The Summer We Turned Green

by William Sutcliffe

  ‘Anyway – must dash,’ says Dad.

  ‘Wait,’ she says. ‘I just wanted to say, have you heard the news about the demolition crews?’

  ‘Just a few rumours.’

  ‘Less than a month, they’re saying. I think we should have a street meeting. We need a strategy. That lot over there, are they planning to … resist?’

  ‘That’s why they’re here.’

  ‘Well,’ says Helena, ‘I think maybe the two sides of the street should find a way to communicate, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s not hard. You just go over there and talk to them,’ says Dad.

  ‘I’m not sure that’s where my talents lie,’ says Helena.

  ‘So have a meeting at your place, then,’ says Dad. ‘If the bulldozers are coming, you’re right. We all need to work together.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ says Helena.

  ‘Let me know when it’s happening, and I’ll see who I can bring along,’ says Dad, lifting his end of the mattress and beginning to walk away.

  ‘Watch out for bedbugs,’ Helena calls after us. ‘I’d burn that rather than taking it back into your house, if I were you.’

  Dad and I carry on up to his bedroom, returning home briefly for a duvet and pillow and a dust-covered guitar I’ve never seen before, which he retrieves from on top of a wardrobe. When we’ve finished, Dad looks around at his cell-like new residence with the kind of self-satisfied smile you’d expect to see on someone’s face after checking into a five-star penthouse suite.

  ‘How long do you think you’re going to stay here?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, not long.’

  ‘And you’re doing this to push Rose back home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you really think that’s going to work?’

  ‘It’s worth a try.’

  ‘So you definitely haven’t come here for the same reason as Rose?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I can’t really see the difference between what she’s doing and what you’re doing. It’s only me and Mum left at home now. Isn’t that kind of weird?’

  ‘Is weird always a bad thing?’

  ‘I just feel like Mum doesn’t believe that you’re here for the reason you’re saying you’re here.’

  ‘What other reason could there be?’

  ‘Maybe you like it here.’

  Dad fixes me with an intense stare, and I can see him trying to figure out whether to be impressed or annoyed by my suggestion. I get the feeling he’s mainly annoyed. Life must be far simpler when you can lie to your children without them realising.

  ‘I’m not going to pretend I hate it,’ he concedes. ‘I mean, I thought I would, but … when you’ve been doing the same job for years and years, and it’s not necessarily a job you even liked that much in the first place … well, you get bored. And if something turns up that’s different from the daily grind, it kind of … wakes you up. Maybe everyone here is a bit nuts, but … it’s fun. I don’t know when I last had any fun.’

  ‘So you admit it?’

  ‘Admit what?’

  ‘You coming here is basically a holiday.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You’re saying it’s for Rose but it’s really for you.’

  ‘No! And you mustn’t say that to Mum. What I told you just now is private – father-and-son talk, man to man – just between me and you.’

  ‘Mum knows anyway.’

  ‘Does she?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s obvious.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Totally.’

  ‘Well … it’s just a week. Can’t do any lasting harm. Maybe I’ll change Rose’s mind about things and she’ll go home, and I’ll follow her, and thanks to me we’ll all be back to normal before we know it.’

  ‘Or maybe the opposite will happen.’

  ‘That being … ?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  At this moment one of the two middle-aged women in the commune appears at the top of the stairs. She’s wearing an orange and gold jumper that has clearly been hand-knitted by someone who doesn’t know how to knit.

  ‘Just thought I’d say hi,’ she says to Dad. ‘I heard you’re moving in. I’m Martha.’

  ‘Hi,’ says Dad, reaching out to shake her hand, then changing the gesture into a wave when he realises a handshake is too uncool. ‘I’m David. Or Dave. Most people call me Dave.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, David or Dave,’ she says, with a knowing smile.

  ‘And I’m not so much moving in as just … you know … visiting for a while.’

  ‘We’re all only visitors wherever we are, I always say,’ says Martha, in her throaty, honey-smooth voice.

