Skylarks

by Karen Gregory

  I watch people go, then look up into the sky, where a couple of birds are making their way across the blue.

  ‘Brilliant turnout. Now we need to keep the momentum going,’ Deal’s saying, but for now I’m happy to just watch the birds and think about all the people who came today. I look over to where Mum’s standing at the edge of the thinning crowd and I meet her eyes, see my own thoughts reflected back there, along with what I reckon is an apology.

  She underestimated what we could do, what people would do, but I guess right up until today I was still doing that as well. I didn’t really believe people like me, or Jamie, Deal and Kelly could make a difference to anything. And perhaps nothing will come of this, but now I can feel that belief is there, soaring just like those birds in the sky.

  Maybe I can believe there’s hope. And that it’s worth standing up and fighting for ourselves.

  The next few days seem to prove me right, at least in a small way. There’s a decent front-page article in the Gazette, and more interest on social media. All our accounts are picking up followers, helped by Jemima who’s been steadily RTing pictures from the march with slogans like ‘Poor but not Powerless’, so that proves me wrong on that front. We plan another community meeting, and more people say they’ll come.

  And we finally talk to Dad, now there’s something good to tell him.

  He’s in his dressing gown in the lounge when we show him the picture in the paper of Jamie handing the petition over to Lattimer.

  He scans the article, then looks from Jamie’s face to mine and back again. ‘Bloody hell,’ he says. And for the first time since I saw him cry, I catch some of the old Dad back in his face. ‘I’m proud of you both. You look all professional.’ He smiles suddenly, then screws up his nose. ‘Although you could do with a haircut.’

  I laugh. Dad’s forever on at Jamie about his hair, but I reckon Jamie’s aiming to get it as long as Deal’s. I feel a surge of gratitude when I see Deal in the background of the picture, fist clenched. I can finally see what Jamie likes about him.

  I’m pretty relieved they didn’t print one of me; my hair needs a cut too and I’ve got a massive spot on my chin. Anyway, I never photograph well. Obviously, it’s the camera’s fault and not my actual face that’s the problem.

  The next day, Dad’s up and about, job hunt renewed. Mum hums along to the radio when she’s cooking dinner. They’ve got it too, a light feeling inside, like the brush of a feather. Best of all, they both come to the next meeting.

  It’s packed this time, people standing three-deep at the back. I find a chair for Dad and then someone taps me on the shoulder.

  It’s Annabel. I give a shriek and go to hug her, then remember and look around in case any of her posh friends are here, but of course they’re not, although there are definitely a few posher-looking people from the town and even the local vicar. We’re gaining momentum, as Deal would say.

  ‘I’m so happy you came,’ I tell her.

  Annabel gives a wide smile. ‘I didn’t think I was going to get away, but then Mummy needed to go to town for work, so here I am.’ She looks around and I can tell how impressed she is. It makes me stand tall, even if I do still only come up to her shoulder.

  ‘Still got your eyebrows then,’ I say.

  Annabel grins. ‘It was a close-run thing. I thought I might have to kick the technician at one point.’

  ‘You look good.’

  We stand together near the back as Deal jumps on to the makeshift stage we made and holds up his hand.

  Everyone quietens down and there’s a pause, then Deal begins. ‘Thank you for coming. It was brilliant to see so many of you at the march last week –’ He breaks off because someone gives a whoop and there’s a burst of clapping and cheers. Deal smiles as he waits for it to die down. He’s a natural in front of the crowd, like he was born to it. ‘Last week showed what we can do when we all stand together against the elite, the people who run White Light, the bankers and the politicians. They don’t want to listen to you, to us.’ For one second his face seems to contort into something approaching hatred. Then he gives that boyish grin and raises an arm. ‘But we will make them listen. There is hope!’ His voice rises and there’s more whooping and applause. I glance at Annabel, who’s staring at him, her eyes thoughtful.

  ‘This campaign is quite rightly focused on you. On your homes, your town. But there are wider issues at stake in all this too. Inequality. The NHS. Schools. Opportunities.’ He’s ticking them off on his fingers. ‘Is it fair that some people get everything handed to them on a plate, with their private schools, their internships and their parents’ connections, while others leave university with debts of forty-grand plus? Did you know that only half of politicians went to state schools?’

