‘Brilliant! Oh, thank you so much!’ says Sky, lifting her chair and placing it in the middle of the room, popping back to take one of my knights, then saying, ‘I’ll sit here, shall I?’
For someone so seemingly guileless and innocent, Sky is amazingly adept at getting people to do what she wants.
Mum gives me a how-did-this-happen? glance, sighs and, with a mixture of reluctance and eagerness, pulls the kitchen scissors and a tea towel out of a drawer.
She starts by cutting out the worst of the matted clumps, some of which fall with a clatter to the kitchen floor.
‘Do you want to keep those beads?’ Mum asks.
‘No,’ replies Sky.
Within a few minutes, she looks like a different person. An outer layer of the strangeness that hovers around her seems to fall away and land at her feet.
Mum slowly brings Sky’s hair to a vaguely horizontal line at her shoulders. Sky examines herself with a hand mirror and smiles. She suddenly looks older, as if she’s flipped, in front of our eyes, from childhood to the very edge of becoming a teenager.
She lowers the mirror. ‘Can I have it shorter?’
Mum takes the hair up to her neck.
Sky looks again, trying out different facial expressions and angles, alternately pouting, frowning and smiling regally at herself. I’d be embarrassed for anyone to see me looking at myself in the mirror like this, but embarrassment doesn’t appear to be a concept Sky understands.
‘Shorter,’ she says.
This happens twice more, until Mum says, ‘If I take any more off, people might think you’re a boy.’
‘I don’t care,’ says Sky. ‘I think it looks nice.’
‘It does. So how short do you want it?’ asks Mum.
‘Like his,’ says Sky, pointing at me.
‘Er … well, it might look a bit odd if you two are walking around with exactly the same haircut, so how about we aim for something a bit … softer. I could try to give you a pixie cut, if you like.’
‘I don’t want to look like a pixie.’
‘That’s not what it is. It’s just a style that’s short but still kind of feminine.’
‘That sounds nice. Can I have that?’
Mum snips away for a while longer. When she’s finished Sky looks almost unrecognisable, and actually pretty cool. She examines herself in the mirror for ages, sucking her cheeks in to study her newly prominent jaw and cheekbones, then gives Mum an intense hug and tells her she loves her.
Mum doesn’t seem to know how to react to this, and says, ‘I’m very pleased you like it,’ patting Sky gently on the back.
My family never adopted Sky, but for a while it seems like she has adopted us, whether we like it or not. Without actively choosing the role, both Mum and I somehow end up being recruited for the job of teaching Sky how to behave in the real world.
Some days I resent this, other days I find it surprisingly fascinating. Sky may sometimes be maddening but she’s never boring, and with her now more or less living in Rose’s bedroom, the two of them having effectively swapped places, if I think about the change in terms of friendliness and entertainment value, this exchange is definitely an upgrade. Also, me being pleasant to Sky becomes the key to Mum turning a blind eye to my weekday shattering of all screen-time rules. Neither of us acknowledges what is happening, but the arrangement holds itself precariously in place without anything needing to be said.
With a few friends now back from holiday, I have other places to go, and a group of us sometimes meets up in the park or at each other’s houses, but I never bring anyone home. The whole situation, with Rose running away and my dad going rogue and a weird girl always hanging around the house, is something I don’t want to have to explain. It seems easier to make sure my friends never know, simpler to keep all the strangeness quiet until some kind of normality returns.
My friends have never seemed particularly conformist in the past, but, knowing Sky, and having learned a little of how the world looks through her eyes, this familiar group of boys now feels different. I notice, for the first time, the mockery that bubbles up when anyone slips up or steps out of line – just stupid jokes, but with a force that pulls everyone back to some invisible centre. And the fact of me beginning to notice this makes me wonder if that centre is no longer quite where I belong.
I can picture exactly how they’d react to Sky, and it’s ugly.
It’s not like anyone asks, so if I keep them all away from my house, nobody need ever find out that my family has temporarily (I hope) imploded. Given half the chance, Callum would spread an exaggerated version of the story to anyone who’d listen, but he goes to a different school and doesn’t know any of my friends, so for the time being, as long as I keep my home and school worlds apart, that problem is contained.
