The Summer We Turned Green

by William Sutcliffe

  ‘OK!’ I call down. ‘I’m there.’

  I find a spot at the edge of the roof where I can watch Rose’s progress up the tree, and despite Dad’s ‘help’, it takes her a while. Whenever she pauses, Dad chips in with advice Rose clearly doesn’t want, and she seems to spend more time arguing than climbing.

  ‘Up a bit with your left foot.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘That’s your right foot.’

  ‘Stop talking! You’re distracting me!’

  ‘Bit higher.’

  ‘I know!’

  ‘Why are you snapping at me?’

  ‘Why are you still talking?’

  ‘Nearly there. Don’t be scared.’

  ‘I’m not scared.’

  ‘You sound it.’

  ‘This is the sound of annoyed. Scared is something else.’

  ‘Just relax and it’ll be a lot easier.’

  ‘I’ll relax if you stop talking to me!’

  ‘OK. Fine … That’s it. You’re doing really well.’

  ‘Stop!’

  Eventually, Rose joins me on the garage roof, looking flustered, and Dad begins his climb.

  A few seconds later, there’s a loud snapping noise as one of the low branches gives way.

  ‘Ow! Shit!’ says Dad.

  ‘Just relax and it’ll be a lot easier,’ says Rose.

  ‘The bloody branch snapped.’

  ‘Don’t be scared. You’re doing really well.’

  ‘That’s not funny, Rose.’

  ‘It is though,’ she replies, laughing.

  Dad continues his climb, with lots of grunting and swearing, like a man struggling to lift something that’s too heavy for him, which is exactly what’s happening, the thing in question being his own body.

  ‘When I said you were doing really well,’ says Rose, ‘you do realise I was lying, don’t you?’

  ‘Maybe I was too,’ snaps Dad.

  ‘Ooooh! Touchy!’

  ‘I helped you! And all you’re doing is laughing at me!’ says Dad.

  ‘Yup,’ replies Rose. ‘Listen, we don’t want to be late. Why don’t you catch us up?’

  ‘Wait, I’m nearly there!’

  ‘No offence, Dad, but I think you’re too heavy for those branches.’

  ‘They’re very thin.’

  ‘Just like you. OK – we’re going to head off now.’

  ‘Wait for me!’

  ‘No time. Bye, Dad.’

  ‘This is really mean!’

  ‘Unlucky! We won’t let on to your new friends,’ says Rose. ‘We’ll tell them you were the big hero – hauling us up with your huge muscles. Or maybe not.’

  ‘I’ll stand guard here, then,’ says Dad.

  ‘Thanks. That’ll be a massive help,’ says Rose, with a cackle, as we turn away and head across the garage roofs.

  ‘Do you think you were a bit hard on him?’ I say, once we’re out of earshot.

  ‘He deserves it.’ Then she suddenly stops dead and adds, ‘Are you sure these roofs are strong enough to hold our weight? They’re bending.’

  ‘I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?’

  ‘Probably best Dad isn’t here, after all.’

  We walk slower and a little more tentatively than at first, but it isn’t long before we reach the last garage, from where I jump to the top of a brick wall, then slide down a lamp post to the ground. Rose follows, landing awkwardly as she hits the tarmac, but when she straightens up, she has a wide smile on her face.

  ‘It’s cool you thought of this,’ she says, looking me right in the eye.

  I feel my cheeks reddening as I smile back at her, and I can’t think of an answer.

  We head along the path to the main road, snaking through a chain of small car parks, but just as we’re reaching the exit from the housing estate, a police car comes into view, driving slowly towards us.

  ‘Should we hide?’ I mutter.

  ‘No. Keep walking. We live here, and we’re just heading out to the shops.’

  ‘Bit late for that, isn’t it?’

  ‘Just look relaxed. Brother and sister out for an evening stroll.’

  The police car approaches, an officer in the passenger seat staring at us as they pass by, but they don’t slow down or stop.

  ‘Oink, oink,’ whispers Rose.

