Lucy and the Green Man

by Linda Newbery

  Daylight came early; the rain cleared, and sunlight flashed on water. He reached a canal, with easy walking beside it, on a tow-path. There were buttercups, and seeding grasses, and now and then the scurry and plop of a water vole.

  Ahead, he saw the sprawl of buildings, the tall towers, the glittering windows. What he’d do when he reached the city he had no thought, but every step brought him closer.

  Narrowboats chugged past, stopping at the wooden gates. Here the boat-people had to get out, open and close the gates with a great swooshing of water, and let their boats through.

  Lob liked the look of those brightly-painted boats. The day had turned baking hot, and after a few hours of walking he thought he might ride on a narrowboat instead. He was hungry, too, after his days of refusing to eat. All he’d had today was watercress, and some bits of bread thrown for ducks.

  He waited for the right boat.

  The first to come by was too crowded, with music blaring. The second had three bothersome yappy dogs. The third had its windows blinded, so he couldn’t see inside.

  All he wanted was a nice middle-sized boat, fresh-painted, with a bit of roof garden, and not too many people.

  Before long he saw it.

  One leap, and he was on board. Down some wooden steps he went, into a tiny kitchen. A saucepan of potatoes sat on a stove, waiting to be cooked. He took two, putting one in each pocket. A doorway led to a sleeping area, with bunk beds.

  Lob was tired now. He yawned. Those beds looked tempting.

  He went through, sat on the lower bunk champing his potatoes, then settled himself. Within moments he was fast asleep.

  No one had seen the bedraggled, muddy, greenish-brownish man leaping aboard the Gipsy Rose.

  Manda would have done, but she was asleep, sunbathing on the roof of the narrowboat.

  Manda liked things neat. She liked things clean. She didn’t like mess and muddle and dirt. She’d spent the morning cleaning and scrubbing and polishing the boat, inside and out. Now she was relaxing, while her husband steered.

  She woke suddenly from a pleasant doze with the idea that something was wrong. Standing up, she pushed her feet into flip-flops, and wrapped her towel round her.

  There was a smell, a horrid smell. A whiff of something dirty and earthy and leafy.

  Could a dog have got on board, a smelly dog? Or even a squirrel? She’d seen one of those, a nasty ratty thing, scuttling up a canal-side tree.

  She looked along the boat’s roof, past the pots of marigolds and herbs – no, nothing to be seen, only Matt’s head at the stern end. He was whistling to himself as he steered.

  Manda went down into the cabin, all her senses listening keenly. She heard snoring. Her eyes boggled. Yes, snoring! There it was – the Thing – lying peacefully asleep on Matt’s bunk! A scruffy little tramp.

  ‘Eurgghhh!’ went Manda. ‘Out! Get out!’

  The Thing woke with a jolt, flung itself off the bunk and scrittered underneath like a cockroach.

  Manda leapt up the steps and leaned on the roof, yelling: ‘Matt! Come here! We’ve got a stowaway!’

  Someone had to steer, so she took over while Matt went down to the cabin. When he came back, he was shaking his head.

  ‘No! No one there. Are you sure?’

  ‘Course I’m sure. It was a – a disgusting little man. Snoring on your bed, cool as you like.’

  ‘Well, he’s not there now,’ Matt said, giving her a strange look.

  Manda couldn’t believe it. She made Matt moor up, and they both went to see.

  ‘Is this a joke?’ Matt lifted a cushion and peered underneath.

  ‘No. He’s in here, the verminous creature. I can smell him – can’t you?’

  Matt made a show of checking everywhere – in the cupboard, on the overhead rack, under the bunk. ‘Nope,’ he said. ‘Definitely no one here. I’m going back up. Let me know if we’re boarded by pirates.’

  ‘Hmmff!’ went Manda.

  She waited till Matt had restarted the engine. Then she fetched a torch, got down on all fours and peered under the bunk. Yes! Eyes green as bottle-glass stared back at her.

  ‘I can see you,’ she hissed, ‘even if he can’t. Come on out!’

  She didn’t want to touch the horrid Thing, but there was nothing for it. She fetched rubber gloves, then knelt again, reached in and hauled it out.