As for Dad’s only partially explained week off work, this remains a mystery. He doesn’t come home once, and Mum doesn’t go to visit him. It’s hard to be sure, but it seems like they’re not talking to each other.
I visit the commune most days that week, and usually find Dad hanging out with Clyde in the garden, sitting in mouldy deck chairs and talking about music, films, books, places they’ve been and Funny Things That Once Happened To Them or having conversations about the evils of capitalism.
Dad always seemed quite keen on the evils of capitalism in the past, but I don’t bring this up. When Dad’s talking to Clyde, there’s no way in. You can either sit there and listen, or you can walk away. For obvious reasons, I always opt for the latter.
On one occasion, there’s not a single person anywhere in the commune, and for a moment I wonder if the whole place has been abandoned, but a text from Dad explains that they’ve all gone on a march somewhere.
Another time, I find him being taught how to knit by the curly-haired woman who introduced herself to us on the day Dad moved into the commune. He looks slightly guilty when I find him in her room, but attempts to cover this with a very long speech about how knitting is ‘actually quite relaxing’ and is ‘proven to lower your blood pressure almost as much as having a dog’. She and Dad then go off into a long discussion about dogs, during which he conspicuously fails to mention that he hates them, so I wander away in search of Rose. As usual, I find her ‘in a meeting’ (i.e. lolling around on cushions, chatting) and therefore ‘too busy’ to talk to me.
Though there’s plenty of evidence that Dad’s cracking up, the only ongoing visible symptom is that he looks alarmingly – no, freakishly – happy. I’ve never seen him like this. Not just happy, but also relaxed. Hanging out, chatting: I had no idea he even knew how to do those things.
There’s something unsettling about Dad being this content. You can’t help wondering where it will lead. In the long run, it surely can’t be a good thing.
Sky rarely comes with me on my visits to the commune. She prefers to stay in my sitting room watching TV, staring at it with the rigid attentiveness of a nerdy pupil in a favourite lesson. She doesn’t so much watch TV as actually study it, like she’s revising for an exam on How People Behave.
My family does everything it can to keep up a nobody-mention-that-everyone-has-fallen-out act, so the only open confrontation during this strangely tense week happens when Mum, Sky and I are halfway through a peaceful dinner and a familiar banging at the door interrupts us. From the speed and volume of the thumps, we all instantly know it’s Barrel Woman, and that she’s even angrier than last time.
Mum rises reluctantly from her seat, dabs her mouth with a napkin and heads for the door. I follow a short distance behind.
‘WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER HAIR!’ yells Barrel Woman, by way of a hello.
‘Cut it,’ says Mum, who is not easily intimidated. In fact, she’s rarely calmer than when someone is trying (and failing) to boss her around.
‘HOW DARE YOU! YOU DON’T HAVE THE RIGHT!’
‘She asked me to,’ says Mum.
‘I asked her to,’ echoes Sky, positioning herself next to Mum.
‘You made her look like a little Tory!’
‘It’s what she asked for.’
‘I like it,’ says Sky.
‘You can’t just go around cutting people’s hair without permission. Who do you think you are? The Queen?’
‘I don’t think that’s something the Queen does, is it?’
‘That’s not what I said!’
‘And I did have permission,’ says Mum.
‘Not from me! Her hair was beautiful. We’ve been growing it for years!’
‘We?’ says Sky. ‘It’s my hair!’
‘Not any more it isn’t. It’s in the bin now, thanks to her.’
‘It’s longer than yours,’ says Sky. ‘Half your head is shaved.’
‘Yes, but the other half is long.’
‘That whole bit is bald! I can see the skin.’
‘This side goes down to my shoulders. I don’t look like Little Lord Fauntleroy.’
‘Who’s Little Lord Fauntleroy?’ asks Sky.
‘He’s … I don’t know … someone posh who thinks he’s better than everyone else.’
