Lob

by Linda Newbery

  ‘Don’t you know that? You ought to.’

  Dad looked at her, and she saw his mouth move to say something, but then he only smiled.

  She knew he wouldn’t argue while she was ill.

  As soon as she could get out of bed without feeling giddy, she went to the window and pushed back the curtains. It was dusk. In the light of the street lamp, she saw the shiver of bare twigs. Spring would come soon. Lob time. Time for Lob to be busy. Even here on the London street, things were growing.

  When would he be here? How long would it take?

  ‘Please come, Lob,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll wait for you.’

  February

  The road’s calling. A wash of light in the east, and a taste of spring in the air. Road dips and rises, dives through trees, curves over a hill. Back and forth in time it leads. The current of feet and wheels have worn it smooth.

  Boot soles tingle to the call of the road. There’s only one way to go.

  Walk. Walk the road.

  Lob walked with a steady, plodding gait. He never hurried. He never dawdled. He never stopped to get his breath back, even on the steepest hill. He walked and he walked.

  He didn’t know where he was going, but he’d know when he got there.

  There were cars everywhere nowadays. They came, passed by, and were gone, leaving the tang of fuel and the thrum of engines. With each passing, it took minutes for the quiet to ebb back. Then the air was disturbed only by birdsong and baaing and the steady, steady tread of Lob’s boots walking.

  In the cars there were faces. Often a pair of eyes swept over and through Lob, unseeing.

  When he’d put several miles behind him, Lob reached a small town. Here the road from the valley joined another, a bigger one.

  South. South. He could go in any direction he chose, but something was calling him to the south.

  He tramped on, alongside the swish and hum of passing traffic. He kept a wary margin between the road and himself. He’d seen a dead and bloodied badger, and a flattened squirrel, and knew that those speeders could crush and kill.

  A sharp east wind was gusting; winter wasn’t yet gone. But the first buds were in the hedgerows like green candle flames. The hedge sparrows and wrens were busy, and the starlings and the rooks, the robins and the finches. They knew it would be spring soon.

  From time to time Lob dipped into his pocket for seeds to sprinkle by the roadside. Willowherb and grass, sweet rocket and ox-eye daisy seed he scattered like pepper dust. He plucked a young cabbage from a field, and crunched it right down to the core as he walked; he drank from a stream.

  As dusk fell he looked for somewhere to sleep, and came to a green mound, an island in the road. Rabbits had nibbled the grass close and left neat pellets. Trees and shrubs had been planted in a ring. In the middle was a grassy hollow, inviting to a weary wanderer.

  He slept soundly. Next morning he walked on.

  What was he looking for? He’d know when he found it. And towards next evening, he came to a place that promised shelter and maybe more.

  Stony track to a lit shed. Glow of busyness. Lamplight and shadows. Dusty air loud with the brurr of ewes and the meh! of lambs. Man in shirtsleeves, hefting hay. Dog lying still. Watchful eyes see this stranger, not-stranger. Hackles rise, then tail thumps a welcome.

  Woolly new life, eager to begin. First steps on trembly legs. Warmth and birth, blood and milk, straw and dung. Work to be done.

  March

  As soon as Lucy felt better, she made Dad take her to the park.

  Dad had been a country boy, growing up at Clunny Cottage, so he liked parks and green places. He knew the names of the trees and the bushes, and all the different kinds of ducks and geese that came to the lake. He and Lucy took bread crusts to throw to the birds.

  Spring was in the air. They heard it in the quacking of ducks and the cheeping of sparrows. They felt it in the breeze that came over the lake.

  But where’s Lob?

  Lucy looked for him in the shrubs, and in the thicket of trees that ran along the railings. She listened for the scuffle of his tread and the rustle of his laugh.

  She saw a magpie, she saw a squirrel, she saw a blackbird, but she didn’t see Lob. She went home disappointed. Spring was Lob time. Where was he? When would he come?

  It was no use asking Dad. He knew lots of things, but he didn’t know Lob.

  Next week at school, when it was the turn of Lucy’s class to make the mural for the hall, the Green Man she’d seen at the church was in her mind. Perhaps he’d been there all the time.

