‘Well, are you? Worried?’
‘Should I be? You are behaving kind of weird.’
‘I’m happy! How can that be bad?’
I shrug, because although I can’t think of an explanation, I know for sure that it certainly isn’t good.
‘So are you coming back home on Monday, then?’
There’s a long silence.
‘Not Monday, no. I haven’t … there’s still … as I said, one day at a time,’ says Dad, reaching out and flicking through a series of radio stations in search of music, eventually stopping on a twangy song which is so dire that after a few seconds I lean forward and switch it off.
I have no idea what Dad is talking about. All I know is he’s hiding something.
‘So when are you coming home?’ I ask.
‘Soon,’ he says. ‘You mustn’t worry.’
‘Mum told me to remind you that it’s two weeks till Spain and you have to do the boarding passes,’ I say, my mind suddenly jumping ahead to the resort where we go every year, imagining us all on the beach together, a normal family again. ‘Maybe going away will sort things out,’ I add.
‘I’m sure it’ll help,’ says Dad, pulling into the care home car park. ‘But … you know Rose is refusing to go?’
‘Where?’
‘To Spain.’
‘No. Nobody told me that.’
‘She says you can’t live in an anti-airport climate change protest camp, then jump on a plane for a week’s holiday to the Med. We’ve tried to talk to her about it, but she’s adamant that she’s not a hypocrite and she won’t go.’
‘So we’re going without her? You’re not cancelling, are you?’
‘No, no. It’s much too late to cancel. The whole thing’s paid for. But … anyway, I’m going to be popping in this evening to finalise plans with Mum.’
‘What is there to finalise?’
‘Oh, nothing major. You don’t need to … it just … might be best if you give us half an hour or so to chat in private. You know – boring grown-up stuff.’
‘OK,’ I say, though I have never been more certain that everything is very much not OK.
In Grandpa’s stuffy little room, I deal out the cards for a hand of rummy, but he seems distracted, and asks me twice about school, forgetting almost immediately that I’ve told him it’s the school holidays.
After a couple of games, I retreat to the window nook with my phone and pull up my photos from last year’s summer holiday: a selfie of all of us on the beach, giving sunburned grins; one of me and Dad carrying plates heaped with multiple desserts from the buffet; another one of Mum and Rose falling off a two-person paddleboard. I scroll from picture to picture, thinking how long ago this seems, and how different the trip will be this year, partly because Rose won’t be there, and partly because the atmosphere in the whole family feels spiky and off-kilter.
At the same time, Dad goes through the questions he always asks Grandpa about his health and what he’s been up to, and Grandpa gives his usual downbeat replies.
Dad usually then gives a quick rundown of what has happened to the family in the two weeks gone by, before opening a newspaper or magazine and reading aloud some things he thinks might catch Grandpa’s interest, but today their conversation takes a different course. From the sound of Dad’s voice, I can immediately tell he’s not just skipping through the usual superficial summary of his fortnight but is saying something he actually means in a slow, reflective tone I don’t think I’ve heard him use before.
I keep my head turned aside and tilted down towards the screen of my phone, so he can’t see I’m listening, but I tune into every word, searching for clues to explain what he’s really up to and when he might be returning to normal.
Dad starts by reminding Grandpa about Rose moving into a protest camp, then goes on to explain how he’s followed her there to try and ‘edge her out’.
‘But,’ he continues, ‘things haven’t quite panned out that way. All that’s happened is I’ve taken a week off work, and during that time we’ve both been in the commune, and now she won’t speak to me. So it wasn’t really very productive. But … I suppose … I knew that’s what would happen. Anyway, it was worth a try. Maybe I had other reasons for going.’
There’s a long silence at this point. I glance in his direction and see that he’s lost in thought.
