The Summer We Turned Green

by William Sutcliffe

‘It’s too late,’ I say.

  Sky leans over the side of the treehouse and screams, cupping her hands around her mouth, ‘WATCH OUT! HORSES! HORSES ARE COMING!’ The veins in her neck and temple stand out through her pale skin as she yells, but nobody seems to hear and, seconds later, the wall of shield-carrying police parts in the middle to let through a charge of horses, which causes instant panic from the protesters. The drumming and chanting stop. Screams fill the air. Several people are knocked off their feet in the chaotic scramble to escape. Some of them curl up in a ball to avoid being trampled, others try to scurry away on hands and knees. Everyone who remains upright runs. A guy in a green T-shirt who stands his ground, maybe as an act of crazy bravery, or perhaps because he doesn’t realise fast enough what is happening, is whacked across the shoulders by a mounted policeman’s truncheon and crumples to his knees.

  Within a couple of minutes, the body of the demonstration has been forced back down the street, and a wave of police pushes through behind the horses to arrest anyone left behind. They start with the green T-shirt man, making no allowances for the fact that he is still on his knees and looks like he might be on the brink of passing out. Two officers grab him by the upper arms and drag him away to a police van, his feet trailing limply behind.

  Another group of police swarms around Laurence. They cut him free from the ground using what looks like a large pair of garden shears and pull him up. He’s now wearing a pair of boxer shorts and a white vest, and, probably in deference to his age, they spare him the dragging-away business, instead handcuffing his wrists behind his back and marching him swiftly towards the building site.

  He must have known his protest was likely to end in arrest, but he still has a stunned and outraged look on his face, as if he can’t quite believe what is happening. A news crew circles around him, filming the arrest, but it looks like the police shove away the journalist before she can get close enough to ask any questions.

  The shriek of metal against metal now rises up from below us. I have to lean right out to see what is happening, gripping on to the guard rail to make sure I don’t fall. A spurt of orange sparks flashes across my vision, and for a moment I can’t figure out what this might be, until I make out a man with a circular saw cutting through Dad’s chains.

  The TV crew rushes to the foot of the tree, filming the whole thing, as the chains fall layer by layer to the ground. Dad is grabbed roughly by two policemen, handcuffed and yanked from his spot beneath us to the row of police vans, which are rapidly filling with arrested protesters. He yells something to the journalist as he’s pulled away, but I can’t make out the words.

  Yesterday felt like a victory; today is already a crushing defeat.

  From our vantage point in the tree, we have a depressingly clear view of the next stage. With a wall of police in full riot gear holding the line against the pushed-back crowd, a wave of men in hi-vis jackets comes out of the building site and swarms purposefully into the commune. Stuff soon begins falling out of every window: furniture, books, mattresses, clothes, paintings, cooking pots and everything else that belongs to the people who have been living there over the last months.

  A truckload of bricks and a cement mixer are then brought into the front garden, and one by one, faster than you would have thought possible, the windows are bricked up. At the same time, a team of men climbs up on to the roof and sets about tossing down all the roof tiles.

  In front of my eyes, the building that was the beating heart of the protest is transformed from a home – a vibrant hub of life and laughter and music and resistance – into an uninhabitable shell.

  Due to the noise of the crashing roof tiles and the louder-than-ever yells of the protesters, it takes me a while to pick out the significance of a new noise – a high-pitched buzzing. Then Sky tugs at my arm and points downwards. A man wearing a helmet and visor is revving a chainsaw at the foot of our tree.

  We both scream down at him to stop, but he doesn’t hear.

  Mum sprints out of our front garden, but a policeman blocks her path, and when she tries to push past him, he grabs her and holds her back. It looks like she’s about to get arrested too, but I can see her yelling and yelling, red in the face, pointing up towards Sky and me in the treehouse.

  The policeman, suddenly understanding her panic, lets go of her and runs to the tree. He grabs the workman by the shoulder, they have a brief conversation and the chainsaw is switched off.