  We carry on towards the main road, but when we see the bus stop, Rose’s face falls. Instead of the crowd we’re expecting, there are only a couple of people.

  Rose looks at them, and they look at Rose, but nobody speaks. They’re ordinary-seeming, late-teens or early-twenties, in jeans and T-shirts, and look like they could easily be climate protesters, or just as easily not care in the slightest about the entire issue.

  We approach warily and, after an awkward moment, the girl says, ‘Are you Rose?’

  Rose nods. ‘You’re here to get into the protest site?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s just two of you? I thought there’d be more.’

  ‘There are,’ the girl says, nodding to a brick wall that encircles the front perimeter of the housing estate. ‘There’s a patrol car sniffing around, so we thought it best to keep everyone out of sight.’

  ‘Oh. We saw it just now. They’re in the estate,’ says Rose, letting out a sigh of relief.

  ‘Let’s just sit it out here, then,’ says the girl. ‘Like we’re waiting for a bus. When they move on, we can go for it.’

  ‘OK. This is my brother, Luke, by the way.’

  ‘Hi, Luke,’ says the girl. ‘I’m Amy. This is Rob.’

  We all shake hands, then sit on the bus-shelter bench. Rose chats to them about the protest – where they heard about it, how long they’re planning to stay, what they’re expecting for tomorrow – while I eye the street where the police car is likely to emerge.

  A few minutes later, it comes out, pauses at the junction, and drives away.

  When it’s out of sight, Rob lets out a wolf whistle. A swarm of bodies clambers over the low wall – a dozen, then another, then another, until there’s a crowd of more than fifty of us huddled around the bus shelter.

  ‘Is that everyone?’ says Amy.

  There’s a general murmur of assent.

  ‘OK. Follow us,’ says Rose, and we head off at a fast walk, back through the housing estate, then along the path to the lamp post.

  ‘We’ll need a bunk-up here,’ says Rose. ‘Who’s strong?’

  Rob steps forward and forms his hands into a cup for the first climber.

  ‘OK,’ says Rose. ‘Luke will go first, I’ll bring up the rear. We’re going over these roofs, then down a tree into a garden, where we’ll all reassemble, before heading on through our house. We don’t think these roofs are strong, so keep apart – one person at a time on each garage. OK?’

  Everyone nods. I put my foot into Rob’s hand-stirrup and launch myself up. As I head across the top of the garages, I turn and see a spaced-out snake of people following me. Just before pulling myself up into the apple tree, I get out my phone and take a quick photo of all the protesters crossing the roofs in my wake. It’s too dark for much to be visible, but I want to remember this moment – capture the thrill of feeling like a leader, like some kind of rebel outlaw, fighting for justice, battling against the destruction and wickedness of the planet-destroying Establishment. No new high score or getting-to-the-next-level on any game has ever come close to matching the buzz of this.

  I show the person immediately behind me where we’re heading and swing up into the tree, then across and down. It occurs to me, as I’m landing, that this might be the most fun I’ve ever had.

  By the look of things, Dad has got bored of ‘standing guard’ and gone into the house. Amy from the bus shelter is the first person to jump down after me.

  ‘Nice garden,’ she says.

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply, thinking that if it wasn’t dark, and she could see the overgrown mess surrounding us, she’d have to think of something different to say.
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  Another person then drops out of the tree and introduces herself as Crystal. She has spiky blonde hair and a beautiful smile.

  ‘This is cool,’ she says, just as another person crashes down to join us, introducing himself as Anthony. He sounds extremely posh, even though his trousers are held up with string, and stains from several different-coloured meals are splattered across the front of his T-shirt. He gives Crystal a lingering, flirty greeting, to which she responds with not one nanosecond’s interest.

  ‘Have you come far?’ says Anthony to Crystal.

  ‘Not really,’ says Crystal to the garden fence.

  ‘Things are going to kick off tomorrow, big time,’ he says, but she gives no indication of having heard him, even though he’s right in front of her. I’m no expert on romance, but even I can spot the body language for Don’t even think about it.

  With a rustle of foliage, another person tumbles from the tree, lands with a thump and falls backwards into a bed of weeds-that-used-to-be-herbs.