‘So it’s posh to not want an itchy bird’s nest on your head that people stare at?’
‘If you wanted a trim, all you had to do was ask me.’
‘Did you choose your haircut,’ says Sky, ‘or did you ask your mum’s permission before you got it?’
‘That’s different! I’m not eleven!’ snaps Barrel Woman.
‘Neither am I. I’m twelve.’
‘That’s what I meant.’
‘And so what if you don’t like it. You always told me I shouldn’t worry what other people think.’
‘I was talking about other people. Not me. I’m your mother.’
‘Is it because you think I look like a boy? Are you trying to police my gender?’
‘No! Of course not! You’re completely twisting my words!’
‘Well, you’re telling me what I can and can’t do with my own body!’
‘OK. Sorry. That isn’t what I meant. It’s not you I’m angry with. I love your hair. It’s her that’s out of line – Miss Fancy Pants Corporate Trouser Suit Bossy Boots muscling in and tidying you up so you don’t spoil the view in her perfect living room.’
‘Is that me you’re referring to?’ says Mum. ‘Miss Fancy Pants Corporate Trouser Suit Bossy Boots is me, is it?’
‘I asked her to do it!’ insists Sky. ‘It was my idea! So leave her alone! And leave me alone!’
‘She is not your mother and this is not your house. This whole thing has gone too far. You need to come home now. It’s dinner time.’
‘I’m already eating dinner here, and it’s spaghetti bolognaise, and it’s literally the nicest thing I’ve ever had.’
‘You can’t just …’
‘And there’s an empty bedroom here for me, with a comfy bed and clean sheets and a duvet and everything.’
‘You’ve got a bedroom?’
‘It was his sister’s,’ says Sky, pointing at me, ‘but she’s over the road now so they said I could use it.’
‘What’s your game?’ says Barrel Woman, squinting at Mum. ‘Do you often go around trying to nick other people’s kids?’
‘No. And to be strictly accurate, she started using the bedroom without even asking me. All I’ve done is allowed her to carry on.’
‘Whatever it is you’re playing at, it’s not normal.’
‘Oh, and that is?’ says Mum, pointing across the road towards the commune.
‘There’s a difference between alternative and just weird,’ says Barrel Woman.
‘Which one are you? I’m confused,’ says Mum.
‘You are confused. Going round thinking you’re superior to everyone who doesn’t have a fancy car and a big house, when in fact it’s selfish people like you who are destroying the planet.’
‘Selfish? I’m giving time and attention and food and a bed to your lonely and unhappy daughter and you’re calling me selfish?’
‘We’re not like you, and we don’t want to be. She doesn’t belong here. And she’s not unhappy. Sky – it’s time for you to come home.’
‘No,’ says Sky, crossing her arms over her chest.
‘Now!’
‘No.’
For a few seconds nobody moves or speaks, then Barrel Woman turns to Mum. ‘See what you’ve done!’ she snaps.
‘What I’ve done?’ replies Mum.
Barrel Woman ignores this and turns her attention back to Sky. ‘All right, you can have dinner here, and I suppose it’s OK to stay for a few sleepovers, if that’s what you really want, but you have to come and visit tomorrow. This isn’t your home.’
‘So where is my home? Have I even got one?’ says Sky.
Another tense silence falls, mother and daughter staring at one another across the threshold. For a while the air seems to thicken.
‘Come over tomorrow, and we can talk about this in private. Please. If you won’t talk to me, how can I sort this out? I hate it when we argue.’
Sky looks down at her feet and stays silent.
‘I haven’t seen your sketchbook for ages. I’d love to see what you’ve been up to. We could go for a walk somewhere and do some sketching.’
There’s still no response from Sky, so her mother presses on, tilting her head to try and make eye contact. ‘We’ve always talked, Sky. Whatever it is you want to change or be, that’s OK, but I can only help you if I know what you’re thinking. You have to talk to me.’
Sky finally lifts her gaze from her feet to look at her mother, but still doesn’t speak.
‘Please.’
‘OK,’ says Sky, in a voice so quiet it’s barely audible.