‘Maybe, if I’m honest, I actually wanted to be there,’ he adds. ‘I mean, I know I’m supposed to be disapproving and angry about Rose dropping out and spending her time with hippies, but part of me admires her for it. When have I ever made a personal sacrifice and stood up for something? What have I really done with my life? How did I end up as a suburban dad, trudging out to the same old boring job year after year? How did that happen? I don’t remember ever choosing this, but life just kind of boxes you in without you even noticing it’s happening.’
Dad’s gazing dreamily into the middle distance as he talks, but I notice that Grandpa is staring at him with a pinched look clenching together his wrinkled features. I can tell that he’s shaping up to make one of his rare pronouncements. He takes a few short, fast breaths in preparation, then says, ‘You don’t know how lucky you are!’
‘Lucky? Me?’ says Dad, with a sarcastic laugh. ‘If you knew how bored I am!’
‘Bored?’ spits Grandpa, as if the word burns his tongue.
‘And I’m supposed to go back to work again on Monday. Back to the same old desk and the same old tasks and the same old people, on and on forever. Honestly, I just can’t do it.’
‘Can’t do it?’ says Grandpa, sitting upright in his chair now, looking agitated. A curl of white foam has formed in the corner of his mouth.
‘I’m thinking of staying longer,’ Dad says. ‘I’ve run out of holiday leave, so my boss won’t like it, but I think I’m beyond caring. What’s the worst they can do?’
‘Sack you.’
‘Maybe that would be a good thing. Give me a chance to think about what I really want from life.’
‘What you want from life?’ says Grandpa, his voice clearer and louder than I’ve heard for years, ringing with contempt.
‘Yeah.’
‘What on earth is wrong with you?’
‘I’m bored is what’s wrong with me.’
‘Boredom is a luxury! I came here with nothing – fleeing for my life from the most horrific war the world has ever seen, escaping by the skin of my teeth …’
‘Yeah, I know all this, Dad.’
‘And you talk to me about how awful it is to be bored?’
‘Everything’s different now. You can’t compare …’
‘My whole life I worked and worked and worked, without question, to give you and your brother a safe home, a secure home, a chance to make something of yourselves, and I considered myself the luckiest man in the world to be able to do that – because that’s what a man does. He provides for his wife and children. That’s what a man is. Now you’re telling me you’re bored and you want to get the sack!’
‘That’s not what I said.’
‘I’m not so old and stupid that I didn’t hear what you said.’
At this moment Dad looks up and catches my eye. His face seems to flinch with embarrassment at me having heard him talking (and being talked to) like this. A spark of shock also passes between us at the vehemence of Grandpa’s response. It’s months since I’ve seen him so animated, and this ought to be a cause for celebration, but the fact that he’s only perked up to attack Dad somehow takes the joy out of it.
‘I didn’t raise you to pull this kind of idiotic stunt,’ says Grandpa.
‘You didn’t raise me at all,’ replies Dad. ‘You were always at work.’
‘Oh, very clever, smart guy. Very clever. I’d like to see what would have happened to you if I hadn’t always been at work. If I’d been too busy drifting around worrying about my feelings.’
Dad stands, pushing back his chair so roughly that it topples with a thump on to the hard c
arpet. ‘Well, it’s good to see you so perky, Dad,’ he says. ‘I’ll come again soon.’
‘Leaving already?’
‘I have to go.’
‘Don’t like someone talking sense to you, do you? Never did.’
‘Come on, Luke.’
Dad walks out. I follow him, pausing first to pick up the fallen chair. In the doorway I turn back to Grandpa and say goodbye with a tentative smile. He responds with a wink, and an expression that could be a scowl or could be a smirk. I’ve never seen him wink before. It’s hard to know what this gesture means, but my best guess is that he’s trying to communicate something along the lines of, ‘Don’t worry – everything’s going to be OK.’ Or maybe it’s, ‘Did you see? I won the argument!’
There’s always something a little edgy between Grandpa and Dad. In the days when Grandpa used to visit our home and play board games with me, I once overheard Dad say to him, as a joke that was also clearly not a joke, ‘You never let me beat you at chess.’