  It was far, far stronger than she’d expected. It wriggled and it struggled. She gripped more tightly, turning her face away and trying not to breathe. Up the steps she dragged it, and out to the deck. With a wince of disgust, she wrapped both arms tightly round the Thing, and picked it up.

  ‘Over you go, revolting little object! Ouch!’

  Just before she let go, it twisted in her grip and sank sharp teeth into her arm.

  DUMPFF! PLUTT! Lob went, over the side. HISHH – SPRRRR – GRAAAH!

  Tossed and churned, caught in the coils of oily water. Shapes lurk in murk. Whirled and swirled, limp as a strand of weed. Hands clutch, legs flail. Kick up, up. Bob like a cork, head surges into air. Gulp sweet mouthfuls.

  Hands grip rusty rungs. Clamber out.

  Spraddled, bedraggled. Crouch, retch, splutter and spit.

  Breathe. Breathe.

  Sodden and gasping, Lob propped himself against a wall. For the second time that day, he took off his boots and emptied them out.

  All around him were buildings, railway lines and warehouses. The canal was a vein of water running into the city’s heart. He’d arrived somewhere, at least; and it looked like city. There were people about, on boats, or walking their dogs, or just strolling or sitting. But no one looked his way.

  Having been manhandled, kidnapped, imprisoned, buried, dunked and almost drowned, Lob was becoming very suspicious of people.

  But wasn’t he looking for someone? Wasn’t that why he’d come?

  He shook canal water out of his ears, and tried to remember.

  August

  It was the summer holidays, the time when Lucy usually went to stay with Granny and Grandpa. This year would be different, but still Lucy was going to Clunton, to visit Granny Annie at Forge Cottage, where she lived now.

  ‘Do I have to go?’ Lucy grumped, the night before. ‘I’d rather stay at home.’

  ‘Lucy!’ Mum was packing Lucy’s bag. ‘You know how Granny Annie loves having you. You can’t disappoint her.’

  ‘But it won’t be the same.’

  ‘No, Lucy-Lu, it won’t.’ Mum gave her a hug. ‘It’s not the same for Granny, either. But you can help her remember Grandpa. She’ll like that.’

  For the whole of the long car journey, Lucy brooded in the back seat. It wasn’t the same. Clunny Cottage wasn’t even there any more. Grandpa Will was gone. Everything was spoiled, nothing as she wanted it. It wasn’t right.

  At first, when they were clear of London, and the motorway cut through hills and fields, Lucy couldn’t help scanning the verges, just in case Lob might be plodding along, heading south. But it began to seem silly, and she gave up.

  Then there was the sadness of driving past the place where Clunny Cottage had been. It was demolished now, quite gone. The vegetable garden where Grandpa Will and Lob used to work had disappeared altogether; in its place were brand-new houses, two-thirds built.

  Forge Cottage was very different – smaller and prettier than Clunny, in a row of others, and in the main village street. When she’d forgiven it for not being the cottage she was used to, Lucy began to like it. Granny Annie had neighbours, and she could walk to the Post Office and shop, and it was much better than being two miles away, all on her own. The garden was only a small one, and Granny Annie paid the postman’s son to come and tidy it once a fortnight.

  There wouldn’t be enough for Lob to do, Lucy thought. There was no scuff or rustle of Lob in this little garden. It wasn’t a Grandpa place, either. Because Grandpa Will had never lived here, it didn’t feel quite as if he’d gone. Just that he was busy somewhere else, and might turn up soon
.

  At school, Lucy’s class had been making collages, and she decided to make one as a present for Granny Annie. She collected scraps of fabric, she cut out shapes from magazines, she collected seeds and beans and bits of green ribbon and wrapping paper.

  She hadn’t quite decided what sort of pattern to make, but as she pushed things around on her paper and reached for the glue, she found that they were making themselves into a face. A Green Man face, full of mischief and knowingness.

  ‘It’s not really Lob,’ she told her grandmother, ‘but it’s a bit like him.’

  Granny Annie was delighted. ‘Well, just look at that! Wouldn’t your Grandpa have loved to see it! Is it really for me? I’m going to get it framed, and have it up on the wall.’

  She wasted no time in getting the Green Man mounted and framed, and soon he was grinning above the fireplace. Everyone who came to the cottage was shown him, and invited to admire Lucy’s work.