  The two men step back and stare up at our treehouse. Mum is next to them, looking like she’s halfway through a heart attack.

  ‘ARE YOU OK!?’ calls Mum, though she barely has enough breath to get the words out.

  ‘WE’RE COOL!’ replies Sky, giving a thumbs up over the side of the treehouse.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I say, because it really looks like she isn’t.

  ‘NO! They were about to cut down the tree!’

  ‘We saw!’ I say proudly. For some reason, the mortal danger of our situation seems to have hit my mother, but not Sky or me.

  ‘You’re going to have to come down!’ says the policeman.

  ‘Bite me!’ replies Sky.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘It means no,’ I explain.

  ‘It wasn’t a question, it was an order. As an officer of the law, I’m ordering you both to come down.’

  ‘And as a child who doesn’t want to see the planet destroyed, I’m saying no,’ says Sky.

  ‘You don’t have a choice in this,’ says the policeman.

  ‘Yes we do!’ I say. ‘And our choice is to stay here.’

  ‘How long do you think you’re going to last up there?’

  ‘How long do you think the human race is going to last if we don’t change our priorities?’ says Sky.

  ‘Er … that’s not what we’re discussing here.’

  ‘It’s not what you’re discussing, but the failure to have this discussion is the exact reason why we’re here.’

  ‘The point is, you have to come down.’

  ‘The point is, we won’t,’ I say.

  Only now do I notice that a TV crew is right there, recording this whole conversation, watching the policeman go redder and redder in the face.

  ‘This is your last warning!’ he says. ‘If you don’t come down willingly, we’ll have to resort to other methods.’

  ‘You’ve made your point,’ Mum shouts up. ‘I think it’s time to come down now.’

  Sky looks at me. ‘You want to go down?’ she says.

  ‘No way,’ I say. ‘You?’

  She smiles at me and shakes her head. I look back down over the side and call out, ‘We’ve made a decision!’

  ‘You’re coming down?’ says the policeman.

  ‘Guess again.’

  ‘You’re making a very big mistake,’ he says. ‘Wasting police time is a criminal offence.’

  ‘And what kind of an offence is it to destroy a planet?’ says Sky. ‘I’d say that was a pretty big mistake too.’

  ‘Right! You’ve had your last warning!’ says the policeman, before marching away to confer with a group of colleagues.

  ‘And you’ve had yours!’ I call after him. He doesn’t hear, but it feels satisfying to have the last word.

  Around the middle of the afternoon, a mobile crane trundles into view and inches towards our tree. As it positions itself below the treehouse, a chorus of boos and jeers rises up from the crowd of protesters, which still seems as noisy and large as ever, despite being squashed into the bottom end of the street.

  After a dip in energy at the sight of the commune being ripped apart and bricked up, the protesters have now found their voice again, and all of them seem to be looking up towards us, as if we are the last stand of the commune, which I suppose we are. It’s hard to make out the words, but some of the chants that rise from a crowd around the topless drummer seem to be about the treehouse and saving the tree.

  After a brief debate at the foot of the trunk, the policeman who has already tried
and failed to persuade Sky and me to come down gets on to the crane’s platform, which is like a small open-air lift surrounded by a waist-high metal rail. He’s accompanied by a guy who appears to be the crane operator, and they slowly make their way up towards us.

  A chant of ‘NO DEFEAT! NO SURRENDER!’ begins to boom out. It’s clear we’re no longer peripheral observers, but have somehow become the very heart of the demonstration. Hundreds of people are looking up at us, waiting to see what we’ll do, shouting and singing their support.

  I keep thinking there must be someone else up here who’s the focus of all this attention – an adult … someone who has a plan – but there isn’t. It’s just me and Sky.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ I say to Sky, as the crane begins to force its way into the crown of the tree, crunching through a layer of branches that splinter and crash downwards.

  ‘Stay put,’ she says.

  ‘What if they just grab us?’

  ‘We fight back.’

  ‘But … if we fall …’

  ‘We can’t let them win. We can’t!’ says Sky, without a glimmer of doubt in her voice.