  I shift from one foot to the other as Deal continues like that for another couple of minutes, finishing with, ‘But we can create something new, something better. And it starts local, it starts here with our homes, our jobs, our town. It’s time to rise up and take what’s rightfully ours!’ This time the applause is slightly less enthusiastic from some sections of the crowd and I spot one or two confused faces, but Deal’s friends from the march cheer.

  I turn to Annabel. ‘Well, that was a bit more than I was expecting.’

  ‘Hmm?’ She’s still looking at Deal, then she turns her head to me. ‘It was interesting. I wonder if …’

  It must’ve felt weird for her, standing there listening to him basically slagging off people like her dad. Like her. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked her to come.

  ‘I reckon we should just stick to the houses though. That other stuff … I don’t know. It’s not like I don’t care, but it’s just too big, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘What if it puts people off?’ There’s a chance I’m also asking whether it’s going to put her off, and maybe she senses it, because she touches my arm briefly and smiles.

  Deal and Jamie come over as we’re clearing up. I wonder about trying to catch Jamie on his own; tell him what I just said to Annabel. But Deal’s stood right there, so I introduce Annabel instead. He gives her a smile but it doesn’t seem as friendly as usual and I realise he’s taking in her expensive bag, her earrings and the sunglasses on top of her head.

  Before I can say anything, Kelly and the gang come up. I give Kelly a ‘behave’ look and say, ‘This is Annabel.’

  Kelly says hi in a totally natural voice and I stand back to watch Annabel chatting easily to them all. Ananya’s going on about the summer drama programme at Edrington’s – both her and Pete got in, while Annabel asks all the right questions. I wish I had that much confidence. I can only think of one other person who seems to have stacks of it the way Annabel does, even if it is an act, and that’s Deal.

  I frown again, wondering. I thought it before but it seems clearer from his speech tonight: he’s got an agenda and I don’t think it’s just to save our estate.

  The next evening, I meet Annabel at the pub. The gang aren’t there, but it still feels like this huge milestone, to show her another one of my places. And they all seemed to like her the other day.

  Annabel wants to get in the drinks, but I shake my head. ‘I can stand a couple of Cokes, you know.’

  She opens her mouth to disagree, then nods and lets me buy them. When I sit down, she gives me a close look. ‘You know, you seem …’

  ‘What?’

  She smiles. ‘More yourself.’

  ‘Is that a good thing?’

  ‘It’s the best thing.’

  It’s true too, I do feel different. ‘Maybe it’s all the stuff with the campaign.’

  ‘What’s the plan next? Will you have another march?’

  ‘I don’t know. Keeping up the pressure on social media. Deal’s been muttering about more “actions”, whatever that means, but maybe we won’t need to.’ I leave out my uneasiness about it, or the fact that some days I feel like we’re shouting into the wind and the wind’s always going to win. And I definitely leave out some of the messages we�
��ve started to get on social media. Trolls, pretty much, saying the usual crap – calling us libtards, scum, peasants, jealous – all sorts. Jemima’s had the most abuse – I know because she RTs them with funny takedowns. I can’t help noticing how many of the ones directed at her seem to feature words like ‘bitch’ and ‘whore’, or are threats to rape her, murder her. Stuff that’d probably make me want to live in a cave for the next fifty years if it was coming my way. I’ve kind of ducked a lot of it, as our accounts are all campaign ones rather than personal ones, but it still makes my heart clench whenever it’s my turn to go online and do the usual checking, blocking and deleting. I don’t know how Jemima does it. Maybe she’s got someone to do it for her.

  I pull my attention back to Annabel, and catch this fresh lemony scent from her hair as she turns her head. ‘You about tomorrow?’ I say. I’m thinking we can go out for a walk, or she can come to mine, or I’ll go to hers when her parents aren’t about, and maybe we could …

  ‘I’m sorry. I can’t. I have the sixth form supper tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Sixth form supper?’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you? It’s really boring. You have to go in for supper with the teachers and the old boys – past pupils. They usually have people from business and industry, sometimes politicians or artists. I can’t remember who the guests are this term.’