  ‘Very true,’ replies Dad, though I can tell that he has no idea what she’s on about, and also that me being there, watching him introduce himself to Martha, makes him uneasy. It’s hard to tell with people who are the same age as your parents, but I get the feeling that long, long ago, Martha would once have been quite attractive.

  ‘And this is my son, Luke,’ he adds. ‘He’s helping me get set up.’

  ‘Hi, Luke,’ says Martha, beaming her large green eyes at me. ‘You’re Sky’s new friend, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well … kind of.’

  ‘I’ve heard all about you.’

  ‘Have you? There’s not much to say, is there?’

  ‘You should never put yourself down, Luke. Never,’ she says in a low and serious voice, bangles and bracelets clanking together as she sweeps a tress of curly hair over one shoulder. This is when I notice that she gives off the sweet and delicious scent of freshly sawn wood.

  ‘Anyway, there’s soup in the kitchen if you want it,’ she adds, flashing a smile at Dad and heading back downstairs.

  ‘I’m starving,’ I say.

  ‘What?’ replies Dad, staring at Martha’s retreating form, lost in a deaf dream.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ I repeat.

  This time he hears me, and his eyes snap back into focus. ‘Me too,’ he says. ‘Let’s eat.’

  We head down and are immediately given steaming bowls of pus-coloured lentil soup and bread rolls which are as heavy as a handful of mud. Outside, a totem pole inauguration celebration is in progress, which seems to involve fire, dancing and greased torsos.

  This doesn’t really feel like my scene, so after I’ve finished my soup and found a hiding place for my cannonball of a bread roll, I say goodbye to Dad (who is now regaling Martha with his favourite well-worn backpacking anecdote, about meeting a holy man in a Himalayan cave who would say a prayer for you in return for a Coke), and head home in search of a second dinner.

  ‘Perfect timing!’ says Mum as I walk in the front door. ‘Sky and me have made roast chicken.’

  We’ve just sat down to eat when an angry banging at the front door interrupts us. There’s a perfectly workable doorbell, with a cheerful two-note chime, but that’s apparently not the greeting this visitor wants to give.

  Mum throws me a puzzled glance, and I shrug back at her. The doorbell now sounds five times in a row, transforming the happy ‘ding-dong’ into something crazed and aggressive, then the banging resumes. Frowning, Mum gets up from the table and heads to the hall.

  As soon as the door opens, I hear a voice snarl, ‘Is this where she is, then?’

  Sky’s face immediately falls.

  I follow Mum into the hallway, and am greeted by the sight of a muscular, barrel-shaped bulldog of a woman, dressed in tight ripped jeans and a garish tie-dyed T-shirt, with one side of her head shaved to reveal a spiderweb tattoo on the scalp, while the other side sports shoulder-length clumps of red, blue and black hair. She’s standing on the front step looking as if she is about to throw a punch at my mother.

  ‘Where who is?’ says Mum, in a reedy, high-pitched voice I’ve never heard before.

  ‘Don’t piss me about,’ says Barrel Woman. ‘You know exactly who.’

  ‘Sky?’

  ‘SKY! COME OUT HERE!’ she yells.

 
Sky appears behind me, clutching a chicken drumstick.

  ‘So it is you,’ says Barrel Woman, staring at Mum. ‘Sneaking her off! Stealing her clothes! Trying to take over her homeschooling!’

  ‘Take over?’ says Mum. ‘And I didn’t steal any clothes. I just gave them a wash.’

  ‘Oh, so we’re not clean enough for you now, are we?’

  ‘I …’

  ‘Think you’re better than us, do you?’

  ‘No, I …’

  ‘Think I don’t know how to educate my own child?’

  ‘I just gave her a bit of help with her spelling.’

  ‘I don’t need your help. I can teach her to spell just fine.’

  ‘So why’s my spelling so useless?’ says Sky, stepping out from behind me and eyeballing her mother.

  ‘No, it isn’t. It’s very good,’ insists her mum.

  ‘It’s embarrassing. I want to go to school,’ announces Sky.

