‘Maybe it’s just what dads do. They go off. Do their own thing,’ she says.
‘He’s only crossed the street,’ I say. ‘He’ll come back.’
‘I hope so,’ says Sky, lowering the binoculars and looking at me with a piercing gaze, as if she knows something I don’t.
I sense that she’s trying to reassure me, but her attempt is having the opposite effect. I always thought of my family as a single entity, like a machine with four moving parts, but now we seem more like four separate parts from four different machines, with nothing connecting us. Even if we were to end up back in the same house, I don’t think the cogs would ever fit together like they did before – we’d be like a dismantled Mercedes reassembled into a pointless junkyard totem pole.
‘Shall we go and take a look?’ says Sky.
‘At what?’
‘The building site. See what’s happening.’
‘OK.’
I follow her down the rope ladder, and within a few minutes we’re peering through the clamped-together sections of wire fencing that surround the two demolished houses at the end of the street.
Three small bulldozers are parked at the edge of a flattened patch of rubble-strewn land. A bigger one is closer to us, noisily clawing at a heap of bricks and twisted metal, which it dumps bite by bite into a waiting lorry.
A huddle of temporary buildings, long caravan-like boxes, have been piled at the edge of the site, and a man in yellow hi-vis gear is hovering by the doorway of one of them, having a conversation on a mobile phone.
Just in front of us on the other side of the fence, two men are seated beside a heap of sand, silently sucking at cigarettes and gazing in opposite directions.
‘All right?’ says one of them, greeting us with a small upward jerk of the chin.
I nod, but Sky just stares at them with her huge other-worldly eyes.
‘You from up the street?’ says the builder.
‘Yeah,’ I say.
‘Watch out for yourselves, OK?’ he says. ‘Things are going to get a bit tasty.’
‘When?’ I say.
‘Soon,’ he says.
‘WHY DON’T YOU JUST GO BACK HOME AND LEAVE US ALONE!’ shouts Sky suddenly, and the two builders stare at her for a second or so, then burst out laughing.
‘You’re a feisty one,’ says the builder who hasn’t spoken yet.
‘WHY CAN’T YOU JUST BE NICE?’ yells Sky, her voice cracking with emotion.
The builders burst into laughter again, and Sky marches away, her shoes kicking up a puff of dust as she spins on her heels. As an afterthought, she picks up a stone and throws it towards the builders, but it clatters weakly against the fence and falls near my feet. How to throw appears to be another thing she’s never been taught.
‘Why can’t you just be nice?’ repeats one of the builders, still laughing. ‘That’s priceless.’
I follow Sky away from the building site and back to our treehouse, thinking about the builder’s warning, wondering what ‘soon’ really means.
I find Sky curled up in a ball, lying on her side in the middle of the platform.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask.
‘We have to win,’ she says, not moving or looking at me.
‘Let’s hope,’ I reply.
‘We have to,’ she repeats, with a steeliness to her voice that I’ve never heard before. ‘The bulldozers mustn’t get through.’
She sits up, takes the binoculars and stares out at the building site again.
‘Why do you care so much?’ I ask. ‘It’s not like it’s your street. When this is all over, you’ll just go somewhere else, won’t you?’
‘Exactly.’
‘So why is it such a big deal?’
Sky lowers the binoculars and finally turns to face me.
‘Because if we lose and the demolition happens, Mum will drag me to the next protest, and it’ll be the same thing all over again, but … not like this. Not like here.’
‘You don’t want to leave?’
‘No. This is the first place I’ve been for years that feels like home.’
‘So what is it you want? To win, or to keep the protest going?’
‘I don’t know. Both. The struggle is much more important than me. What I want doesn’t matter, I suppose, but …’
‘Of course it matters,’ I say. ‘It matters a lot.’
‘Not really. But … thanks, anyway. You and your mum are … what you’ve done for me … it’s changed my life.’
‘It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.’
‘It’s not nothing,’ she says. ‘It isn’t.’
