It certainly seems that being arrested is a lot more fun than making arrests.
The police form a second line so a fresh wave of protesters can’t come forward and take up positions on the barricade, but they’ve cleared away barely half of the people who are obstructing the bulldozer’s progress when a TV news crew appears.
The police don’t seem to like being filmed, but it looks like there’s nothing they can do to keep the cameras away. The protesters, on the other hand, love it. Judging by their reactions, getting arrested on camera is the protester equivalent of scoring a premier league goal. Every one of them yells a different slogan as they are dragged away, mostly about climate change or the evils of aviation, but amid all the excitement, one of them seems to forget his lines and opts for ‘HELLO, MUM!’
It takes hours to clear the barricade, and when it’s finally done a team of security men clamber over and join the police on the other side, immediately in front of the remainder of the protest, which is now louder than ever.
The bulldozer fires its engine and begins to scoop up and drag away the barricade. After this is accomplished, the police retreat for a while, with the security guys still holding their line in front of the scratched stripe of just cleared tarmac.
For a while, nothing seems to be happening (apart from the hundreds of yelling, singing and dancing protesters), and Clyde calls us to ask if we can see what the retreating police are up to.
‘I’m looking now,’ I say, training my binoculars on the building site. ‘Er … it looks like they might be having a lunch break.’
‘Ha!’ replies Clyde. ‘Brilliant!’
Not long after this, a couple of policemen who, judging by their age and uniforms, look like they might be senior officers, appear and examine the scene, staring out forlornly at the sea of bodies between them and the building that is the target of the demolition.
After several long conversations on mobile phones, the whole police and security enforcement team withdraws, and the bulldozer retreats into the building site. A huge cheer, followed by renewed surges of singing and dancing, accompanies their departure.
Through the celebrating crowd, I can just make out Laurence, still glued to the tarmac, being interviewed by a TV news reporter. He looks like he’s having the time of his life.
The conflict seems to be over for the day, and Sky and I both feel like we’re missing a party, so we decide to abandon our post and climb down. I get to the foot of the tree just as the news crew approaches my dad, who is still chained to the trunk.
They ask him why he’s taking part in the protest, and he immediately comes out with a flurry of words so fluent and impassioned that, even though he’s my own father, I almost don’t recognise the man who is talking.
‘You’re asking me why I’m here?’ he says, almost yelling the words. ‘Well, my question to you, and to anyone sitting at home watching this, is – why aren’t you here? Why would anyone stand by and let this happen? Because this isn’t just about one runway and one airport! This is about all of us and the future of the planet. This is about whether we want to sleepwalk into a global catastrophe. This is about whether we, as a nation … as a species, want to be so blind and lazy and stupid that we are willing to sacrifice the lives of our children and grandchildren – throw away their chance of having a habitable planet to live on – simply because we’re too addicted to satisfying our immediate shallow desires to care about the effect our selfishness is having on the planet. The time has come that we all have to care about this. And not just care by sitting at home wringing our hands and doing nothing, but care by actually changing the way we live, and care by standing against the forces that are pushing us to accelerate faster and faster towards climate breakdown. That’s why I’m here, and why I’m not leaving this spot until they drag me away by force.’
I look back at the interviewer to see what the next question is going to be, and she has the look on her face of someone who has just found a fifty-pound note on the pavement. I can see her struggling not to smile.
She thanks my dad and goes off to talk to other protesters, but however many interviews she gets, I’m pretty sure it’s my dad – the ranting middle-aged man chained to a tree – who is going to make the cut. I don’t know much about news, but even I can see that’s great TV.
The party goes on all afternoon, with no further approaches from the police and security teams, so after a while the glued and chained people release themselves, ready to go back into position as soon as the next assault begins. Laurence somehow wriggles out of the clothes he’s glued to the tarmac, to reveal an under-outfit of tennis shorts and a string vest. It’s not an obviously fashionable look, but this doesn’t stop him being high-fived and hugged by protesters young enough to be his kids. Bizarrely his glued-down golfing outfit remains in place, stuck to the road.
As the sky begins to darken, a meeting is called in the commune to plan for the next day. Everyone who has taken part in this kind of demonstration before seems pretty sure the police will return with reinforcements and a more aggressive strategy.
I don’t normally go to commune meetings, but since Sky and I might be assigned a new task, we feel we have to attend, and, for once, we both actually want to. It’s pretty clear storage jars won’t be on the agenda.
The discussion soon moves to the problem of how to bring in increased protester numbers for what is sure to be an escalated confrontation the next day. It emerges that all the big social media platforms are alight with videos, photos, comments and likes on the topic of the day’s protest. Huge numbers of people are saying they want to take part, but both ends of the street are now blocked by police, with access only being given to people with proof of residence.
Rose, who has been running the Instagram feed for the protest, says she’s in touch with hundreds of people who have come to the area but can’t get in.
For a long time the conversation goes round and round this topic without any useful suggestions, even though the solution is obvious. Eventually I put my hand up, but nobody notices until Clyde quietens the room with nothing more than a short cough and asks if I have a contribution.