  Barrel Woman stares at her, blinking in disbelief. This is clearly not where she was expecting the conversation to go. Only a couple of seconds earlier she was happily monstering my mum, now she’s confronted by her daughter demanding a major life change.

  ‘What did you say?’ she asks, even though it’s obvious that she heard.

  ‘I said I want to start school. I want to learn what other people learn.’

  ‘Is this her doing? What’s she been teaching you?’

  ‘Lots of things,’ says Sky defiantly. ‘Maths, for starters.’

  ‘I teach you maths!’

  ‘About once a month. And it’s got nothing to do with her. It’s what I want.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since now! You always said that school is bad because I need to learn to think for myself. Well, I’ve been thinking for myself, and what I think is that I want to go to school.’

  ‘Well … er … that’s a big decision, but … if that’s how you feel, it’s certainly something we can talk about.’

  ‘There’s nothing else to say. I’ve decided.’

  ‘Why don’t you just come home with me and we can talk about this in private.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said no. I’m staying here.’

  Sky then turns and walks up the stairs.

  Mum and Barrel Woman stare at one another for a while, and it’s not immediately clear who is unhappier with this outcome.

  ‘I could have you up for kidnap,’ says Barrel Woman, wagging a finger in Mum’s face.

  ‘It’s not really kidnap, is it? I haven’t even invited her. If you can get her out, be my guest.’

  ‘You think you’re so clever.’

  ‘Not really. I genuinely want you to get your child out of my house. She’s not my responsibility.’

  ‘This isn’t over!’

  ‘Of course it isn’t over. Your child is in my house! What am I supposed to do if she won’t leave?’

  ‘Oh, so you’re the victim here, are you?’ says Barrel Woman accusingly.

  ‘No – Sky is the victim. She needs an education! And a parent who actually looks after her!’

  ‘And you’d know, would you? If you’re such a great mother, how come your daughter’s run away to live in my house?’

  ‘It’s not your house. It’s a squat.’

  ‘It’s the same thing and you know it.’

  ‘It’s completely different! Now if you’ll excuse us, we’re trying to eat dinner.’

  ‘For your information, Sky’s a vegan.’

  ‘Not any more she isn’t,’ says Mum, closing the door.

  We return to the dining table and our now cold chicken. Sky doesn’t reappear.

  It’s unlike her to skip a meal, so after a while Mum and I go upstairs to look for her. We find her in Rose’s bed, asleep, like Goldilocks, though in this case it’s Brownshapelesstangledlocks.

  Mum gently takes off Sky’s shoes, tucks a duvet around her and draws the curtains. As we’re leaving the room, she whispers, ‘It looks like we’ve got ourselves a squatter.’

  The next morning, at breakfast, Mum tells Sky that we can’t be her family, and she can’t move in with us, but that she’s always welcome, and she can spend the night in our home whenever she wants.

  Sky’s eyes widen with amazement when Mum says this, and she nods vigorously, but doesn’t speak.

  ‘Any time,’ says Mum, adding, ‘Isn’t that right?’ with a pointed look in my direction.

  ‘If we’re in,’ I say reluctantly. ‘And not busy.’

  ‘Rose isn’t using her bedroom at the moment. That can be a little refuge for you. Whenever you need it. Would you like that?’

  ‘A room? For me?’

  ‘Just until Rose wants it back.’

  Sky’s face breaks into a huge grin. She launches herself at Mum and wraps her in a bearhug that almost topples them both off their feet. Mum holds her for a few seconds, then steps free, announces that the Xbox is going to stay off this morning and asks Sky if she knows any board games. I may have entered a new, liberated world of gaming freedom, but Sundays, unfortunately, are still ruled over by the outdated, repressive laws of the old regime, and Mum, I can tell, has suspicions about how I’ve been spending my weekdays.

  Sky shrugs at the board game question. Mum puts a firm hand on my shoulder and says that I will teach her.

  ‘Mum!’ I say. ‘I haven’t played board games for years!’

  ‘Well, now’s your chance.’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘Just till lunchtime, then you can do whatever you want.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘In that case, the Xbox is staying off all day.’