Two days later, just as we’re finishing dinner and getting ready to fetch down our suitcases from the loft, Dad bursts in with a big smile on his face. He’s wearing accountant-on-holiday shorts and a vest-type-thing in the style of Clyde, except on Dad it looks less like a fashion choice and more like a forgetful middle-aged man has accidentally left the house in his underwear.
‘Good news!’ he says. ‘Everything’s sorted.’
It’s fair to assume he’s not talking about his outfit.
Mum looks at him sceptically, and says, ‘What does that even mean?’
‘With my work. The threatening phone messages. It’s all dealt with. You don’t need to worry about it any more.’
‘They’re not firing you?’
‘I’m on sick leave.’
‘Sick leave? But you’re not sick.’
‘Says who?’
‘What are you ill with?’ asks Mum.
‘Depression!’ replies Dad cheerfully.
‘You don’t seem depressed,’ says Mum.
‘Well, maybe not exactly depression, but I went to the doctor and told him about what’s been going on, and how I’ve moved over the road into a kind of commune/slum-type place and how I can’t bring myself to go to work any more, and how all the things I’ve spent my whole life caring about now seem completely hollow and meaningless, and he said it sounded like a nervous breakdown, probably stress-induced, and I should give myself a period of complete rest, and consider medication if the symptoms don’t improve. He wrote his diagnosis down, and I took the letter in to work, and voila. Sick leave.’
‘So you’re officially crazy?’ says Mum.
‘Yes!’ says Dad. ‘Except you’re not supposed to use that word any more.’
‘What is the word for it, then?’
‘They didn’t tell me.’
‘Is this real, or not?’ says Mum.
‘Yes! Absolutely!’
‘But you seem really happy.’
‘I know! Crazy, isn’t it?’
‘I thought you weren’t supposed to use that word.’
‘You’re not.’
‘Are you faking this?’ says Mum.
‘No! If anything, the reality is that I’ve been lying my whole life, but now I’ve finally started to tell the truth. And what’s the upshot? Society decides I’ve gone mad.’
‘Have you?’
‘I don’t know. It depends whose definitions you accept.’
‘You do seem kind of mad,’ she says.
‘Exactly!’ says Dad proudly, turning towards me, but whatever expression I have on my face, it isn’t what he’s looking for, because his eyes flick away almost immediately and settle on the serving bowl of pasta in the middle of the table.
After a few seconds of awkward silence, he says, ‘That looks nice.’
Mum stares at him evenly, but doesn’t speak or move.
‘Can I have some?’ he asks.
She leaves him hanging for a few seconds, then shrugs, staring at him through narrowed eyes as if he’s an image she can’t get into focus. He fetches a plate, serves himself a large helping and sits down.
For a while we watch Dad eat. He seems oblivious to all the attention.
‘People are saying it’s getting close,’ he says, through a mouthful of pasta.
‘What is?’ asks Sky.
‘The eviction.
We need to be ready. Vigilant at all times. These two are doing a great job,’ he adds, smiling at Mum and waving his fork in the direction of Sky and me.
‘Pleased to hear that,’ says Mum warily.
‘Eagle eyes,’ he adds. ‘Mind if I have seconds?’
‘Not getting enough food in the commune, then?’
‘Eating like a king,’ he replies, scooping out a generous portion.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ asks Mum.
‘Yeah, I’m fine. Never been better. I need to feed myself up because I might be chained to a tree for a while. Clyde says it’s a good idea to carbo-load beforehand.’
‘Should I be worried about you?’ says Mum.
‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On whether you think life is a hole that you should sit in the bottom of, or a high wire you should walk along.’
Mum stares at him for a while, contemplating this idea, then says, ‘Maybe I think life is neither of those things.’
‘Is there any pudding?’ asks Dad.
‘Aren’t you at all concerned about the example you’re setting for Luke?’ says Mum.
Dad turns to me, scrutinises my face for a few seconds, then says, ‘Am I setting you a bad example?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say.