‘There’s a secret way out,’ I say. ‘You can climb a tree at the bottom of my garden, which gets you on to some garages at the back of the new housing estate over that way. Then you can go along the garages and jump down into an alley that wiggles through the estate and comes out on the main road. I could meet people there and bring them in that way, so they wouldn’t hit any roadblocks.’
A puzzled silence fills the room, as if nobody can quite believe what they just heard: an actual solution to the problem.
Clyde claps his hands together and rubs his palms in the manner of someone who has just been served his favourite meal. ‘Great!’ he says. ‘Fantastic! Is everyone happy with that?’
‘People will need a little time to get to the rendezvous point,’ says Rose.
‘Later is probably better, anyway, in terms of not being spotted,’ replies Clyde. ‘Shall we say ten p.m.?’
‘That’s pretty late for Luke. We should probably check with Mum,’ says Rose.
‘I’m your dad, and I give you permission,’ says Dad.
‘For Luke to set out at ten p.m., dodge police road-blocks and then bring maybe hundreds of complete strangers into our garden and through the house? You don’t think Mum might want to know that’s happening?’ says Rose.
‘OK. That might be a good idea,’ Dad replies. ‘But even if she says no, the answer’s yes. I’ll try to keep her onside though.’
‘I’ll go with Luke,’ says Rose. ‘We need someone there who can check the people are who they say they are.’
‘And don’t put it out on social media,’ says Clyde. ‘The police will be all over our feeds. Just private messages on an encrypted platform to people you know. And tell them to spread the word the same way. Some of us are probably hacked anyway, but we have to do what we can to keep this under the wire. It’s a quick turnaround
, so we might get away with it.’
‘I’ll come too,’ says Dad. ‘Make sure you’re both safe.’
‘You don’t have to,’ says Rose. ‘We’ll be fine.’
‘I want to,’ he says.
‘That’s really not necessary,’ says Rose.
‘It might be helpful.’
‘Unlikely.’
‘You never know.’
Rose shrugs unenthusiastically.
‘I’m not sure you’ll be able to make it up the tree, Dad,’ I say.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not that old,’ he replies, with a slightly nervous laugh.
‘I’ll go and talk to Mum,’ says Rose. ‘Get her with the programme. Might be best if you stay here for that bit, Dad.’
‘OK. Fair point,’ he says.
Then Martha suddenly yells, ‘WE’RE ON! WE’RE ON NOW!’
Everyone turns at the same time, and we see that she’s staring at her mobile phone, on to which she’s streaming the BBC news.
It’s a while before I get to see it, because only so many people can look at one small screen at the same time, but her phone is passed around the room, with the same segment rewound and repeated, and when my turn comes I can barely believe my eyes. Everything I saw this morning from my perch in the treehouse is now in front of me again, but as part of a TV programme, as national news: the girl putting a flower into the bulldozer scoop and getting arrested; the police swarming over the barricade and struggling to drag away the protesters; the drumming and singing; then, most amazing of all, the interview with my dad. It’s all there! Everything that happened in my little back-of-beyond suburban street! On TV!
When I lift my eyes from the screen, Dad is at the centre of a huddle of excited people, and I hear him say, ‘Oh, it’s only TV,’ but his face is flushed and I can see that he’s buzzing.
The strange thing is, TV is obviously less real than reality, but when you’ve seen something actually happen, then you get to see it in a news broadcast, it feels almost as if some higher authority has come along and stamped the events that took place in front of your eyes with a certification that makes them more real than they were before.
The verdict on the news item from the commune members, who all try to play it cool but can’t stop themselves squealing if they see anyone they know on-screen, is that the protest comes out well. It’s the police, not the demonstrators, who look violent, and it’s clear from the reporter’s slant on events that the day represented a defeat for the demolition team and a victory for the climate rebels.
This publicity will add hugely to support for the cause. What nobody says (but maybe everyone is thinking) is that the whole thing looks like fun, which surely guarantees not just donations and kind words, but a bigger turnout for tomorrow’s protest. After all, whatever you think about climate change, you can’t beat a good day out.
Just as the news broadcast celebrations are dying down, Rose appears and tells me that Mum has given the go-ahead for our clandestine excursion over the back fence of the garden.
‘How the hell did you manage that?’ I ask.
Rose gives a knowing smirk and raises one eyebrow. ‘I charmed her,’ she says proudly.
‘How?’
‘Just by … I don’t know … being nice to her.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Pretty much. I haven’t done it for months. She was so surprised I probably could have got her to say yes to anything. Totally blindsided her.’
‘Wow. Would that work for me?’
‘No. You have to put in weeks of groundwork, then it’s pretty much a one-off. I think you should probably avoid her between now and when we set off. If she realises what she’s agreed to, she might change her mind.’
‘OK. I’ll text her and say I’m having dinner in the commune.’
‘She’s here now,’ says Rose.
‘Is she? Where?’
‘In the kitchen. She brought over a vat of soup for everyone.’
‘Here? Why?’
