanging from the supports. Underneath was an old-fashioned bicycle propped against a wooden pillar with a basket full of bread. Beside it was a chalkboard that read fresh bread daily.

  And there were two bay trees.

  “Eustace!”

  “What was that, Edna?” Mr Iqbal joined me in the doorway.

  “Nothing.” I bit my lip.

  “I think I heard you.” He nodded wisely. “Eustace Fox isn’t it? Well you’re right,” he leant against the door frame and nodded in the direction of Fox Estates, just around the corner.

  “He made you do this?” I whispered. “All of this?”

  Mr Iqbal laughed. “Of course not! What kind of a man do you think he is? No! He is very kind and good at business too. We sat down and talked about the business and about Brockley and how things were changing. And we came up with a business plan, so that I can survive in these new times. The old products are out and it is these new high-end products that people will be buying these days.”

  “But there are lots of people wanting the vats of ghee…”

  “And that is what I said to Eustace Fox, but he convinced me otherwise. You see they take up so much space in my shop that could be used to sell more stock. And if I sold just two Mr Squirrel Organic Nut Bars then I would recoup the profit I would make from one whole vat of ghee.”

  “But people bought ghee!” I examined the nut bar. “No one will buy these; they’re so expensive.”

  “They will.” Mr Iqbal said. “Eustace said so. And I believe him, he is a very shrewd man. And he gave me the beautiful trees in the pots you see outside there. As a gift.”

  “I’m sure…” I said. “But didn’t it cost a huge amount of money to renovate your shop and put entirely new stock in?”

  “You must invest to survive,” he said, in what sounded like a repeated mantra he’d no doubt heard from Eustace. “And now, what did you want to buy this morning Edna? Muesli bar? Ethically sourced cotton tea towels? Luxury free range pot pourri?”

  I managed to find my sugar (fairtrade) and marmalade (organic) and bought a Mr Squirrel bar out of sympathy, but also to support my local business.

  “Here, have one of our new bags,” he put my purchases in a hessian bag with BROCKLEY PETIT MARCHÉ PURVEYORS OF CONVENIENCE SINCE 1974 printed on the side.

  “All right there, Edda!” Babs’ voice and fag smoke assaulted me on the street before I’d even turned in to my front garden. I looked up to see her sitting on her doorstep, legs apart, fag in, cutting something out of a giant square of thick card with enormous shears. The last time she’d been cutting out shapes I’d made the mistake of showing an interest and asking what she was doing. Not this time.

  “Morning, Babs.” I wandered through my knot garden, still in a post-Mini-Mart trance. “How are things with you?”

  “Can’t grumble,” Babs said, and then added: “I’ve been meanin’ to say to yer that me boyfriend loves them clothes I got from yer, love. That belly dancin’ thing – it’s given ’im a new lease a’ life in the bedroom.” She laughed. “Turns out he were in the RAF over in Cyprus forty years ago. Got a taste for belly dancers while he was over there. Funny how these things work out, eh?”

  “Oh I … I am glad.”

  “Ah, now I didn’t mean ter make yer blush, darlin’.” Babs looked amused at the sight of my face. “Ain’t it supposed to be the job of the young ’uns to shock our generation?”

  “I don’t know.” I leaned against the wall. “It’s all mixed up for me at the moment. Did I tell you that my friend from work’s seeing my lodger’s father: Max Willoughby.”

  I had to remind her who Amanda was, but the instant I mentioned leopard skin she knew right away.

  “An’ what about you and that lodger o’ yours. Fine bit o’ man you got livin’ with yer. Canny girl.”

  “Erm. It’s going great. He made me a coffee this morning. It’s all very civilised.”

  “Oh aye, darlin’. It is in the beginnin’…”

  I sensed a pastry-themed comment coming and hastily averted it, “But I am seeing someone. It’s very casual.” Why was I telling Babs this? Why was I confiding in the local gossip? Maybe it was because I wanted to compete with her and her hot relationship and busy social life.

  “That bloke what came here the other day. Leather jacket?”

  “That’s him. He’s an artist.”

  “You ain’t kiddin’ darlin’.” Babs lit a new fag with the stub of her old one. “Only an artist would have hair like that. Needed a bleedin’ good wash it did, an’ a pair a’ scissors wouldn’t go amiss. Still – if you like the broody sort. ’Ere, darlin’, you ain’t no good at art are yer?”

  Babs’ conversation veered off track again. “I’m OK. Why?”

  “I’m supposed to be cuttin’ these bleedin’ stencils out for me grandson, Tyrone, an’ I’m all to cock. It’s the arms what I’m strugglin’ with.” She closed her legs – mercifully – stood up and walked up to the wall where I was standing.

  “I’ll come over.” I put down my organic, fairly traded recycled bag and walked round.

  “Here.” She thrust the plastic-coated card at me.