‘Good,’ says Barrel Woman, forcing the corners of her mouth upwards into an attempt at a smile.
‘Right,’ says Mum. ‘I’ll make sure Sky heads your way tomorrow morning. Shall we say seven a.m.? Eight?’
‘Mid-morning might be better.’
‘Fine. I’ll do that.’
Barrel Woman scowls at her, then blows a kiss to Sky, whispers, ‘Night night,’ and walks away.
The following morning, which is a Saturday, Sky and I cross the road together, her to see her scary mother, me to visit my crazy dad. I’m under instructions from Mum to find out ‘how far gone he is’, and when he’s coming home. As I’m heading out of the door, Mum tells me to remind Dad that it’s only two weeks till Spain and that he has to do the check-in and print the boarding passes.
When I arrive in the commune, Dad is at the stove, stirring an enormous vat of grey sludge. He’s wearing his shouldn’t-be-legal jeans, leather sandals and a too-short black T-shirt emblazoned with the inexplicable words ‘Guns N’ Roses’. I’m going to skate over the embarrassing subject of what is visible between the too-short T-shirt and the too-low jeans. Just imagine hairy dough and you’re most of the way there.
This look clearly means something, but I have no idea what, other than that my dad is a man in crisis. Have those jeans been lying at the back of a wardrobe, hidden away for decades, waiting for this moment to come? And where did the rest of the outfit come from? Did he sneak back into the house during the week and dig it out from a secret ’90s fashion drawer? Borrow it from someone in the commune? Buy it online? Did he go clothes shopping? None of those things seems plausible.
When I remind Dad that it’s our day to visit Grandpa, he looks at me with a dismayed expression, a spoonful of ‘porridge’ paused halfway to his mouth. ‘Is it Saturday?’ he says mournfully, as if this is unexpected and terrible news. ‘Already?’
If my task is to find out how sane he is, the fact that he has no idea it’s the weekend seems like a symptom I should remember and report. As I’m thinking this, it strikes me as strange that after all my denials to Rose that I’ve been sent by our parents to spy on her, I now appear to be spying on Dad to gather information for Mum.
The discovery that it’s Saturday causes Dad’s mood to plummet. His flow of chat stalls, and he quietly
finishes his breakfast, then reluctantly agrees that we should head for the care home.
After walking out of the commune, at the edge of the pavement he hesitates, as if it takes an effort of will to cross the road back to our house. In our front drive, he pats his pockets, thinks for a few seconds, then suggests that ‘things might be quicker’ if it’s me who goes into the house to fetch the car keys.
‘I’ll wait out here,’ he says, taking a few steps back and positioning himself behind a lamp post. If he ever had the physique of a man who could hide behind a lamp post, that was a long time ago. Perhaps way back when he bought that Guns N’ Roses T-shirt.
Mum either doesn’t hear the door, or chooses to ignore me, because I manage to get in and out of the house without incident.
I try to start the car journey with some of our usual chat, so it doesn’t sound too obvious that I’m on a covert mission to assess the progress of his mental collapse, but I can’t think of anything normal to talk about. There is no normal any more.
Having failed to think of a roundabout way to broach the subject, after a few minutes of silence I abandon any attempt at subtlety and dive in with, ‘You’re going back to work again next week, then?’
Though I can tell by Dad’s face that he hears me, he doesn’t reply.
‘You said you were using up your week’s holiday. That was a week ago,’ I say.
‘Mmm. A week can go so fast, can’t it?’ he replies.
‘You’re coming home again, right?’
‘It’s a very fluid situation.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, and I’ve decided the best thing is if we all just take this one day at a time.’
‘Take what one day at a time?’
‘I’ve spent too much of my life afraid of the future. And you know what? It never comes. By the time the future arrives, it’s the present.’
‘Mum’s concerned about you. She thinks you’re losing the plot.’
‘You mustn’t worry. Everything’s going to be fine. In fact, it’s going to be better than before.’
‘I never said I’m worried. I said she’s worried.’
The Summer We Turned Green Page 9
