The Summer We Turned Green

by William Sutcliffe

  ‘It’s only fair!’

  ‘OK. If that’s what it takes.’

  I cannot tell you how grateful Sky is to be taught how to play a video game, or how eyeball-shatteringly useless she is at it, but it’s touching to see how much she enjoys playing, even when this involves getting slaughtered every few minutes.

  At first it seems pointless playing with someone so useless, but there’s something infectious about her unguarded enthusiasm, and after all the hours I’ve spent gaming on my own since school broke up, I have to admit it is more fun to be playing alongside someone else, with an actual human being, not just a voice in a headset.

  The strangest thing of all is that her habit of making over-intense eye contact, and the way she constantly issues a stream of bizarre questions, slowly begin to seem endearing rather than annoying. I’m not saying I start to like her, but I do find myself understanding in a new way the hissed pep talk Mum gave me in the living room a short while earlier.

  I’ve never before met anyone so open – so nakedly and unashamedly innocent – and once I notice this, being mean or unfriendly to her somehow seems as cruel and unthinkable as kicking a puppy.

  Sky ends up joining us for dinner again, of course, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a surprise guest, because Dad walks in (still sweaty, but fully dressed again, thankfully) accompanied by Rose, who makes it immediately clear she’s ‘just visiting’.

  ‘Rose!’ says Mum, in response to the unexpected sight of my sister turning up in her own kitchen. ‘How lovely to see you!’

  ‘Dad persuaded me to come round for dinner. Like, a social call.’

  ‘Wonderful! You’re welcome any time,’ says Mum.

  ‘Obviously,’ replies Rose. ‘Did Dad tell you he bunked off work today to put up a wigwam?’

  ‘What did you say?’ asks Mum, seemingly unable to comprehend the words that have come out of Rose’s mouth.

  ‘Yeah, he’s stalking me. Can you tell him to stop?’

  ‘I’m not stalking you,’ says Dad.

  ‘So what are you doing?’

  ‘Just … visiting.’

  ‘Oh, and me being there is a coincidence?’

  ‘I hardly saw you all day.’

  ‘Yeah – because I was hiding from you.’

  ‘You were there all day?’ says Mum.

  ‘Yes,’ says Dad sheepishly. ‘I was going to tell you, but Rose beat me to it.’

  ‘You weren’t at work?’

  ‘I told you, he was putting up a wigwam all day with Clyde,’ says Rose.

  ‘Who’s Clyde?’

  ‘Dad’s new boyfriend. They’re having a massive bromance, which is literally the most embarrassing thing in the world. If you saw the way Dad looks at him, you’d puke. Literally puke.’

  ‘Rose, don’t be ridiculous,’ says Dad.

  ‘I’m ridiculous!? You’re the one who just spent an hour playing bongo drums!’

  ‘An hour playing the bongo drums?’ says Mum.

  Dad’s face flushes from the neck upwards. ‘I …’

  ‘At least an hour. Maybe two,’ says Rose.

  ‘On a work day?’ asks Mum. ‘Why?’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Rose. ‘Good question. Why, Dad?’

  Dad takes a deep breath and has a long think. Sky stares at us all with a face even more bemused than her usual permanently bemused one. ‘I … visited the commune … to see where you’d gone, and check that you’re safe, and find out what you’re up to, and … I didn’t know what I’d find, and … to my surprise … the people there are … I mean, even though I’m a middle-aged man in a suit, they seem willing to not make any assumptions about me and … well, they’re just friendly. I like them. Not all of them, but it’s like a breath of fresh air. Everyone I’ve met, for years, they’re all kind of basically the same. But those people aren’t. It’s interesting.’

  ‘So you took a sickie to spend the day putting up a wigwam and playing the bongos?’ says Mum. ‘That genuinely happened?’

  ‘It sounds weird if you put it like that,’ says Dad.

  ‘How can I put that so it wouldn’t sound weird? What other way is there to say it?’ says Mum.

  ‘I was just helping a friend.’

  ‘So this Clyde person is your friend now?’