‘She was at the protest, and I suppose she noticed that nobody would have had time to make any food, and I think … maybe … she’s beginning to see the point of the whole thing.’
‘So now we’re all here and the house is empty?’
Rose turns and looks out of the window. A flickering blueish light is glowing through our sitting-room window.
‘Looks like Sky’s there,’ says Rose.
I hadn’t noticed her leaving the meeting, but I suppose she must have drifted away at some point, unable to resist the gravitational pull of TV.
‘I don’t think Mum’s staying the night here, if that’s what you’re wondering. It hasn’t come to that,’ she says.
‘Yet. Feels like you’re winning.’
‘That’s not going to happen. Trust me,’ says Rose.
‘I know. But I would have said that about Dad once.’
‘Strange times.’
After dinner I decide to head home for a while to relax before our night mission, but as I cross the street I see a flash of movement at Callum’s bedroom window, then, just before I’ve let myself into the house, he appears at a sprint and shouts my name from the pavement.
‘What is it?’ I say, turning reluctantly to face him.
‘All right?’ he says.
‘Yeah.’
He stares at me for a while, shifting his weight from foot to foot, then says, ‘Crazy day, eh?’
‘Yeah, full on. OK, see you around.’
‘Wait! I … er … can I … ?’
‘What?’
‘Ask you something.’
I’m pretty sure he’s building up to some kind of trick or piss-take.
‘What?’ I say sceptically.
‘Tomorrow, can I go up with you? To the treehouse?’
‘You?’
‘I want to do something for the protest. If your dad is and mine is, and they’re getting on the news, I can’t just sit at home and miss the whole thing, can I? I want to be part of it.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes.’
‘This isn’t about getting on the news. It’s about stopping the runway being built.’
‘I know. And I want to help. Please.’
I’ve known Callum all my life, and I have a feeling this is the first time I’ve heard him use that word.
There’s no way I want someone with his restlessness and constant one-upmanship in that small, precarious space alongside me and Sky, but the question of how to stop him is a tricky one. The ladder is right there, and nothing can prevent him climbing up. If he wanted to, he could even go ahead of us in the morning and raise the ladder, trapping us on the ground, so I need to keep him sweet.
‘Er … I’d better ask Sky,’ I say, thinking that if I play for time, I might be able to come up with a plausible reason to keep him out. Something other than, ‘I don’t like you and I don’t trust you.’
‘OK. Thanks. I’ll wait here,’ he says.
I go in, explain to Sky about Callum’s request, and she responds with an immediate, ‘No way.’
When I point out that he could get the jump on us in the morning and keep us out, she falls quiet and her face goes into chess strategy mode.
We rack our brains, searching for an excuse to keep him out, but neither of us can find one, so after a few minutes I head back outside. Callum is still in exactly the same spot, hovering nervously in a way that reminds me of how Sky used to wait for me outside the commune.
‘Well?’ he says, as soon as I emerge from the house.
With a heavy heart, I hear myself say, ‘Er … OK.’
It seems crazy to let Callum come up to our private, sacrosanct lookout perch, but I console myself by trying to remember that it would be wrong to refuse him. The whole point of the commune, with its uncloseable front door, is that it welcomes everyone. Saying no to Callum would be against all the principles of the protest and, perhaps more importantly, it would be futile. When Callum wants to do something
, that’s what happens. Every time I’ve tried to stand up to him, not once has he given way without a fight. If he’s determined to go up to the treehouse, that’s where I’ll find him tomorrow, whether I invite him there or not.
‘Yes!’ he says, punching the air (and reinforcing my doubts). ‘I’ll bring food. For all of us. Nice things. Is there anything else?’
‘No. Just … be careful up there. It’s high. We need to look out for each other.’
‘I know.’
‘Great. OK, see you tomorrow.’
‘Sure will.’
With a grin spread across his face, he turns and heads home, pausing to give a quick wave just before he disappears inside.
Whether he means what he says, or is playing some cryptic power game, I have no idea.
Around the time I’m usually being told to go to bed, I set off out the back door, along with my father and sister, on our police-dodging night mission to bring in extra protesters. Rose has sent out word of a rendezvous point at a bus stop on the main road, and is expecting a good crowd, but we won’t know how many people until we get there.
Before we leave, Rose checks with Dad at least three times that he really wants to go, and unfortunately he’s adamant.
‘It’s almost as if you don’t want me to come,’ he says, the final time she asks him.
‘Not almost. I don’t want you to come,’ she replies.
‘OK – well, thanks for being clear.’
‘Why are you coming?’
‘To keep you safe.’
‘We’re perfectly safe without you.’
‘I just want to be sure.’
‘You don’t want to be left out,’ says Rose.
‘That’s ridiculous,’ says Dad, without much conviction.
It’s dark when the three of us head down the garden together, and despite Dad’s unwelcome parental presence, an atmosphere of adventure is hanging in the air. I lead them to the apple tree in the bottom corner of the garden, then scamper up, crawl out along a branch and swing down on to the garage roof.
The Summer We Turned Green Page 16