  After much buzzing, clicking and readjusting, the crane lift finally comes to a standstill, positioned one step of empty air away from the treehouse. Sky and I retreat to the opposite side of our platform. She gives the policeman her narrow-eyed death stare.

  ‘NO DEFEAT! NO SURRENDER! SAVE THE TREE!’ chant the protesters.

  ‘OK, fun’s over,’ says the policeman. ‘You’re coming down with me.’

  ‘No, we’re not,’ snaps Sky. ‘And this isn’t about fun. It’s not a game.’

  ‘You don’t have a choice. If you don’t come in the next ten seconds, I’m going to arrest you.’

  ‘I don’t need ten seconds. You can arrest me now.’

  ‘OK. I will.’

  ‘Good. Go on then.’

  ‘Give me your hand.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t make me come and get you.’

  ‘You can’t come and get me. This platform isn’t strong enough for a grown-up. And if I fell, you’d be a murderer.’

  ‘That’s why you need to step this way,’ says the policeman.

  ‘And that’s why I won’t,’ says Sky.

  She’s good at this. If it wasn’t for her, I don’t think I’d have the guts to resist. The policeman’s face is now clenched into a dark scowl, and I may be imagining it, but there appears to be a hint of a smirk hovering around the mouth of the crane operator.

  ‘Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in?’ says the policeman.

  ‘I do. It’s a dire emergency. The planet’s dying.’

  The crane operator lets out a splutter of laughter, which the policeman cuts off with an angry glare.

  ‘I’m not talking about the planet. I’m talking about you.’

  ‘Well, maybe you need to open your mind and think about what’s really happening to the world, and do something about it, instead of wasting your time trying to arrest children who haven’t even done anything wrong.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ says Sky, mocking his voice. I can’t help but burst out laughing, and so does the crane operator.

  ‘Resisting arrest is a serious crime,’ says the policeman.

  ‘You’d better arrest me for it, then,’ replies Sky.

  The policeman removes his hat and scratches roughly at his receding hair. This obviously isn’t how he’d been expecting his crane mission to go. He walks to the edge of the lift platform, which wobbles as he moves, and looks down through the gap between where he’s standing and the treehouse. He only has to take one small step, but it’s a long drop and he has no idea how strong the treehouse is, and the prospect of getting into a wrestle with two children at this height is clearly not a tempting one.

  He steps back from the edge and grips his safety rail. ‘How long are you planning to stay up here?’ he says.

  ‘I guess that’s what we’re about to find out,’ says Sky.

  ‘You’re a cocky little so-and-so, aren’t you?’ says the policeman.

  ‘You’re a cocky little so-and-so, aren’t you?’ she replies.

  ‘What about you?’ he says, looking at me. ‘Are you coming down, or are you as much of an idiot as she is?’

  ‘If I’m an idiot, you’re twice as much of an idiot, with bells on,’ says Sky.

  ‘You! Come down!’ says the policeman, jabbing a finger at me.

  ‘Can’t,’ I say.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because we’re a team.’

  ‘You’re making serious problems for yourself, young man, unless you come down with me right now.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ I say. ‘I’m here on important business.’

  ‘Yup!’ says Sky. ‘Important business. Couldn’t put it better myself.’

  With a shake of the head, the policeman orders the crane operator to take them back down.

  As soon as they emerge from the high branches, having visibly failed in their attempt to get us to come down, the crowd of protesters lets out a huge cheer. The crane operator glances up and throws us a sneaky wink.

  I look at Sky, and she looks at me, and we smile at one another for a while, listening to the sound of the demonstration.

  ‘I think they’re cheering for us,’ I say.

  ‘Weird, isn’t it?’ she says.

  ‘Our mums will be down there somewhere.’

  ‘Mine probably got arrested,’ says Sky. ‘She likes getting arrested. It’s kind of a hobby.’

  ‘She’ll be proud of you,’ I say.

  ‘Hm,’ says Sky, looking as if she’s trying to shrug off the idea.