I still remember Grandpa’s response, which was to laugh at him with a scornful, open-throated cackle that made Dad turn on his heel and leave the room.
It’s hard to put my finger on it, or remember specific examples, but I often feel that Dad resents Grandpa for something, and that him being kinder and more attentive as a grandfather than he ever was as a father is Grandpa’s attempt to make amends. Even when they’re trying to be nice to each other there’s a crackle in the air, a static electricity of unfinished arguments and unspoken criticisms.
As I follow Dad back to the car I still can’t figure out if Grandpa was genuinely angry or was just enjoying an opportunity to put Dad in his place. Part of me even wonders if Dad’s strange behaviour at the moment has something to do with Grandpa, and is in some way part of this lifelong argument they’re always having about what it means to be a man. Could it be that Dad is copying Rose in more ways than one – that even at his age, he’s still rebelling against his parents?
Maybe Dad told Grandpa about what he’s doing because provoking that reaction is one of the reasons he’s doing it. Maybe Grandpa snapped out of his oblivion because he saw Dad’s change of priorities as a new manoeuvre in their endless battle, which necessitated a counter-attack. Maybe this is their only way of showing their love for each other: by fighting.
When I get in the passenger seat, Dad is sitting behind the wheel, staring dead ahead, his face expressionless and rigid. I sit there for a few seconds and he doesn’t speak or move.
‘Shall we go?’ I say.
He starts the engine.
We don’t talk until I notice that he’s driven past the kebab place, which he’s never done before, and I point out that he’s missed it.
He mutters something inaudible, does an angry U-turn which causes a van driver to hoot and swear at him, and we head back.
‘Is there a reason why you and Grandpa don’t get on?’ I ask, as we’re finishing off our meal.
Dad gives a dry bark of laughter. ‘There’s more than one.’
He doesn’t elaborate, but I keep looking at him, waiting for him to say more.
‘It’s ancient history,’ he says eventually. ‘I just don’t want to make the mistakes he made.’
‘He didn’t go and live in a commune, then?’
‘No, he did not. Can you imagine? And I’m not living there. I’m just visiting.’
I chew through the last few bites of my kebab, then, without looking at him, I say, ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘It just feels like something I have to do,’ he replies.
I look up and he’s staring at me and also somehow through me, as if he’s either willing me to understand him or is indifferent to what I think. I can’t tell which. ‘What’s happening with your job?’ I say. ‘Is Grandpa right that they could sack you?’
He leans back in his chair and sighs, as if bored and disappointed by my response. ‘It’ll be fine. They’ll understand,’ he says with a casual swat of his hand.
‘Really?’
‘It’s very hard to fire people these days. You don’t need to worry.’
‘What does Mum think about all this?’ I ask.
‘Well, we haven’t been … things are a bit … we’re going to talk everything through this evening. Clear the air.’
Dad takes a sip of his drink, and seems to have trouble swallowing it. ‘The best thing is always to be honest,’ he adds eventually, in a slightly strangled voice.
It’s clear that Dad’s meeting with Mum has the potential for a volcanic outcome, so, for the first time in years (or possibly ever) I put myself to bed early. Darkness gradually falls as I lie there with a book in front of me, not reading, just listening for the sound of the front door.
Eventually I hear a key slide into the lock, and a quiet rumble of voices begins to come up through the floorboards, but the pitch of the voices soon rises, until first Mum, then both of them are shouting. Dad’s plan to stay longer in the commune has gone down exactly as badly as I was expecting.
After a while, there’s an ominous crash, which sounds like a plate smashing.
My door creaks open and Sky appears, silhouetted against the landing light. She stands there in silence for a while, then says, ‘I can’t sleep.’
‘Me neither.’
‘What are they arguing about?’
‘I don’t know, do I?’ I reply sharply.
‘Is it … ?’
‘Just go back to bed! Go!’
I turn to the wall, and after a while I hear her walk away.