‘Do you want to spend the rest of your life just trying to conform and be the same as everyone else, or do you want to pursue something you actually believe in?’ he asks.
‘Do you want to have a job and work for your living,’ says Mum, ‘or sponge off other people by taking dodgy sick leave so you can sit around indulging yourself while you neglect all your responsibilities as an adult?’
I open my mouth to answer, but all that comes out is a sigh.
‘What I want,’ I say, after a tense silence, ‘is for you two to stop arguing.’
Mum and Dad both go pale and still. For what feels like ages, all I can hear is the buzz of the fridge.
‘Sorry,’ says Mum eventually. ‘This must be horrible for you. We’ll sort everything out soon, I promise. Won’t we?’
She turns to Dad, cueing him in, but he seems momentarily lost for words.
‘Yeah! It’s all going to be fine,’ he says after a while, nodding furiously.
‘We’re all human,’ Mum continues. ‘Your father’s having a wobble at the moment, but the doctor says he just needs to rest and he’ll be better soon. Isn’t that right?’
‘Kind of,’ says Dad.
‘And this time tomorrow we’re all going to be sitting on the beach, in the sun, and everything will look different, won’t it? The three of us will all be together, and we’ll have fun, and swim lots, and do healthy things, and eat ice cream every day, and everything will begin to get back to normal.’
‘Tomorrow?’ says Dad.
Mum’s face seems to freeze. ‘Yes, tomorrow. We talked about this the other day. Please don’t tell me you forgot.’
‘No. Of course not,’ he says. ‘I just … didn’t exactly remember. Days are going by so fast at the moment.’
Mum takes a deep breath and lets the air out slowly. I can see on her face that not saying the things she wants to say is, at this moment, about as easy for her as Olympic weightlifting.
‘Well,’ she says, standing up from the table, arranging her features into a rictus grin and taking a couple of steps towards the door, ‘I think the best thing now is if we just stop talking and start packing.’
I follow her as she heads out of the room, but Dad doesn’t move.
She stops in the doorway. Stares at him. Waits for him to speak.
‘I can’t,’ he says eventually, head bowed, talking more to his hands than to us.
‘Can’t what?’
‘Everything’s coming to a head. I’ve committed to do certain things, so … I have to stay.’
‘You’ve committed to do certain things?’ she repeats acidly, shaking her head with what looks like disbelief.
‘Sorry.’
Mum walks back to the table, sits opposite Dad, leans forward until he raises his head, then stares intently into his eyes like someone scouring the horizon for a lost ship.
Her voice is so quiet she’s almost whispering when she says, ‘Are you serious? You don’t want to come?’
‘I want to. But I can’t. What Rose says is right. You can’t live in an anti-airport climate change protest camp and hop on a plane to Spain for a week’s holiday. It’s not possible.’
‘Did you say “live”?’
‘Live … stay … visit … same thing. I just meant you can’t be a hypocrite.’
‘So this is you living by higher ideals, is it?’
‘I’m trying my best.’
‘Are you?’
Dad drops his gaze to the floor and doesn’t answer. Mum eyeballs him for a while, then turns to me.
‘Looks like it’s just me and you, then,’ she says. ‘We’d better start packing. Unless you’d also rather spend the week messing around in the commune, in which case I’ll just go on my own.’
I think she means this as a joke, or, rather, a sarcastic barb towards Dad, but the fact is, now the demolition feels imminent, with me and Sky installed in our pivotal role as lookouts, I think maybe I would rather stay at home.
But I couldn’t do that to Mum. It wouldn’t be right. Someone has to stand by her, and the only person left who can do that is me.
‘Of course I’m coming,’ I say, adding, ‘Wouldn’t miss it for anything,’ with as much enthusiasm as I can manage.
Nobody really knows when the demolition team is going to make their move, so I’ll just have to pray they hold off another week. I’d hate to miss the big showdown.
‘Great!’ says Mum, and for a split second her eyes seem to fill with tears, then she claps her hands together forcefully and says to Sky, in a voice that’s slightly too loud for the small space, ‘Maybe I can get one of the names changed on the booking so you could join us.’