  “What is it?” I asked and then, “Oh my God, Babs!”

  She laughed faggily. “That’s what I say when I get a load of some of ’is work. But you know it’s got a real beauty to it. An’ ’Roney said it is art. It ain’t smut.” She checked that the road in front of our houses was empty and then held the giant stencil up for us both to see it. “The way that woman’s d
oin’ that thing to that other woman underneath. It’s got real movement, ain’t it? An’ it’s there that yer can see the artist’s skill ain’t it? But I can’t be doin’ with all these limbs and these high heeled shoes on this sillyette. I ain’t got the sight no more, love.”

  When I recovered, I managed to look at the work of art without seeing lewd pornographic silhouettes and said, “You need a craft knife for this level of detail, Babs. You’ll never get it if you use scissors.”

  Five minutes later we were in my kitchen at the table, me cutting out silhouettes of women’s breasts while Babs looked around and passed comment. “Only saw it as a knockin’ shop just the once,” she said. “But fair play to yer, darlin’, you’d never know to see it now would yer? There was a bar over there, and a big black and red chandelier hangin’ just there and a statue of a man an’ woman shaggin’ – tasteful mind – where you’ve got yer fridge.”

  It crossed my mind that given her tastes and hobbies I should offer Babs the pole from the cellar: it would solve the problem of getting rid of it – of even touching it. But, then, did I really want to think of what Babs was doing with it, possibly in association with my belly dancing outfit?

  “So, what do the teachers think of Tyrone’s, erm, art.”

  “Oh ’e don’t go to school!” Babs opened and shut my cupboard doors one by one, working her way around the kitchen. “Left at fourteen ’e did. Youth offending prison at fifteen, but he’s past that now. My boy! Made me a Great-Nan, bless ’im at just sixteen!”

  “So…” my craft knife hovered over an outstretched thigh, “If it’s is not for school what is the stencil for?”

  Babs swelled with pride. “My ’Roney – he’s Da Notorious Baron.”

  With a shaky hand I put the knife down. “Your grandson is the Brockley graffiti artist?”

  “One and the same,” she said, examining my collection of tea towels. “An’ I know some folks think what he does is wrong, but the lad’s only tryin’. An’ ’e’s bringin’ some colour to our grey old streets. That Banksy, ’e ’ad a whole museum taken over with ’is work, down Bristol way. Graffiti is the art of the people – that’s what my Tyrone says.”

  But only if it’s good.

  I picked up the knife again – my hands had stopped trembling – and cut the outline of the breasts of the woman who was lying down. Tryone had made them vast and impossibly pert, with nipples almost touching her chin so I took some artistic liberty and reduced them from their comedy vastness and made their shape realistic.

  “Babs you know that I’m not Eustace Fox’s friend: I just know him.” I said, conscious that I should be very, very careful over what I was about to say.

  “You went to a party at ’is fancy pad.”

  “That’s it. Well, the thing is, I know that Da Notorious Baron really gets underneath Eustace Fox’s skin.” And I told her about his rant, wanting to catch Da Notorious Baron and force him to art school.

  Babs sat opposite me and laughed out loud. “Good! Snobs like ’im set themselves up for that kinda reaction. But it does stun me to hear yer say he wants graffiti of some sort. Thought ’e’d be dead against any type o’ graffiti, but there you go. Shall I make us a tea darlin’? I’m standing ’ere parched.”

  “I’m sorry, Babs!” I got up but she insisted I keep cutting and instead, having carried out a complete survey of my kitchen, was able to make us both a drink.

  “Now don’t you ever go tellin’ ’Roney about the Banksy comment,” she said as she mashed the tea bags. “’E can’t stand ’im. Professional rivalry, ain’t it? Well will yer look at that!” she moved round to my side of the table and watched as I finished off an ankle with the twist of a stilettoed foot. “You’ve got real flair for stencil cuttin’, Edda. That’s beautiful. I see what you’ve done – changing the angle of that leg an’ makin’ her tits better. Done summat with ’er chin an’ all. It’s good. The lad’ll be over the moon with what you’ve done.” She took the finished stencil from me and I put the cover on my craft knife.

  “Hello, hello!” Robert bounded in from his jog, wet faced and damp, with swept back hair.

  Babs sat at the table looking at him in awe. “All right darlin’?” She stared. “Nice run?”

  “Smashing, Babs, thanks. How’s things?”

  “Can’t complain. How’s it goin’ with that pupil what fancies you?”

  I stared at Robert – this was news. Why hadn’t he told me about the pupil that fancied him? Why had he told Babs and not me? “Oh she’s moved on to her Maths teacher now, so I’m off the leash.”

  “There’s lucky then darlin’,” she winked at him.

  Robert went over to the sink and poured himself a glass of water, before coming over to where I was sitting.