Time seems to stretch while I listen to the pitch of the argument rise and fall, so I have no idea how long has passed when I finally hear the front door open, then click shut.
I jump out of bed and slip myself behind the closed curtains so I can look down on the street.
Dad crosses the tarmac, then stops and stands there, still, turned back towards our house with his face cast into long shadows by the street light above his head. He looks small and far away.
After a while, he tilts his head and looks up at me, but the light is off in my room and I’m not sure if I’m visible, because he doesn’t wave or smile or give any indication that he’s seen me.
We stare at one another through the closed window and the hot summer darkness, neither one of us giving any sign that we can see the other. A flash of jittering shadow that may or may not be a bat flits between us, then vanishes.
Dad lowers his face, turns away and walks to the commune.
* * *
The next morning I wake early, and instead of lying there trying to get back to sleep as I would on a normal day, I head downstairs to assess the fallout.
Mum is quiet and, unusually for her, still. She sits for a long time at the breakfast table, lost in thought, sipping at a mug of tea cradled in both hands. The skin under her eyes is shiny and slightly grey. She says nothing about Dad’s visit, except to ask me if I’m aware that he’s decided to stay longer in the commune.
I’m not sure if I’m supposed to know this or not, and I have a moment of panic, but Mum lets me off the hook by adding, ‘And he says he’s coming back soon, but he won’t say what “soon” means.’
‘What do you think it means?’ I ask.
She thinks for a long while, so long that it begins to seem she might have forgotten the question, then eventually says, ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know.’
She stands up, kisses me on the forehead and busies herself for the rest of the day with chores: vacuuming the whole house, going to the supermarket, even mowing the lawn. She doesn’t sit down once.
By the time I wake up on Monday Mum has already left for work. In fact, by the time I get out of bed, she’s probably on her lunch break.
For the next few days she continues to seem incapable of sitting still, and carries around with her a buzzing cloud of brittle energy. Then, on Wednesday evening, I’m watching TV with Sky when Mum comes in and tells us she’s going next door for a street meeting.
&
nbsp; ‘At Helena’s?’ I ask, muting the telly.
‘Yes.’
‘I thought you hate Helena.’
‘I don’t hate anyone.’
I raise an eyebrow at her.
‘OK, I’m not a fan of Helena,’ she says, ‘but it isn’t a social call. Apparently the demolition team is assembled and they’re moving in any day now. There’s a meeting to decide what we’re going to do.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know. Watch?’
‘You’re not going to fight it?’ says Sky.
Mum looks at her, puzzled. ‘How?’
‘There’s a million ways,’ says Sky. ‘Chaining yourself to bulldozers, gluing yourself to buildings, throwing things, climbing trees and refusing to come down, hunger strike, human chain, lying in the road till you get arrested … loads of stuff. That’s just the basics.’
‘Is this what was on your homeschooling curriculum, then?’
‘Kind of.’
‘Are the commune people invited to the meeting?’ I ask.
‘Invited by Helena? I doubt that.’
‘Well, they should be,’ I say.
‘This is what they do,’ adds Sky. ‘I mean, I’m sure they already have a plan, but they should coordinate with your side of the road. That’s obvious, isn’t it?’
‘I’m not sure how feasible that is.’
‘What, crossing the road to have a conversation?’
‘Relations are a little strained,’ says Mum.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘You go to the meeting, I’ll go and fetch Dad and Rose and Clyde and Barrel Woman and the others.’
‘Who’s Barrel Woman?’ says Sky.
‘Oh, er … just … whoever made your garden furniture. Out of barrels.’
‘They aren’t barrels. They’re pallets.’
‘Really?’
‘They don’t look anything like barrels.’
‘No. I … er …’
‘I’m not sure fetching the people from the commune is a good idea,’ says Mum.
‘Of course it is. Come on, Sky,’ I say, heading out of the room and across the road before Mum can stop us.
The Summer We Turned Green Page 10