‘That would be brilliant!’ she replies, wide-eyed with delight.
‘Do you think your mum would let you go?’
‘Maybe. I’ve never been abroad. And someone else could take over as lookout, couldn’t they?’
‘Do you have a passport?’
‘Er … no.’
Mum’s brittle smile falters. ‘You’d need a passport. Sorry.’
‘Oh. OK. Maybe … one day …’ says Sky, her body seeming to shrink slightly inside her clothes.
Mum looks at her, takes a deep breath, then says, ‘How about … if you still want to sleep here … we lend you a key. You could be our house-sitter.’
Sky thinks for a few seconds, biting her bottom lip. ‘That’s very kind,’ she says, after a while, ‘but I should probably be with Mum. She keeps saying she’s missing me. It might be good if I spend a few nights there. And I’d be too worried about breaking something.’
‘You don’t need to worry about that,’ insists Mum.
‘It’s fine. I’ll go back over the road for a bit. I’ll probably be in the treehouse most of the time, anyway. Got a job to do up there.’
‘Sorry,’ says Mum, again. ‘I’ll get hold of passport forms when I’m back, and we can fill them in together. So if you get another chance …’
‘Thanks.’
Mum stands again, picks up the now empty pasta bowl, and says, ‘OK, we should probably clear away the meal before we start packing. There’s so much to do.’
Dad lifts his plate and walks towards the dishwasher. ‘Not you,’ she says, taking the plate out of his hands. ‘You’re a guest.’
He sits again, watches the three of us clear the table with an embarrassed look on his face, then says, ‘Maybe I should go.’
‘Maybe you should,’ replies Mum, without even looking at him.
He slips away, wishing us a good holiday, but I’m the only one who responds.
The first few days in Spain are strange. Mum tries her best to seem cheerful, but she’s not a v
ery good actor, and half the time talking to her feels like being at a bad panto. The resort is designed to have a constant supply of activities to keep kids and teens occupied, which, I assume, is why my parents want to come here every year, so other than during mealtimes and at night, I’m out on the water, mainly paddleboarding, sea kayaking and failing to windsurf. Every morning, as I set off for the beach, I notice that the instant I walk away, Mum’s face falls and her body slumps, as if the cheerful act is costing her so much effort that she can’t keep it going one second longer than is strictly necessary.
Whenever I return, she’s on a sun lounger, asleep, with a book splayed across her stomach. Asleep is an understatement, to be honest. She’s comatose. When I rouse her, it takes her several minutes to adjust to the waking world. For a spring-out-of-bed-and-get-on-with-things person like my mum, this is very out of character.
I text home every few hours to see if the demolition team has made their move, praying every time that the answer will be ‘not yet’. And as the week creeps on, my luck holds. I don’t say anything to Mum about the messages, because I don’t want to hurt her feelings and make her think I’m not happy to be in Spain, though, in truth, the person who’s giving little sign of enjoying the holiday is actually Mum.
Despite her efforts to be upbeat and chatty during meals, she seems like someone who is underwater, drowning in private thoughts she can’t or won’t share with me, exhausted by the struggle to fight her way back to the surface.
Then, with a couple of days of holiday left, she flips into someone else, suddenly transforming into the old Mum, only more so. Instead of picking at a couple of pieces of toast and a boiled egg at breakfast, she joins me at the buffet, loading up on potato waffles, sausages and baked beans, and even tries a pancake with me when I head back for seconds. As we eat, she apologises for being boring, and suggests that we head out on the water together, asking what I’d most like to do.
We spend the morning in a double kayak, come back for lunch, then head out straight away on paddleboards, which Mum is hopeless at, but she laughs every time she falls in (well, the first fifty times, anyway). When she finally gets the hang of it, we invent a game called ‘paddleboard jousting’, which gets increasingly violent and leaves us both bobbing in the water, helpless with laughter.
The Summer We Turned Green Page 14