  ‘What do you have to do that for?’

  ‘Well … it’s tradition. And I suppose it helps us to make connections …’ She trails off, her face thoughtful. ‘It’s really nothing.’

  But it isn’t. I think back to Deal’s speech and wonder if Annabel was taking any of it in. I can’t imagine sitting down to some posh dinner at school with an artist or successful businesswoman. Knowing that was the future I could have too. And suddenly there’s a pressure in my chest because I don’t want to feel jealous or resentful, but I think about how easy it all comes to her, to talk to any adult and seem confident, like she knows her opinion matters. That she matters. It’s … I don’t know the word. Like she’s meant to have all this. But someone like me, well, we don’t get too many visitors to our comp. No wonder Annabel’s sort always seem so … shiny. They get it dripped into them their whole lives.

  I’m still thinking about all this and trying to get my feelings under control, but Annabel’s clearly forgotten it already. She leans forward. ‘So … I have a surprise for you.’

  Something about the way she says it reminds me of the bike and it sets off a tiny panic inside, like there’s this pendulum between us that was briefly hovering in the middle, but is now inching back her way.

  She hands me a piece of paper, beaming. I scan it and feel my mouth drop. ‘Paragliding? You want us to go paragliding?’

  ‘Yes, on the Downs. You said you would love to fly, and apparently this is the nearest thing.’

  ‘But …’ I look more closely. The cost is over one hundred pounds. Each. ‘I can’t afford – wait, you’re coming too?’

  She nods and smiles, although there’s a definite look in her eyes, like she’s just volunteered to muck out a lion’s cage. ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you’re scared of heights. And anyway, I can’t afford to pay you back.’

  ‘I don’t want you to. I wanted to do something to show you how much I –’ She’s blushing. ‘How much I think of you.’

  ‘You’re really coming too?’

  That look again. Lion’s cage. She can’t be serious about this. But somehow it’s that look, the thought she’s prepared to do something that terrifies her, all for me, that makes me decide.

  ‘All right then. Thanks. But you’re going first.’

  By Sunday morning, I’m not sure this was the best idea, even for me.

  ‘Oh Jesus.’ I stare up into the sun’s glare as the first paragliders run along the hill, then soar upwards into the sky.

  Annabel is rigid beside me.

  ‘You don’t have to do this, you know,’ I say, but she squares her shoulders and sets her chin.

  ‘No, I’m doing it,’ she says and I think I love her for it.

  Maybe we’re both learning to be a bit braver, together.

  We’ve already had the safety talk and handed in our disclaimer forms and now this is it – we’re really going up there, into that pale blue sky. Mick, the main instructor, comes over with helmets. Then we get into the harnesses.

  ‘You’re with me,’ he says to me. Annabel’s going with Guy, a man with a strong Wiltshire accent, sun-beaten face and kind eyes. I see Annabel open her mouth, look to me uncertainly, then shut it again. She’s not going to go for it, there’s no way. I’m waiting for her to say she’s sitting it out, but she doesn’t, just watches with her arms hugging herself, breathing hard as Guy sorts out the yellow parachute thing. It’s called a ‘wing’, like we really are going to get to be like birds.

  My heart’s going pretty fast too as Guy checks the ropes and gives Annabel some last-minute instructions. They’re almost back to back, Annabel’s fists clenched, her eyes half-shut. She looks at me again and suddenly I realise she’s beyond scared. That she probably would rather be anywhere than here.

  ‘Annie. You don’t have to …’ I trail off as she shakes her head. I have to admire her. She’s not backing down. Then it all happens super fast: the wing fans out over their heads, the instructor turns, and they’re running. They lift gently up into the sky, like a miracle. Annabel’s blonde hair fans out behind her. It might be majestic or profound or something, this girl flying high on a wing for me, except for the fact that she’s screaming blue murder.

  ‘Think she’s gonna be all right?’ I say to Mick.

