The Summer We Turned Green

by William Sutcliffe

  Dad and Clyde are in the garden, as usual, but for once they’re not sitting around on deck chairs, regaling one another with traveller’s tales. They’re on their feet, standing in a group with five or six others, staring intently at a twisted knot of mangled railings and scrap metal. Clyde is holding a large grey mask in one hand and something that looks like a huge dentist’s drill in the other.

  Nobody notices us arriving, even when we join the circle of metal-starers.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask Dad, pulling at an arm to get his attention.

  ‘Welding,’ he replies.

  At this moment, Clyde steps forward, kneels, lifts the mask over his face and touches his dentist’s-drill-type contraption to the whatever-it-is lying on the ground in front of him. A high-pitched crackle fills the air, white flame shoots out, sparks fly.

  ‘Welding what?’ I ask, when Clyde pauses to examine his handiwork.

  ‘Barricades,’ says Dad.

  ‘Cool,’ says Sky, clearly understanding what’s going on before I do, which is the first time this has ever happened.

  ‘What are barricades?’ I whisper in her ear.

  ‘Things you use to block roads,’ she replies, with a hint of surprise in her voice, as if she can’t quite believe I don’t know how to construct a roadblock.

  I pull Dad’s arm again, since he seems to have already forgotten I’m there, and say, ‘I came to tell you something.’

  ‘What?’ he replies absent-mindedly, light from the welding torch flashing against his face as another series of buzzes and crackles rises up.

  ‘There’s a meeting,’ I say, ‘at Helena’s house. Now.’

  ‘OK,’ he says, obviously not listening. It’s hard to compete with the shooting flame and sparks.

  ‘It’s a street meeting. Everyone is gathering to decide what to do about the demolition. Which is any day now, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s what they’re saying.’

  ‘So maybe you should go.’

  Clyde, who up until this moment has given every impression of being totally absorbed in his metal-melting activities, turns to me, lowers his welding mask, stares for a few seconds, then looks across at Dad.

  ‘He’s right,’ says Clyde.

  ‘About what?’ asks Dad.

  ‘The meeting. You should go. We should all go. The whole street should act together. This side and that side. If we’re separate, they look like Nimbys, we look like extremists, and it’s easy to dismiss us both for different reasons. If we stand together, we’re much stronger.’

  Dad doesn’t have much chance to respond to this, because the whole welding crew immediately starts noisily and vociferously agreeing with Clyde, some of them already dispersing through the house to gather people for the meeting.

  This isn’t the response I’d anticipated, and it certainly isn’t what Helena would have been expecting when she put out her invitation, but within minutes I find myself crossing the road at the head of a gang of crazily dressed and weirdly excited hippies, showing them the way to the front room of my most uptight and neurotic neighbour.

  As I ring the doorbell, Sky wriggles between the people surrounding me and appears by my side with a mischievous smile on her face.

  ‘This is going to be fun!’ she says.

  Callum answers the door. He looks at the crowd standing on his doorstep, then at me, and says, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We’re here for the meeting,’ I reply.

  He doesn’t move. His jaw muscle twitches a couple of times, then, without taking his eyes off me, he shouts, ‘MUM!’

  ‘What is it?’ calls an irritated voice from the living room.

  ‘Come here! You’ve got … visitors,’ he replies, with about as much enthusiasm as someone saying, ‘You’ve got fleas.’

  Helena comes to the door with a welcome-to-my-home smile, which freezes in horror when she sees who is there.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she says, through gritted teeth, with one hand placed firmly on the door frame and the other holding tight to the latch, as if to stop us barging in.

  ‘It’s me,’ says Dad, stepping out from the crowd. Helena stares at him blankly, so he adds, ‘David, from next door.’

  ‘I know exactly who you are,’ says Helena, in a tone of voice that makes it clear this isn’t a compliment. ‘And you don’t need to tell me where you live. Or maybe you do. I hear you’ve moved elsewhere.’

  ‘I’m just trying to … er … coordinate efforts on the street.’

  ‘What efforts?’ asks Helena.