  ‘What a little artist my Lucy is! Isn’t she a clever girl?’

  Lucy was glad that her grandmother was so pleased, but a bit sorry to leave the Green Man behind. She decided that when she got home, she’d make another, for herself.

  When Mum and Dad came to collect her, and she turned at the door for one last look at the Man, she almost thought he winked.

  Late August

  Through the city streets Lob walked.

  He was in a mad, noisy place, full of rush and hurry. Cars and lorries and buses growled past, and the pavements were thick with people-traffic. He was hemmed in on all sides, by buildings and roads. Not a tree could he smell, and the sky was chopped into angular shapes.

  He followed the current of people to an island in the traffic, a huge stepping stone. Lights flashed red, then yellow. Then the light became a small green man, walking.

  Lob had stepped out into the road, but now he stood and stared until the green man faded, replaced by a standing red one. Now vans and lorries were surging at him, snarling. A van brushed against him, swirling him aside like a leaf. Lob leaped for the other side and stood there panting, as if he’d hauled himself out of a churned and treacherous river.

  The people hurrying along the pavements didn’t look up at the sky, or notice the pigeons and starlings that fluttered above their heads. They didn’t glance at Lob, or at each other; they were too busy striding, heads down.

  Men in yellow had fenced off part of the road ahead. The traffic formed a growling pack. Lob’s instincts warned of danger.

  He wasn’t frightened of much, but this was something new and terrifying. Still, curiosity drew him closer. Part of the road had been gouged up, its intestines bared. One of the yellow men jumped into the hole. He picked up a heavy metal tool that racketed into life, throbbing, probing deep.

  The noise juddered through Lob’s bones.

  Stop … STOP! Head-crashing Ear-cracking Mind-bursting Thought-snapping Heart-booming Feet-clamping Bone-jarring Sense-crazing MADNESS …

  Even the people on the pavement found the noise unbearable. They winced at the din, and clamped their hands to their ears. They hurried on by, trying not to breathe.

  No one noticed a small, scruffy man, a bit green, a bit brown, a bit tattered, and very startled, clamped in fear by the side of the road. No one saw him bolt into the entrance of the Underground station.

  But as Lob teetered at the top of the escalator, someone did see. A very small person called Frankie.

  Frankie liked those moving staircases. He liked the way they glided out from under his feet, then dropped into steps. He liked watching the picture-show on the walls on the way down. He even liked scaring himself by thinking what might happen if he didn’t get off in time, and was sucked through the teeth at the bottom and under and round and up to the top again, slithering out as a Frankie-pancake.

  ‘Hold my hand,’ said Mummy, and he held tight. She’d folded up the buggy, and had it in her other hand.

  He’d been frightened, the first time Mummy let him stand instead of being carried, to find himself swept down between smooth walls, without moving his feet. So when he saw the green-brown muddy man hesitating at the top, he understood at once that here was someone who hadn’t seen sliding stairs before.

  As he and his mother approached, the man turned, saw them, and stepped aside.

  ‘Aggit!’ Frankie said, with a friendly wave.

  ‘Yes, darling,’ said his mother. ‘Escalator, that’s right. No need to be scared.’

  Frankie turned to watch as they rode down. The man followed. But he didn’t look at all sure, and was scrabbling with his hands, trying to get a grip on the side wall.

  ‘Come on, Frankie. Don’t drag behind,’ Mummy said, at the bottom. She lifted the buggy clear, and they turned left to their platform.

  Which way would the mud-brown green man go? Frankie loitered, and saw him pitch forward, not knowing he had to step off. He lay spreadeagled like a frog. Frankie yelled out, and tried to drag his mother back.

  ‘No, Frankie! This way.’

  The muddy man picked himself up, looking cross, then followed. Frankie’s mother always kept him well back from the platform edge, but the man didn’t notice the drop until he was teetering above the dark ditch where the rails ran.

  ‘Own! Own’t!’ shouted Frankie, but his words didn’t always come out the way he meant. Mum thought he was pointing at the big poster on the tunnel wall.

  ‘Passengers are reminded to keep all belongings with them,’ said a loud voice. ‘Please mind the gap when boarding.’