  ‘HE’S NOT YOUR FRIEND!’ spits Rose. ‘Nobody there is your friend. They all feel sorry for you and they’re just too nice to say it to your face. Clyde’s nice to everyone – that’s his thing – he loves everybody and everybody loves him, and you thinking you’re now his special buddy is just totally tragic and you DON’T BELONG OVER THERE! IT’S MY PLACE AND THAT’S WHERE I LIVE NOW AND YOU GOING OVER THERE ALL THE TIME IS JUST TOTALLY PSYCHO! WHY CAN’T YOU LEAVE ME ALONE!? IT’S MY LIFE AND IT’S UP TO ME WHAT I DO!’

  With that, and without having eaten a single mouthful, Rose stands and marches out of the house, slamming the door behind her.

  ‘So,’ says Mum eventually. ‘That conciliatory approach of yours – how’s it working out for you?’

  Saturday morning. Mum, Dad and I are eating breakfast together, and without Rose it’s weirdly quiet. You can hear our spoons against the cereal bowls. When Dad spreads his toast, the sound of his scraping knife fills the room.

  Mum’s sitting in front of a half-eaten portion of muesli, staring out at the cloudless blue sky, but from the expression on her face you’d think she was gazing at November drizzle. The grass in our garden is losing its colour, slowly turning khaki and becoming spiky underfoot. Through the open window, I can hear the steady thump, thump, thump of Callum playing Swingball on his own, battering his tethered tennis ball round and round in circles with brutal determination.

  Dad crunches his toast and looks at Mum, as if he’s trying (and failing) to figure out what she’s thinking. There’s a strange, tense atmosphere. I have a feeling Dad spent the night in the spare room.

  After a while, he pushes his chair back from the table and announces, ‘I’ve got a plan!’

  Mum turns towards him, but slowly, already doubtful. ‘What?’

  ‘We double down!’ he says proudly.

  ‘What does that even mean?’ she asks.

  ‘It’s when you double your stake on a bet to try and recover your losses.’

  ‘I know what the phrase means,’ she says. ‘I just don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I’m talking about Rose. She clearly doesn’t like me being at the commune. It annoys her.’

  ‘Just a bit,’ says Mum.

  ‘And we want her to come back here, don’t we?’

  ‘Yes …’

  ‘So how about instead of doing what she asks and leaving her alone, I do the opposite. I’ve got a week’s annual leave from the office that I haven’t used yet, and there’s a room at the top of the commune nobody’s using. I could go over there and move in for a few days.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Flush her out.’

  ‘Flush her out?’

  ‘Yeah. If she hates me being there as much as she says she does, and I move in, what’s the logical next step? She’ll come back here.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘It’s worth a try.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘We have to do something.’

  ‘Even if it’s futile and pointless?’

  ‘It might not be. You never know.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you’d want to do this. Is there something you’re not telling me?’

  ‘No,’ says Dad.

  They stare at one another for a while, Dad stretching his mouth into a nervous smile, Mum looking like she’s chewing something too unpleasant to swallow.

  ‘So,’ says Dad, turning towards me. ‘This room I’m thinking of is currently filled with junk. Will you help me clear it out?’

  I look back at him, feeling a jolt of mingled dread and excitement at the sight of my dad losing his marbles. He’s never before been someone likely to do anything unexpected, and I have no idea whether this
transformation is a calamity or a joke. If nothing else, at least this version of him is more interesting than the old, predictable, sane one.

  ‘OK,’ I say, less out of any real desire to help him than because I want to find out what on earth he’s up to.

  Dad hurries upstairs, and comes back down wearing an old T-shirt, hiking boots and a pair of faded, bizarrely misshapen jeans which are tight in all the places they should be baggy and baggy in all the places they should be tight.

  ‘Feeling strong?’ he says, clapping his hands together, seemingly unaware that he is wearing trousers which are so bad they should probably be illegal.

  ‘Ish,’ I say, momentarily catching Mum’s eye. She gives me a little nod, which seems to mean, ‘Go with him and keep an eye on him,’ so I stand up and head to the commune with Dad.

  We go into the kitchen first, where Clyde is eating breakfast with a small group of bearded/dreadlocked/tattooed people. Dad greets everyone by name, and they all respond as if they’re both pleased and unsurprised to see him. One of them even gives him a fist bump.