  “So what’s th—”

  He’d picked up the stencil and froze.

  “Shall I explain?” I said, laughing.

  Robert continued to stare at the writhing women template. “Erm…”

  “Your landlady’s got a real talent ain’t she?” Babs said, patting the stencil. “It’s for me grandson. Secret, mind, so keep it under yer ’at yeah?” She stood up and took the stencil off the table. “Thanks for this love, bless yer. Tryone will be as ’appy as a pig in shit with this he will. I’ll leave the two of you alone now, I reckon.” She shot me a meaningful look. “Shower time, eh? Bye, darlin’s!”

  “But your tea!” I said.

  “Don’t want to intrude,” she called from the hallway.

  The front door closed and Robert flopped onto the chair opposite me.

  We looked at each other for a moment and I was first to break the silence. “Babs’ grandson is Da Notorious Baron.”

  “I thought I recognised his style.” Robert said, playing with the cut-outs of the naked women. “And you’re now helping him?”

  “Once!” I said. “I helped Babs this once. Apparently Tyrone – that’s Da Notorious Baron – gets her to do his cutting out.”

  “Well that explains part of the reason they are so bad, then. What on earth would your Surrey-bound friend say if she knew you were turning into a South London criminal?” he said.

  “I am not! Oh God, am I? Am I? I am, aren’t I? Oh no, you have to stop me turning all South London.”

  Robert held up his hands. “You could always move to Guildford. That seems to be a popular escape route. No one is going to press-gang you into being a graffiti artist’s moll in Guildford, are they?”

  “I don’t know if I could move to Guildford. Beth says that they have picket fences in their gardens around there. I honestly don’t think I could deal with picket fences.”

  Robert wrinkled his nose. “Well then, there’s no option but for you to come to the Grand Theatre with me tonight. Dad’s poncing around in some play with American famous types in it and I have free tickets. Theatre should purge the South London from your system: think of it as medicine.”

  “You mean instead of going to a cock fight or to see bare knuckle boxing?”

  “Exactly. The theatre – are you free?”

  “But do you think it will cure me?”

  “I don’t know, Edda.” He looked me up and down critically, “But we could visit a very trendy wine bar just around the corner afterwards. That would probably sort you out.”

  “Jolly good. So long as they serve gin. Babs only drinks gin and only ever drinks it neat.”

  “You’re on.” He stood up and bounded up the stairs, peeling off his t-shirt as he went. “Shower time.”

  I sat at the table, amid the abandoned saucy cuttings, feeling odd all of sudden and rather confused.

  It was Friday night.

  “What are you—”

  “Shh!” I snapped, and Robert flinched. “Sorry but I really want to hear this.”

  “OK.” He took a seat on the opposite end of the sofa to hear what was so good it couldn’t be interrupted.

  See, here? The carrot fly is a pest you really have to get on top of, and fa
st…

  Robert was staring at me.

  I looked back at him. “What?”

  “Do you really have nothing better to do on a Friday night than watch a programme about carrot fly?”

  “Hey – Gardener’s Secrets is good!” I defended my corner. “And we went to the theatre this week, so I’ve done my week’s worth of socialising and highbrow art. I’m entitled to stay in. Look. Carrot Fly. It’s important to know about these things. Gardening is very important.”

  “Oh. OK.” Robert deigned to show an interest in my programme and Finley threw himself onto his lap, purring like a tractor.

  “So, what are you doing instead, that’s so exciting, on a Friday night?” I asked while the presenter demonstrated how to cull carrot fly.

  “Marking.”

  “Ha! Give me carrot fly any day.”

  “I cannot believe,” Robert settled himself into the sofa cushions, “that we are watching a gardening programme and my father is out in Fitzrovia partying with your young friend and colleague. It’s not right.”

  “Ah yes,” I said, “but you have misjudged the programme.”

  Together we watched Old Medieval Gardening Man as he moved effortlessly from carrot fly to cockchafers.

  Robert snorted.

  “Oh, come on!” I said. “How old are you? And anyway, cockchafers are a real garden pest. Look – that lawn is in ruins.”

  “Yes but cockchafers! Who came up with that name? Oh, bloody hell, look at the thing!”

  We both stared transfixed at the screen which showed, in high definition, a beast of a beetle, with a body that was half woodlouse, half horse, with wings. It had antennae with fronds and large beady eyes that looked straight out at us on the sofa and seemed to communicate: I will kill you.

  “Fu-cking hell,” Robert said.

  “That’s the last time I go in my garden, then.”

  “I have never seen anything as weird as that.” Robert continued to stare. “That is just alarming. Are they really common in the UK? Are they here in London? Do you have them out there?”

  Twenty minutes later and we were fully lost to the programme. Old Medieval Gardener had moved on to larger pests. Robert had brought in wine.