  ‘Guy’s very experienced. So are you ready then?’

  ‘OK, let’s do this thing.’ I’m sounding braver than I feel, because all of a sudden, my legs have gone wobbly.

  We repeat the process Annabel followed, our wing inflating, then Mick is moving, pushing me forward and suddenly my legs aren’t connecting with the ground any more but running into nothingness. We rise, my legs hanging free, only the harness under me, my fingers welded on to the ropes. My stomach swoops and then I open my eyes really wide to take it all in.

  ‘Oh my God.’ The words come in a gasp as we climb, the air rushing at my face. I let out a whoop and then I fall silent and just breathe.

  Sometimes when you look at the hills from a distance, you can make out these huge blocks of shadow moving over them as the clouds pass overhead. Now I see the shade everywhere: the lighter green of the track, the scoop of dark shadow to our left, running over the hills, while we float up here with the clouds. Jack used to call broccoli ‘trees’ when he was little and it pops into my head now, how the treetops look just like that. It seems impossible. I relax my death grip on the ropes ever so slightly, feel the comforting bulk of the straps underneath me. As we go higher, the fields become little squares, villages and roads shrinking down and over them all, a shadow like a dragon’s wings blossoms. Light and shade spread out in a way I’ve never seen before, could never have seen – except on a plane maybe, if I’d ever been on one. The ridge of the hill we started on looks like a tiny piece of plasticine with thumbprints pressed into it. We soar higher on thermals, like birds. Everything below us is so small. We’re so small. And I’m thinking, how come I didn’t know how big clouds are before? How the shape of shadows can be so beautiful?

  I’ve never been one for religion, but up here in the air everything feels almost spiritual; bits of me seem to fade into nothingness and melt, like I’ve become part of the sky and the trees, the sun and the clouds. I’m insignificant and bigger than I’d ever thought it was possible to be. My breath, huge in my chest. Every bit of me alive, like I’ve never really been awake before. Happy. Flying.

  Just like in dreams.

  Every so often, I catch a flash of Annabel’s yellow wing as they make turns, then she disappears from view again. I hope she’s feeling at least some of what I am. She’s stopped screaming anyway, which has to be a good sign.


  Finally, too soon, it’s time to come down. I brace myself as we approach the ground, but my legs connect with only a small jolt and I run for a few steps, then that’s it. We’re down.

  ‘That was brilliant! I want to go back up again. Oh my God.’ My face feels split in half by the biggest smile ever. Mick, who’s been so matter-of-fact and professional in the air, stops to nod and smile at me.

  ‘You did well – you’ve got a feel for it. You should come up again sometime, do a course.’

  I would love to if I could afford it, but I know I can’t. Not right now, but one day maybe. No. Make that definitely.

  Annabel and Guy are coming in to land now. They hit the ground harder than we did, and I hear Annabel yell out, then they both tumble over. My smile disappears as I run to them, Mick next to me.

  I get there a second after he does. ‘You OK?’ My voice is panicky, heart clenched tight with fear. But Annabel sits up, holding her ankle. She stares at me and says, with a trace of disbelief in her voice, ‘I think I’m here.’

  I launch myself at her, tumble down half on top of her. ‘I thought you’d hurt yourself, you muppet. It was amazing. Thank you,’ I say in a rush.

  Then I kiss her.

  And she kisses me back. No pulling away, no looking round to see if anyone’s watching. Just the two of us, full of adrenalin and wonder, on the side of a hill.

  We’re grinning as we sit up to see Guy and Mick busying themselves sorting out the equipment. I help Annabel stand and she takes a few short steps, then gives a half-smile. ‘Well, it doesn’t seem like anything is broken.’

  A while later we say bye to Mick and Guy and get into Annabel’s car. She winces as she puts it in gear.

  ‘Your ankle all right?’

  ‘I just wrenched it a little. It will be fine,’ she says, but I think she’s putting on a brave face.

  She drives slowly through the country lanes. I put the window down to feel the wind on my face, reliving the flight, wondering whether I’ll ever afford to go back again.