  After a moment’s silence, she adds quietly, ‘I suppose that would make a nice change. She thinks I’ve gone over to the dark side.’

  ‘What’s the dark side? Me and my family?’

  ‘Yeah. Jobs, cars, possessions, school, plastic bags … all that stuff.’

  ‘Have you? Crossed over?’

  ‘Don’t know. But I needed to at least see it. Just once. To find out what it is.’

  ‘So what do you think? Are you going to go straight and become an accountant?’

  ‘Nah, that’s not me. And I’m useless at maths.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘No idea. Looks like I’m stuck living in a tree for now.’

  I look down at the ground far below, and at our rope ladder looped over a branch, hanging in mid-air, and I realise that she’s right. We’re stuck here. We can’t leave.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ I say.

  ‘Just wait, I suppose,’ she replies.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re always hungry.’

  ‘I suppose I must be, then.’

  I look in our snacks box, and it’s pretty depleted. Underneath a layer of empty chocolate and biscuit wrappers, all I can find is two packets of crisps, then a layer of the healthy stuff my mum gave us, which has been ignored until now – apples, raisins, oat cakes and nuts.

  ‘How much food have we got? How long do you think we can stay before we get too hungry?’ she asks.

  ‘Do you think they’ll try to starve us out?’

  ‘Don’t know. If they do, I reckon I can miss one meal, tops.’

  ‘Me too. Just talking about it is making me hungry,’ I say.

  We take an apple and a bag of crisps each, then sit at the edge of the treehouse with our legs dangling down, watching the dismantling of the house and the raging of the protesters.

  The crane creeps noisily back to the building site, and the policeman who tried to negotiate with us disappears from view.

  Hours trickle by in what feels like a mixture of both mayhem and tranquillity, with a strange feeling hanging over us that we are at the centre of a battle, and also somehow far away from i
t, floating on another plane, untouched by the shouting, the violence and the destruction. This huge old oak, which has been here far longer than any of the houses on the street, longer than the street has even existed, feels like a sanctuary – a place apart from the angry human drama playing out below.

  By the end of the day, the commune building has been rendered uninhabitable. Windows and doors have been bricked over, roof tiles ripped off, floorboards torn up and thrown outside. When this job is complete, the human wall of police officers that was holding back the protesters retreats into the fenced-off building site, leaving behind just a small team guarding the tree. Though I suppose it’s not really the tree they’re guarding – it’s me and Sky.

  It could be that they want to stop other people coming up to join us, or perhaps they want to arrest us if we come down, or maybe they just want to prevent anyone sending up the food and water we need to continue our protest. Whatever the reason, it feels like something of an honour to have your own police guard.

  As the light begins to fade, Mum appears from our house carrying a couple of Tupperware boxes, which even from this distance I can tell is a meal for Sky and me. The police stop her before she can get near our basket-drop position and, even though she remonstrates with them vociferously, she fails to persuade the officer in charge to let her through.

  When she eventually gives up on the argument, she tilts her face upwards and yells, ‘I’VE GOT FOOD FOR YOU, BUT THIS MAN WON’T LET ME SEND IT UP! EVEN THOUGH YOU’RE CHILDREN.’

  ‘WE’RE OK,’ I reply. ‘Lots of snacks.’

  ‘THIS MAN HERE,’ she repeats, turning towards the street, which is still filled with milling protesters even though the shouting and drum-banging has long since stopped, ‘IS HAPPY TO DENY TWO HUNGRY CHILDREN THEIR FOOD, JUST TO PROTECT HIS JOB.’

  A wave of boos spreads outwards from the tree.

  ‘TWO CHILDREN! HUNGRY CHILDREN!’ adds Mum, eliciting more boos.

  The policeman appears unmoved by this, though he must surely be shrivelling up with embarrassment inside, and my mum walks away. I know her too well to think for even a second this might be her giving up.

  My guess is that she’s simply moving on to her plan B and, sure enough, a few minutes later my phone rings.