  The theme was spring, and a whole wall was to be taken up with a painting and collage. Some people painted enormous trees; others made leaves or daffodils. One group painted a lake, and pasted on lilies, ducks and fish.

  Lucy worked on her own. She mixed paint in shades of rich green, and covered sheets of paper. When the paint was dry, she cut out lots of leaves. She arranged them around a face, a face with bright eyes and a grinning mouth. This face was so small and so green that you wouldn’t notice it unless you looked into the leaves very closely.

  ‘Lucy’s leaves can go here, next to the gate,’ called the teacher, when it was time to put the mural together. She hadn’t noticed the face. No one did; it was so well hidden.

  But every time Lucy sat in assembly, she could look across at her own Green Man, her own Lob. Sometimes, she almost thought one of the eyes winked at her.

  She’d have to make do with this, till Lob turned up in person.

  May

  Lob stayed at the sheep farm until all the lambs were born and out in the fields.

  The year had rolled on. The sky was big and dark, here in the open country, and he’d seen the winter stars – hunter, dogs, swan – wheel round in their huge, slow arc.

  Lob had been busy, all through lambing time. There were warm places to sleep, and turnips and swedes to eat. But he hadn’t found his person. The sheep farmer, a nice enough man, never knew Lob was there.

  They spent hours together, day and night, and Lob made himself useful in all sorts of ways – fetching water, guiding a bleary lamb to its mother, cleaning the pens, carrying straw. But the farmer wasn’t a noticing sort of chap, and he never guessed how much he was being helped. He wasn’t the Person for Lob.

  Early one morning Lob walked up the track to the busy road he’d left, weeks ago. He stood and sniffed.

  May time now, the best of May, the coolest, mistiest, grassiest time of summer. Hedge snowed with hawthorn, air silvered with warbler-song. Daisies wait for the sun. Hot days and harvest to come.

  Work here’s done. The road’s calling.

  South. South. Head south, to the glittering city, the snaking river, where roads run together like the centre of a web.

  The road leads south, the rushing trains, the humming and buzzing in the wires.

  Walk. Walk.

  Lob walked and he walked, with his steady gait, never hurrying, never dawdling. He was strong now, full of spring.

  After many miles, curiosity drew him to a field of concrete, where a large number of cars and lorries had turned off the road.

  Hundreds of them! The cars were packed almost solid, while lorries and trucks had gathered at one end. People made their way to and from a long, low building, connected by a bridge to another, exactly the same, on the other side of the road.

  It was the smell of hot food that pulled Lob inside. He was hungry now, and tired.

  No one in the motorway services saw the strange figure moving through the tables, the flit and dart of him. No one saw the flash of Lob’s startling green eyes. No one pointed at him as he tasted leftover food on plates and trays – bits of blueberry muffin, salad, pizza crusts. No one wondered where he came from, or where he was going.

  Once he’d eaten, and filled his pockets with bits of pizza crust, Lob began looking for the way out. He had no wish to stay in this strange place.

  Too many, too crowded, too loud, too hot, too bright. No place for a trav
eller.

  Escape, out into air. Breathe.

  Dazzle of sun on steel, sun on glass. Heat strikes baked concrete. Squish of wheels, snarl of engines.

  Nowhere to hide.

  May

  Lucy woke up from a very sad dream. Her cheeks were wet and her eyes ached.

  In her dream, she was back at Clunny Cottage, looking for Grandpa. She looked upstairs and down; she went outside, searched the garden and down in the woods, calling and calling. Round every corner she expected to see him; but he was nowhere.

  ‘You won’t find him here,’ said a grown-up voice. ‘Grandpa’s died – didn’t you know? He’s not coming back.’

  But that didn’t make sense! He had to be somewhere.

  Lucy hauled herself into wakefulness. She blinked, sat up and rubbed her eyes, thinking What a horrible dream! But I’m awake now, and Grandpa’s—

  And the shock of knowing whumped into her all over again.

  She hadn’t really meant to, but later that day she found herself telling her friend Trudie about Lob.

  At least, she’d thought Trudie was her friend.

  ‘What’s that you’re drawing?’ Trudie asked, leaning across to look at Lucy’s jotter. They always shared the same table.

  ‘Oh! Nothing.’ Lucy leaned forward, cradling her elbow.