  ‘Exactly,’ says Dad. ‘Not enough is being done. We’ve got the residents on one side who have been living with this threat for a long time, and this team of seasoned protesters on the other, and with the demolition crew right on our doorstep we need to start working together.’

  ‘Working? I wasn’t aware that was a word these people understand.’

  ‘With all due respect,’ says Clyde, appearing alongside Dad, ‘I’ve been working for various environmental causes all my life, right back to the Twyford Down and M11 protests in the 1990s, and I’ve acquired some useful experience along the way. I’d very much like to share that knowledge with everyone living here in the shadow of the building work that could commence any day now, and I’d also like to hear your stories. We have a common goal, and we’re far stronger if we stand together. Collaboration between residents and environmentalists is what this whole movement is built on. The protests of the ’90s changed government policy on road-building. Air travel has to be the next target if we want to save the planet from irreversible climate breakdown. This, right here, is one very small battle in a conflict that is going to define the future for humanity. There’s nothing that can’t be changed if enough people stand up and fight for it. My name’s Clyde, by the way. It’s a pleasure to meet you, and to have a chance to contribute something to your campaign to protect this street.’

  Clyde extends his arm for a handshake and gives off a thousand-watt smile. Helena looks down at Clyde’s hand for several long seconds, then her eyes drift up for a moment towards his shoulder muscles, which are bulging from his vest top and are much more pronounced than you’d expect on a man his age.

  Clyde’s charisma does to people what heat does to butter. With a sigh, Helena shakes his hand and says, ‘Well, if you put it like that … and if you promise that none of you will sit on my soft furnishings … I suppose you can come in.’

  ‘That’s much appreciated,’ replies Clyde, giving a full display of his surprisingly perfect teeth.

  Helena lets go of the door and steps back, a confused expression furrowing her brow, as if she already can’t quite remember what she has agreed to or why.

  The noisy (and frankly also slightly smelly) crowd pours into her house. As I pass Callum, who has positioned himself at the foot of the stairs, he hisses, ‘Your dad’s lost it.’

  ‘No, he hasn’t,’ I say.

  ‘Is it true he’s moved in with the nutjobs?’

  ‘No. He’s just helping out Rose.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘Who are these weirdos? What do they want?’

  ‘Did you not understand what Clyde said?’

  ‘Course I did.’

  ‘Then you don’t need me to explain it, do you?’ I say, following the others into the living room.

  Bowls of crisps, nuts, biscuits, olives and sausage rolls have been laid out neatly on various coffee tables and sideboards. These are picked clean within seconds.

  Mum stares at me with a what-have-you-done? look on her face.

  I smile back at her.

  ‘Thank you for inviting us into your beautiful home,’ Clyde says to Helena, picking a Pringle crumb from his chest hair and popping it into his mouth.

  She doesn’t reply, but her pursed lips seem to say, ‘I didn’t invite you into my home.’

  ‘We understand,’ continues Clyde, ‘that you’ve been living with the threat of this airp
ort expansion for a long time, and we know this place is very precious to you. It’s where you’ve raised your families, and tended your gardens, and invested your hearts. I can feel how special this street is to you, and I realise we must look like interlopers – jumping on your cause for reasons that may seem incomprehensible or even misguided. It’s completely understandable that you think we don’t belong here, and we appreciate that our lifestyle may not be to your taste. This is your community, not ours. But as the threat of demolition approaches, we’d like to offer our skills and experience as protectors of the environment to your cause. We’d like to work together with you to stop the construction work which, if we do nothing, could start in a matter of days. It’s clear there’s a culture gap we’ll have to bridge, but I’d like to put forward David, here, as somebody who I believe can do that.’

  Clyde stretches out an arm and puts it around my dad, which is probably the first time I’ve ever seen him being hugged by another man. Weirdly Dad doesn’t seem to mind. This looks like further evidence that he’s had his brain reprogrammed. The factory settings version of my dad would be more likely to hug an electric fence than a man in a vest top.