  This is the strangest social gathering I’ve ever been part of, but nobody has given me any instructions as to what to do now, so the only thing I can think of is to stand there until Rose appears.

  By the time she does, the whole of our parched and unmown lawn is covered with people. The atmosphere feels halfway between a party and a dentist’s waiting room.

  ‘OK, everyone,’ says Rose, to the assembled crowd. ‘Thanks so much for coming along to join the struggle. We really appreciate it. I’m going to lead you through the house now and take you to the demo site. If you need help finding a spot to bed down, I’ll be around to give you a hand.’

  Rose leads the way into our house through the back door, and this time I bring up the rear. There’s no sign of Mum when we file through the kitchen, but just as I’m following everyone out through the front door, she appears in the hallway.

  ‘Luke!’ she says, too loudly for me to pretend I haven’t heard her. ‘Bed!’

  I turn round and smile innocently. ‘Bed? Now?’

  ‘It’s almost eleven.’

  ‘Is it? I’m a bit busy though.’

  ‘Busy?’

  ‘Yeah. The whole route for getting these people in was my idea, so I just have to finish …’

  ‘You don’t have to finish anything. They’re here. You did a great job, but now it’s done.’

  ‘I’m not tired.’

  ‘That’s what you always say.’

  ‘And it’s always true.’

  ‘There’s going to be an early start tomorrow. Let’s go upstairs and you can tell me about your trip over the garages. How many people did you bring in?’

  ‘Lots.’

  ‘Did everything go to plan?’ she says, edging towards the stairs.

  I can’t be sure if her sudden interest in my rooftop adventure is genuine or just a lure to get me to bed, but I decide to go along with the ruse and follow her upstairs.

  By the time I’ve cleaned my teeth I realise that I’m shattered. Too tired, in fact, to get undressed, and I flop down on top of my duvet fully clothed. Mum hauls me up, ignoring my protests that she should leave me alone, hands me my pyjamas, and seconds later I’m fast asleep.

  It feels as if no time at all has elapsed until the next thing I’m aware of, which is Sky bursting into my bedroom and yanking open the curtains. Before I even open my eyes, I hear a series of long, high whistle blasts coming from over the street, and I’m somehow up, dressed and out of the front door before having any real idea of where I am or what I’m doing.

  It’s barely light, but as soon as I step outside into the eerie, blueish early morning haze, I see that the street is filled with people, all of whom seem to be running around in states of confusion and excitement. There’s lots of shouting, but not like the celebratory rumpus of the day before. Straight away, I can sense panic in the air.

  Clumps of security men in bright yellow jackets have already got much closer to the commune than they achieved in the whole of yesterday. They’re moving in packs, scouring the street and dragging away anyone who crosses their path, pulling them roughly across the ground, frogmarching them with arms bent behind arched backs, or prodding them forward held in chokeholds. Screams of pain and outrage are coming from all directions, and there’s a bloodthirsty tang in the air – a feeling that yesterday was a game the protesters won, but this is a fist fight they seem set to lose.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ I say.

  ‘Run,’ replies Sky, setting off into the street battle without waiting for my answer. Her age and size seem to act almost as an invisibility cloak, and she cuts through the swirl of scrabbling bodies untouched. Hoping the same magic will work for me, I set off behind her at a sprint.

  As I pick my way through the mayhem, darting left and right to avoid being caught or hit, I catch a glimpse of something unexpected on the faces of the lunging security men: enjoyment. They’re having fun, like long-restrained dogs finally let off the leash.

  By the time I get to the tree, Sky is already halfway up to our lookout platform, and without waiting for the ladder to be free, I climb up after her, ignoring my panic and breathlessness, pushing myself up from rung to rung as fast as my aching muscles will allow.

  Sky reaches down and hauls me, panting, on to the platform. From here, I can see protesters streaming towards the centre of the conflict, surging in from down the street, and within minutes the balance of numbers (if not of aggression) seems to have shifted against the invading security team.