  Now the man had leaped back, and the train came swooshing in, with a blast of hot tunnel air. One of Frankie’s scaring-himself games was to pretend that the train was a monster roaring out of the darkness, that opened all its mouths to swallow him. His legs went quivery. What if it was?

  ‘Oh, it’s not too full,’ said Mummy. ‘Plenty of seats.’

  It was safe after all. They got on. Mummy opened up the buggy, sat Frankie in it and fastened the straps.

  ‘Ook! Ook!’ He looked round wildly for the mud-green man, and saw him huddled under a bench on the platform.

  ‘Yes, I know. It won’t be long,’ said Mummy. ‘Only eight stops.’

  Frankie saw green, green eyes staring back at him; he smiled and waved. If he’d known enough words, he’d have said, ‘Come with us! It’s OK. I’ve done it loads of times. You don’t have to be scared.’ What came out was, ‘Ugglebuss!’

  At the last moment, just as the doors began to gasp themselves closed, the man squirmed out from under the bench, and bolted into the carriage.

  ‘Eep! Eep!’ Frankie squealed in delight.

  ‘It’s only the doors closing, Frankie,’ said Mummy.

  The brown-green man looked up and down the length of the carriage, then crouched on the floor near Frankie. Frankie squeaked and laughed, and waggled his fingers. No one else took any notice. The other passengers were reading their newspapers, dozing, chatting, looking at their fingernails.

  ‘Look! Here’s Muffet,’ said Mummy, twirling the fluffy blue cat out of her bag. ‘Play with Muffet.’

  Frankie didn’t want Muffet. He had a new friend now. The train moved off into blackness. The brown mud man tried to dig into the floor with his nails. Soon the train had rushed into the brightness of the next station; people got off, people got on. The man, buffeted by feet and legs, clung tight to the buggy. Then he clambered into an empty seat opposite. Frankie waved and kicked.

  The train whizzed into the whooshy dark, and now the man was boggling at his reflection in the black window.

  ‘Week!’ Frankie tried to explain, but the greenyman wasn’t listening.

  Another stop, and the carriage filled up. A nice lady smiled at Frankie, and someone else tried to sit on top of the man.

  ‘An!’ Frankie warned.

  Spluttering in outrage, the man wriggled free. Frankie could hardly see him now, there were so many bags and briefcases and standing people.

  The man was going. Ducking betwee
n legs, under elbows and over bags, he was past Frankie and out onto the platform as the doors squeezed shut.

  ‘Eye bye,’ said Frankie, sadly. And as the train moved on, he began to cry loudly for the loss of his friend.

  No matter how flustered his mummy was, no matter how she tried to console him with Muffet and tickling, he wept and he sobbed and he bawled.

  Lob stood panting on the platform. It wasn’t safe down here.

  The roarer sighed, clamped its mouths, and slid away. Lob stood on the platform in the echoing quiet.

  He wasn’t easily scared, but he hadn’t liked being in that tunnel-snake. The thought of being trapped underground, away from air and trees and wind, was the worst of all possible fears, for Lob. Being dumped in oily water and buried in shallow earth had been quite pleasant, compared to that.

  How to get out, back to the air?

  Round a corner he saw more of those gliding steps. He climbed on. Ahead, daylight showed him the way to freedom. He crawled under the slapping-gate, climbed some steps, and found himself out under the sky, breathing real air. Air. City air, but better than the black dusty stuff trapped underground, and the hot snake breath.

  This was another busy street, but now the cars and the buses and the people hardly bothered him at all. Not after the adventure he’d just had. He felt brave, heroic. He stepped out, with a bit of a swagger. These people had no idea what dangers he’d faced, or how clever he’d been to escape.

  Walk. That was the thing. Nothing like it.

  Beyond the canyon of buildings, he sensed grass, and trees, and water. It cheered him. People built their cities, they covered acres of land with concrete, they dug roads and snake-tunnels. But always there’d be green and wildness beyond.

  When he reached a pair of big gates standing open, and a path leading across grass, he turned in and walked towards a lake. Beside the path was a splendid beech tree, grown proudly to full height. Cool shade spread beneath its branches, an invitation.

  Lob couldn’t resist. Leaning comfortably against the trunk, he slept.

  Late August

  At home, Lucy had made another Green Man, this time for herself.

  She made it in reds and golds and bronzes – autumn colours – and studded it with berries.