  ‘David is, as you all know, a long-time resident of this street,’ Clyde goes on, ‘but he’s become a valued and trusted member of our community too. I think he’ll be an excellent go-between – a sort of diplomat and interpreter in the struggle that lies ahead.’

  ‘Diplomat!?’ says Mum.

  When everyone turns to look at her, an expression of surprise and alarm flashes across her face, as if she only intended to think this and didn’t mean the word to actually come out of her mouth, especially not at that volume.

  Clyde ignores her outburst and carries on. ‘But first,’ he says, ‘we’d like to hear your plans. This is your street. We’re just guests here. The best thing we can do is simply enhance the work you’re already doing.’

  Clyde then sits cross-legged on the floor and looks up at Helena, across whose cheeks a hot-looking blush slowly spreads.

  ‘Well … thank you … for that,’ she says. ‘And … I suppose … thank you also for coming to support our cause.’

  In response to this, Barrel Woman lets out a whoop, and a wave of applause accompanied by a chorus of whistles spreads through the commune-dwellers, who are all now either sitting on the floor or perched on the backs and arms of Helena’s chairs (yes, including the soft furnishings).

  This turns Helena’s cheeks even redder and, though I can see she’s trying not to smile, she can’t quite help herself. I get the feeling it’s a long time since she last got a round of applause.

  ‘And as to our plan,’ she continues, ‘well, my husband, over there …’ (Laurence, dressed in his usual off-work uniform of beige chinos, brogues and collared T-shirt, gives a little wave from the armchair where he is seated at an awkward angle, leaning away from the purple-legging-clad buttocks of Barrel Woman) ‘… is a long-standing member of the local Conservative Party, and has extensive business experience in dealing with the law and various regulatory matters, and he is in the process of writing a very stiffly worded letter to our MP.’

  If she’s hoping for another round of applause, it doesn’t come. After an uncomfortable silence, with everyone still staring at Helena while she looks around the room, waiting for someone else to say something, she speaks again. ‘And … er … well, this is why we’ve called the meeting. To gather together as local residents and think about what else we can do to stop or delay the demolition. Anyone? Any thoughts?’

  ‘Do you think maybe we should write to the council?’ says the man from number five, who washes his car with a massive yellow sponge at least once a fortnight and pretends he’s out every Halloween.

  ‘Did that already,’ says Laurence.

  Another silence descends.

  ‘Maybe we could put together a Facebook group,’ says Mrs Gupta.

  ‘I started one months ago,’ snaps Helena.

  ‘How many people have joined?’ asks Mrs Gupta.

  ‘Seven. But maybe now’s the time to ramp things up.’

  ‘What about the local press?’ says Mr Deacon, from number fourteen. ‘Should we get them involved?’

  ‘The local newspaper went bust years ago,’ says Helena.

  ‘Did it?’ says Laurence.

  ‘Yes! Didn’t you notice?’

  ‘No. Passed me by.’

  ‘Anyone for a top-up of tea?’ says Helena. ‘Callum – could you pop to the kitchen and replenish the nibbles. I seem to have underestimated demand.’

  Callum, who has been leaning against the door frame, watching the meeting with a sceptical scowl, sighs and shuffles away towards the kitchen. On the back of his hoodie is the name of his fancy school and the cryptic marking ‘U16 1st XV’.

  After another awkward silence, Clyde says, ‘So what we have is a stiff letter to your MP and waiting for a response from the council to a request they’ve so far ignored?’

  ‘It’s just a start …’ says Helena. She doesn’t mention that her letter to the council was in fact a petition to get the inhabitants of the commune evicted.

  ‘The thing is,’ replies Clyde, ‘the bulldozers are on your doorstep. Our planning group has been talking about a few direct actions that we think are appropriate as our resistance enters a proactive final phase. Would you like to hear what we have in mind? And if any of you want to participate or contribute, that would be great.’

  ‘OK. Go on,’ says Helena.