  Clyde tells us to help ourselves from the vat of lumpy porridge on the stove and, even though it looks about as appetising as bin juice, Dad scoops himself out a portion and sits at the table with his new friends (who look exactly like the kind of people he’d usually cross the street to avoid).

  He introduces me to everyone, announces that we’re going to clear out the junk room at the top of the house, and asks if it’s OK for him to stay there for a few days. Unlike Mum, the commune members seem quietly welcoming towards Dad’s suggestion. I’m not sure what it is you’d have to do to make these people believe you’re behaving strangely, but apparently this isn’t even close.

  The conversation turns inevitably to recycling, and what should be done with the abandoned and broken furniture that’s currently filling the room. Dad’s suggestion is to put it in his car and take it to the dump, but after a while Clyde speaks up and says he has a better idea. ‘How about we upcycle and make something out of it?’

  ‘Like what?’ says Dad.

  ‘Brilliant!’ says one of the previously silent porridge-eaters around the table – a woman with so many nose rings that she tinkles like a wind chime when she moves her head. ‘A sculpture! A monument to waste!’

  ‘How about we go for verticality?’ says Clyde. ‘Make a kind of totem pole. To go next to the wigwam.’

  This idea is so enthusiastically embraced that we soon have a team of eight people emptying out Dad’s new bedroom and carrying the contents to the commune’s back garden. When everything is out there in a big heap on the dry and faded unmown grass, Dad heads home for his toolkit and all the nails and screws he can find.

  Within a couple of hours, the garden is dominated by a huge structure, which is christened The Waste Totem. It consists of an ancient wardrobe underneath a tower made from the nailed-together remnants of a broken bed, an upside-down office chair and a child’s desk, topped with a hat stand and a standard lamp. It’s tethered down with a few guy ropes attached to nearby shrubs and trees, and when I look up at the finished sculpture, it strikes me that it is both brilliant and possibly lethal. When the wind gets up, anything could happen.

  Every member of the commune now seems to be out in the garden, cheering on the people who are up ladders adding finishing touches to the top. Someone appears with tins of green and yellow paint, and I join in with the group who now take over the project.

  I don’t notice that Dad has slipped away until he suddenly reappears, poking his head out of a top window, shouting, ‘It’s beautiful!’

  Someone calls back asking if he needs any help with his room, and he says he’s almost done, so I head up to check out his progress. I’m intercepted halfway up the stairs by Rose, who grabs my T-shirt and pulls me into a bedroom.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she snaps. Her eyes have narrowed to snake-like slits.

  ‘We’re making a totem pole.’

  ‘Don’t piss me around, Luke. What’s he up to?’

  ‘Dad, you mean?’

  ‘Obviously!’

  ‘Er … he’s clearing out a room.’

  ‘And?’ she says, her nostrils flaring with barely contained rage.

  ‘I think … have you spoken to him?’

  ‘Of course I have! He says he’s moving in! MOVING IN! HERE!’

  ‘Why are you asking me what’s going on if you already know?’

  ‘Not what’s going on as in what is he physically doing, but what’s going on as in WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON!? WHAT’S HE PLAYING AT?’

  ‘Did you ask him that?’

  ‘Of course I did!’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He said I’d inspired him.’

  For some reason, this makes me laugh. It’s probably just the tension, but Rose is not impressed.

  ‘Funny, is it?’

  ‘No,’ I say, struggling to wipe the smile from my face.

  ‘This is insane! This is so twisted! You have to stop him!’

  ‘Me? How?’

  ‘I don’t know. You and Mum have to get him out of here. He’s gone totally rogue and there is just no way he can do this! It’s not OK! Can you imagine what this is like for me?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Well, try.’

  ‘Is it that bad? He seems … happy.’

  ‘THAT’S NOT HAPPY!’ yells Rose. ‘THAT’S PSYCHOTIC! THAT’S A MAN WHO NEEDS TO BE CARTED AWAY AND LOCKED UP! HE CAN’T DO THIS!’

  ‘How am I supposed to stop him?’

  ‘Everybody here thinks he’s nice!’ she spits. ‘None of them can see what’s going on. He’s pulling the wool over all their eyes and nobody gets it. Even Space! Even my boyfriend! “Hey, yeah, don’t stress, he’s a decent guy.” It makes me want to throttle him!’