  I lean over the edge to haul up the ladder, but just as I’m about to pull, someone appears around the trunk and grabs hold of the bottom rung. My first instinct is to try and yank it away, then I recognise the person and remember: it’s Callum. He’s wearing a pristine red tracksuit and carrying a matching backpack.

  ‘Quick!’ I yell. ‘We need to get the ladder up!’

  ‘OK! Coming!’ he shouts.

  But he doesn’t come. He gets a short distance into the air, then stops.

  ‘Hurry!’ I shout.

  He takes a few more slow steps upwards, then, two or three metres off the ground, he freezes.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I call.

  ‘There’s something wrong with the ladder!’ he says. ‘It’s swaying too much.’

  ‘That’s just what it does. You have to keep going!’

  ‘I can’t! My legs are swooping in!’

  ‘Keep going!’

  ‘I think I’m too heavy for it!’

  ‘You’re not.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Either come up or go down.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Up or down! You can’t just stand there!’

  ‘The backpack’s putting me off balance.’

  ‘So leave it behind.’

  ‘I can’t. I’m stuck.’

  ‘Go down or come up! I need to pull in the ladder.’

  For ages, with the noise of the arrests and the protesters’ fightback getting louder and louder, Callum doesn’t move. Then, very slowly, with shaking limbs, rung by rung, he goes back down to the ground. Without saying anything or even looking up, he walks away, head bowed. As I pull up the ladder, I watch him circle the crowd of bodies that has filled the street near the foot of the tree, walk back home, go inside and close the door.

  ‘Probably for the best,’ says Sky.

  ‘Definitely.’

  The volume of drumming and chanting continues to build, and today it sounds angry, maybe even desperate, without the playfulness of the day before. A battle line forms between the tree and the position of the now obliterated barricade, with protesters pushing against a phalanx of police who stand shoulder to shoulder behind their riot shields, which they are steadily hitting with truncheons – the regular pound of the police beat competing with the syncopated rhythms of the protest drums. It feels simultaneously thrilling and frightening, this raw, brutal sound of two warring factions trying to intimidate each other with the power of noise.

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nbsp; More people continue to emerge on to the street, forming a dense mass of bodies that stops the police making any forward progress. Just behind them, I see my dad hastily chaining himself to the tree with Martha’s help. Laurence has already glued himself to the ground again, assisted by Rose. Whether this means Rose is back on good terms with Callum’s family, or the opposite, I’m not quite sure.

  Sky, who has the binoculars, suddenly grips me by the elbow and points.

  ‘Horses!’ she says.

  I follow the line of her finger, and can just make out a team of mounted police approaching through the building site.

  ‘But … they’ll flatten people,’ I say.

  ‘We have to warn them,’ says Sky. ‘Give me the phone!’

  She brings up Clyde’s number with shaking hands and places the phone to her ear.

  Her eyes fix on a point in mid-air, as she says, ‘Clyde! Call us back. There’s horses! Police on horseback! They’re coming any second! Answer your phone!’

  She hangs up, looks at me with an expression of dread on her face, and dials again.

  ‘He probably can’t hear it,’ I say, looking down at the mayhem unfolding beneath us. Police and protesters are engaged in what looks like a crude shoving contest, with truncheons slashing down above and between the riot shields. For the people now trapped against the police line, pushed forward by the mass of protesters behind them, there’s no escape from a beating. Even from up here, over the noise of drumming and chanting, I can hear their shouts of anger and cries of pain.

  My front garden looks like it has become an improvised first-aid station. A young guy with long hair in a pony tail is sitting on the small patch of grass, looking dazed, with blood streaming down his forehead and face.

  Mum comes out of the house with a bowl of water, some cloths and bandages, and begins to clean his wound. A girl who doesn’t look much older than Rose is flat on her back. I can’t see any blood, but she doesn’t seem to be moving. A boy is kneeling beside her, holding her hand and yelling frantically into a mobile phone. A few others, with blood-stained clothes, are sitting or lying on the paved driveway.

  ‘PICK UP!’ Sky yells pointlessly into Clyde’s voicemail.