  ‘WHY!?’

  ‘Because that’s what’s happening.’

  ‘THAT’S NOT AN ANSWER!’

  ‘It’s the answer you’re getting.’

  ‘BOARD GAMES!?’

  ‘Yes. You and Sky.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Or cards. You could play cards.’

  ‘Cards!?’

  ‘You play cards with Grandpa.’

  ‘That’s different! He’s old!’

  Mum opens the games cupboard, rifles through the heap of dusty boxes and brings over Monopoly, Cluedo, chess and Risk.

  ‘You ever played any of those?’ Mum asks Sky.

  ‘My mum had a boyfriend who taught me chess once.’

  ‘Perfect,’ says Mum, walking out of the room before I can make an objection.

  I stare at the pile of games, then at Sky. She looks back at me apologetically.

  ‘You don’t want to,’ she says.

  I shrug.

  ‘Sorry,’ says Sky.

  With a sigh, I brush a stripe of dust off the top of the Monopoly.

  ‘Do you hate me?’ she asks.

  ‘What kind of a question is that?’

  ‘You think I’m weird.’

  ‘You are weird, but I don’t hate you,’ I say.

  She thinks for a while, staring at me with her huge blue eyes, and says, ‘Thank you for telling the truth. I know I’m weird. Will you teach me not to be?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I want to learn, so it’s easier to make friends.’

  While I’m trying to think how on earth to respond to this, she adds, ‘I’ve never spent much time with people my own age, so I know I get things wrong.’

  It’s awkward that she’s just thanked me for telling the truth, because I can’t think of an honest reply to her request that is remotely tactful or helpful, but she just sits there, waiting for me to speak, so eventually I have to say something.

  ‘Well,’ I begin, ‘… er … I suppose the main thing is just to not try too hard.’

  ‘Not try too hard?’

  ‘If you seem desperate, or follow people around and don’t leave them alone, you put them off. If you want people to like you, you have to play it cool.’

  ‘Play it cool?’

  ‘Yeah. Just … let people come to you instea
d of you chasing after them.’

  ‘Was what I did with you chasing? Is that how you knew I was weird?’

  ‘Kind of. And the way you look at people – you can be a bit starey. Try not to be so starey.’

  ‘Oh. OK. Is there anything else?’

  ‘Maybe … a haircut? Just cut out the knots and lumpy bits. If you want to look a bit more normal.’

  ‘OK. A haircut. Is that it?’

  ‘That’s probably enough to start with.’

  ‘Shall we play chess, then?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, with a smile spreading across her face. ‘It’s kind of you to help me.’

  I unfold the board, open the box of pieces and smile back, not because I’m happy, but because somehow it’s impossible not to.

  ‘Do you think I’m funny?’ Sky asks as we lay out our ranks of chessmen, sounding more curious than offended.

  ‘No. You’re just … different.’

  ‘Is that good or bad?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘My mum always says that’s the best thing you can be. She says most people live like robots, and that consumerism eats your soul.’

  ‘She might be right.’

  ‘She might be wrong,’ says Sky, fixing me again with that intense stare.

  I move my queen’s pawn forward two squares. ‘Let’s play,’ I say.

  When Mum reappears in the kitchen an hour or so later (by which time I have managed to lose three games in a row), Sky immediately says, ‘Can I have a haircut?’

  ‘Well … I can try to make you an appointment,’ says Mum.

  ‘Aren’t hairdressers expensive?’ asks Sky.

  ‘It depends where you go.’

  ‘Could you do it?’

  A chain reaction of surprise, weariness and amusement flashes across Mum’s face.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘That would be brilliant! Can you do it now?’

  ‘Now?’ she says.

  ‘Nothing fancy,’ says Sky casually. ‘Just a chop. Tidy it up a bit.’

  Mum stares at her, scrutinising the tangles and knots that crown her head, and I can sense her fingers itching to grab a pair of scissors and get started.

  ‘I’m not really … I mean, I did do Rose and Luke when they were small, but I haven’t cut anyone’s hair for years.’