  ‘Who, Space or Dad?’

  ‘Both of them! If he moves in up there, I … I … I’m going to go crazy.’

  ‘I thought you said he was the one going crazy.’

  ‘I’m going to go crazier. Just watch me.’

  With that, she turns and stamps out.

  We used to be such a normal, happy family. Now, suddenly, we seem to be competing to outdo each other for insanity.

  I carry on up the stairs and find Dad on his knees, next to a bucket of grey water, scrubbing the floor with a wooden brush.

  ‘What do you think?’ he says.

  ‘Nice room,’ I say. ‘Apart from … you know … being totally empty.’

  ‘Let’s go and get a mattress,’ he says.

  ‘From where?’

  ‘The spare room at home. Can’t be bothered with the bed, but at my age you do need a proper mattress.’

  Without waiting for my answer, Dad clatters down the stairs in his big, geeky shoes, clearly in no doubt that I’ll follow. As we cross the road, I notice that even the way he moves now is different: it’s faster, bouncier, more alive than the heavy-seeming, slow-moving father I used to have.

  Dad slips his key slowly into the lock of our front door, gestures with a finger to his lips, and we step into the house as quietly as we can.

  It turns out that carrying a mattress down a twisting staircase in silence is almost impossible, particularly when you knock two pictures off the wall and topple a lamp.

  Mum’s in the front hall, standing by the door with her arms crossed, when we get back downstairs.

  ‘Hi,’ says Dad, doing a very unconvincing job of looking pleased to see her.

  ‘How are you getting on?’ says Mum icily.

  ‘Fine,’ he replies.

  ‘We made a totem pole,’ I say, because I find it very hard not to stir, even when I know I should keep my mouth shut.

  ‘Lovely,’ says Mum, in the tone of voice you’d use to congratulate a toddler for successfully filling a nappy.

  ‘See you later,’ says Dad, opening the front door and beginning to haul the mattress outside.

  ‘Is that later as in later today?’ says Mum. ‘Or later thi
s week? Or just some non-specified time in the future when you get the urge to pop into your own home?’

  ‘Soon,’ says Dad. ‘Don’t worry. Everything’s fine.’

  ‘Half the family has now moved out, and you’re telling me everything’s fine?’

  ‘I haven’t moved out. It’s just a temporary adjustment to the sleeping arrangements. For the sake of our daughter.’

  ‘That’s who you’re doing this for?’

  ‘Of course! Who else would it be for?’

  ‘It’s just very out of character. All this. I can’t really tell what you’re up to.’

  ‘I’m not up to anything!’ says Dad, with a nervous laugh.

  ‘Apart from spending the day making totem poles with your hippie friends. That’s totally normal behaviour, is it?’

  ‘Oh, normal, normal, normal,’ says Dad. ‘What’s so great about being normal?’

  ‘Mmm,’ says Mum. ‘That, right there, is what I’m worried about. Is this a midlife crisis?’

  ‘No!’ says Dad. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘I’m being ridiculous? That’s what’s happening here?’

  ‘I don’t have time for this. Come on, Luke, let’s get going.’

  Mum shakes her head and walks away, slamming the kitchen door behind her.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ says Dad, under his breath. ‘I’ll smooth things over later.’

  ‘How?’ I say.

  ‘That’s between me and your mother.’

  We lift the mattress and begin our clumsy hobble over the road, but halfway across we’re intercepted by Helena, who, as is her habit, seems to appear from nowhere exactly when you least want to talk to her.

  ‘Hello, David!’ she says cheerfully.

  ‘Hi, Helena,’ he replies, without much enthusiasm.

  ‘Is that a mattress?’ she asks, looking at the mattress.

  ‘Hard to say,’ says Dad.

  ‘Is it for Rose? Very generous of you to help her get so comfortable over there.’ It’s pretty obvious she’s using the word ‘generous’ to mean ‘stupid’.

  ‘It’s not,’ says Dad.

  ‘Oh,’ she says, her brow furrowing in puzzlement. ‘Who’s it for, then?’

  ‘Me. I’m sleeping with the enemy. Very hush-hush. Don’t tell a soul.’

  ‘I … you … what?’ says Helena. She clearly has no idea if he’s telling the truth or winding her up.