  ‘It’s not nothing. Let’s see.’ Trudie edged closer, tugging the book from under Lucy’s arm. ‘Who’s it meant to be?’

  Lucy looked round to check that no one was listening. ‘It’s – someone very special. Someone only I know about, and Grandpa Will. It’s our secret.’

  ‘But your Grandad’s dead!’ said Trudie, in her blunt way.

  ‘I know! but we’ve still got our secret, him and me. It’s—’ Lucy didn’t want to say Lob’s name out loud. ‘It’s this – well, sort of person. He’s always around, but only Grandpa and I can see him. He was Grandpa’s helper. He did all sorts of jobs. He makes things grow. He’s been around for ever and ever. But only special people can see him.’

  ‘And he looks like this?’ Trudie squinted at Lucy’s sketch. ‘What is he, a little green man? Shouldn’t he have pointy ears, like an elf?’

  ‘No! He’s not like that.’ Lucy wished she hadn’t said anything at all. She was glad when the bell went for playtime.

  But all through play, and all through lunchtime, there was whispering and giggling. Trudie told Anisha, and Anisha told Karl, and Karl told Tomas, and soon everyone was teasing and taunting Lucy. ‘Lucy believes in fairies! Lucy thinks she’s got fairies in her garden! Little green men!’

  Lucy felt the hurt of betrayal like a thump in her chest. She picked up her books and her pencil case and went to sit at a different table. For the rest of the day she refused to speak to Trudie – except to hiss at her, while they were changing for PE: ‘You told my secret! I thought you were my friend!’

  ‘You didn’t say I couldn’t!’ huffed Trudie. ‘Anyway, I bet you were only making it up.’

  Lucy was silent for a moment. Then she said, ‘Fooled you, though, didn’t I? Hahahahaha!’ she went, in the horrid cackly way she hated when other people did it. ‘Who’s silly now?’

  By the time they went home, they were almost friends again. But now Lob was the one Lucy was cross with.

  What was keeping him? Why hadn’t he come? How long would it take him to walk all those miles? She had no idea, but surely he’d be here, if he was coming.

  What if – she didn’t want to let the thought into her head, but it was there now.

  Wasn’t it – perhaps – a bit childish to believe that Lob was real, that he was coming to find her?

  What if Lob was just a game she used to play with Grandpa?

  May

  Dave and Mike were on their way to the Chelsea Flower Show, with a truck packed full of plants. They’d stopped at the services for a break, but now Dave was overcome with tiredness; he was fast asleep in the driver’s seat, one arm dangling from the open window. Mike went round to the back and let the ramp down, wanting to check that none of the trees or shrubs had fallen over. Everything seemed OK.

  He sat on the ramp to finish his cold drink. Being a gardener, he could easily have been the sort of person who’d see Lob, but he noticed nothing. To him and Dave, a travelling garden was nothing out of the ordinary.

  To Lob, it was a wonderful piece of luck.

  A shadowy cave! Green, green, green. Cool and damp. Silver birch, hornbeam. Freckly foxgloves. Brush of leaves, moonshine of birch bark. Root balls pillowed in sacking.

  Leaf mould breathes a welcome. Leaves stir. Hush, hush. A place to rest. A haven, a couch, a bed.

  Step inside. Settle, sigh. Sleep.

  Mike didn’t see the greenish person sidling up the ramp; didn’t hear the sounds of comfortable settling against a root ball. Upending his bottle, he didn’t hear Lob’s light snoring.

  So of course, when he got up to go, slammed the ramp and fastened it, Mike didn’t know he was shutting anyone in.

  CREAK – SCREECH – BLUNK!

  Whhhh—? went Dave in the front, and Lob in the back, both of them jolted awake and boggle-eyed.

  ‘Come on, mate. I’ll drive if you want,’ Mike told Dave. ‘We’d best get moving.’

  Blearily, Dave moved over; Mike climbed into the driver’s seat and started up.

  For hours, the lorry rumbled south. Shut in the back, Lob was dismayed at first, then baffled, then curious. What was this rolling forest? but the leaves of the trees and shrubs made a pleasant light tussling that made his surroundings seem almost normal. His instincts told him he was heading south, and that was the way he wanted to go.