  ‘Well,’ says Clyde, ‘we’re a free-standing single-issue collective that has formed for this specific protest, but we all have different backgrounds and alliances, so between us we’re already plugged into all the obvious networks for Extinction Rebellion, Reclaim the Streets, Earth First, Plane Stupid, Plane Mad, Flying Matters, Climate Rush, Camp for Climate Action and Airport Watch. Many of us are frequent contributors to their blogs, newsletters and social media feeds. Add those groups together and there are hundreds of thousands of activists to tap into. We think it’s time to put out the call for a street occupation. If we get significant numbers, it’ll attract national media, and we can reach out to them via various press contacts to increase exposure when we expect clashes to take place, since unfortunately that’s the only way to initially generate interest. No spectacle no news story is the way it usually goes. Modern protesters have to think like film directors. It’s a visual culture, and the only way to get ideas across these days is by translating them into something that tickles the eyeballs of people with short attention spans. As for the actual occupation, we’re thinking some basic barricades would be a good start.’

  ‘Barricades! Ha!’ barks Laurence, as if he thinks this is a wonderful joke. Everyone ignores him, especially his wife.

  ‘Their practical use is limited,’ continues Clyde, ‘but physical barriers make for a potent photogenic representation of resistance to state violence which plays well on social and traditional media. The first phase would be the old stalwarts of chaining ourselves to things, gluing ourselves to sites slated for demolition, or even to the ground in the path of bulldozers and police cars. For anyone unwilling to go that far, mass lie-ins are effective, though we always advise not to actively resist arrest but simply to go limp, which makes a human body surprisingly hard to lift and carry away. This creates maximum inconvenience for the police, and annoys them, and also plays well in front of the cameras.’

  ‘And it’s a good laugh,’ adds Sky’s mum. ‘If you go like jelly it can take six of them to lift you. It’s hilarious.’

  ‘Drumming’s useful too,’ says Space.

  ‘I’m getting to that,’ says Clyde. ‘We want a clear confrontation, but of a non-violent kind that keeps us on the moral high ground. All the organisations we’re allied to are committed to policies of strict non-violence, and it’s imperative we adhere to that. Music and dancing are also cool, for obvious reasons.’

  ‘Specially drumming,’ mumbles Space.

  Clyde nods
patiently and carries on. ‘Depending on how things develop, we’ll be looking for volunteers to attach themselves to the bulldozers – a bike D-lock round the neck works well and is very tricky for the police to remove – but that can put you in line for a criminal damage charge, so it’s best to keep that in reserve for the next escalation, when the time comes. We should probably hold off on the gluing and chaining until we have a bigger media presence and the demolition is looking imminent. The more of us who participate in that the better.’

  Clyde looks around the room, and everyone who has been listening to him intently suddenly looks down. Nobody wants to be the first to respond.

  ‘Excuse me,’ says Mum, just at the point where the lack of any reply to Clyde’s long speech is hitting peak awkwardness. ‘Can I ask a question?’

  ‘Sure,’ says Clyde.

  ‘Is the idea of gluing and chaining yourself to things that it stops the demolition work, or just that it makes a spectacle and gets on the news?’

  ‘Both,’ says Clyde.

  ‘It might delay things for a while, but surely that won’t stop anything,’ continues Mum. ‘If you want to actually stop it, you have to have a media campaign that gets enough attention to build support outside the bubble of people who usually care about this kind of thing. Only then will politicians and decision makers even begin to consider changing course.’

  ‘Exactly,’ says Clyde, nodding enthusiastically and looking at her as if he’s seeing her for the first time. This is when I remember that Mum works in marketing. What she does all day, and what marketing even really is, I have no idea, but I think this has something to do with why she’s speaking up now.

  ‘Well,’ says Mum, in the purposeful tone I recognise as her taking-a-work-call-on-her-mobile voice, ‘effective public messaging is my area, and if you want this protest to be noticed, what you’re going to need is something people haven’t seen before.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘If people like you do that stuff, nobody is going to be very surprised, are they? But if the person glued to the ground in front of a bulldozer was someone like … I don’t know … Laurence, for example – pillar of the local Tory Party and all – that would get much more attention.’