  They reached a city; Lob could sense it: the buildings crowding in, and the concretey smell. The lorry slowed, and crawled with other traffic.

  When at last they came to a standstill, and the lorry gave a final shudder and was quiet, it was night-time. Hearing voices at the front, Lob listened keenly.

  ‘Not unloading now, are we?’ said Dave’s voice.

  ‘Nah! It’ll have to wait,’ answered Mike’s. ‘Let’s go and get some kip.’

  And, murmuring together, the voices moved farther off.

  Night went by, the short early-summer night. Lob ate the crusts and crumbs from his pockets, and waited. He could smell grass, and trees, and river, with only a faint city tang.

  At last, at long last, there was a squeal and grind at the back of the lorry as the ramp was unbolted. Then the thump as it was lowered to the ground. Lob blinked in the dazzle of a bright morning. Stiffly he stretched himself and stood, then edged down the ramp, brushing between Dave and Mike who were coming up.

  Anyone would have thought it a strange sight, where Lob found himself now. In this London park close to the river, a huge white marquee was being erected. All around it, stands were being put up, lorries unloaded, and gardens made.

  People scurried about like ants when their nest is disturbed. They carried things to and fro, called to each other, had busy conversations and arguments. They carted sacks and tools and fence-posts. They stretched hoses and buried electrical cables. Cranes lowered full-grown trees into new positions. Lob couldn’t work out what was going on. Farming? Gardening?

  But he knew farming, and he knew gardening, and this wasn’t much like either. A new, city kind of farming? but farming was slow, and gardening was slow, and slow was the only way it could be. There was a lot of waiting, a lot of sprouting and growing and seeding, all at the proper time. This was all happening at high speed. The worker-ant people scurried about, all day long. Planks were hammered, paths laid, pagodas built. Statues and sculptures were heaved into place. The park was being turned into a garden of gardens, each one separate, each one different.

  Dave and Mike were busy with a project of their own, a roped-off plot to transform into a woodland garden. It all had to be done in just a few days, ready for the show to open. They carried the trees into position, and consulted their plan.

  ‘Here? or here?’<
br />
  ‘No, left a bit, so the branches hang over the path.’

  They worked hard, carrying dozens of pots and sacks of compost. Carefully they tucked each plant into place. They covered root balls and pots with soil, so that the plants seemed to be growing in the ground.

  Things were shaping up better than they’d expected. From time to time, Dave had the odd feeling that jobs were being done before he’d even thought of them: stray pots tidied, soil patted smooth, even the kettle filled ready to be boiled on the camping stove. Next morning, he found all their tools cleaned and polished and hung in their places in the van.

  ‘Have you been working all night, or what?’ Dave asked Mike, blinking, astonished.

  ‘Not me, mate! Unless we did all this in our sleep?’

  And their woodland garden looked, almost magically, like real woodland, like a forest you could wander into and get lost. The winding path had only been made yesterday, but it looked like years and years of leaf-fall. The trees cast dappled shade; a butterfly settled on silver bark. All the leaves were rain-fresh, though neither Mike nor Dave had heard rain in the night.

  ‘What a team, eh?’ Mike clapped Dave on the back. ‘We’ve done a great job.’

  ‘It’s like it made itself,’ said Dave. And they strolled off to the catering tent for a celebratory beer.

  Lob set off, exploring.

  As he entered the big marquee, someone was watching him. Watching with keenly sharpened interest.

  Late May

  Lucy was walking home through the park, as she often did, with Trudie, Trudie’s mum, and Trudie’s brother Max in his buggy.

  The park was an oasis of green in the city – that’s what Grandpa had said, when he came to visit. There were mossy tree trunks, and branches that spread high. There was a corner where the grass grew long, full of buttercups and cow parsley. A squirrel ran across the grass, stopped, and bushed its tail into a question mark. The park was full of growing, full of lushness and leafiness.

  This was a Lob-place if ever there was one. ‘Lob?’ Lucy whispered, for no one to hear. Instead of going over to the swings with the others, she went to the edge of the trees. She dumped her bag. She picked up stones and dried leaves, bits of twig. Her fingers began shaping them into a pattern – a face, a Lob face. Maybe she could make a spell, a charm, to bring him here?