Seriously Sassy

by Maggi Gibson

  Twig looks down from the branches, his face shining, as more and more of us arrive. Quickly I organize people into different trees.

  Some of the girls are really struggling to climb up, even on to the lowest branches, but the older boys hoist them up manfully. Sindi‐Sue breaks a nail. And – can you believe it – she laughs! The Sixth Year guy with the bleached blond hair – the one who shoved me into the boys’ loos – comes to her rescue and helps her into the branches of an oak tree. Sindi‐Sue smiles down at him and pats the branch beside her. ‘There’s plenty of room for two,’ she simpers. Trust Sindi‐Sue! She’s turned an environmental protest into an opportunity to land a fella!

  Almost everyone’s settled in a tree now. It looks strange. And lovely. Like the trees have blossomed with people. Mr Hemphead looks like a big orange fruit. I’m the last person on the ground. I look up at Twig.

  ‘There’s space up here,’ he grins.

  Minutes later I’m perched beside him.

  ‘I brought this for you,’ he says shyly, thrusting what looks like a neatly folded tablecloth into my hands.

  ‘How did you know I’d come?’

  ‘I’m psychic,’ he smiles.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask, puzzled, turning the cloth over.

  ‘Open it out and see,’ he says. ‘Give me one end. You take the other.’

  We spread ourselves out along the branch.

  ‘OK!’ Twig says. The cloth drops open. There’s a moment’s silence. Then everyone cheers and whoops and claps. I have to half hang off the branch to see why. It’s amazing! It’s a protest banner. At the top, in big black letters, it says:

  SAVE BLUEBELL WOOD

  In the centre there’s a black‐rimmed coffin – full of beautiful bluebells, their little heads hanging sadly. He’s even done a border of flowers and butterflies and birds in all the colours of the rainbow.

  ‘It’s great, Twig,’ I say, straightening up again. ‘It’s art.’

  Just then everyone falls silent as a workers’ lorry, loaded with chainsaws and ropes, pulls up.

  ‘Looks like you got here just in time,’ Twig says quietly.

  The workmen jump down from the cab and look up, confused, at the faces staring down from the trees.

  ‘You may as well go away,’ I shout. ‘We won’t let you cut any trees down!’

  The men shrug at each other and the older one takes out a mobile phone and makes a call. For what seems like ages he argues with someone on the other end of the phone. His mate leans on the lorry and lights a fag. Then Mr Hemphead, who’s usually so quiet, starts up a chant.

  ‘HANDS OFF BLUEBELL WOOD! HANDS OFF BLUEBELL WOOD!’

  The chant grows louder and louder as more people join in. Motorists passing on the road hoot their horns. The man on the mobile cups a hand over one ear, like he’s having difficulty hearing. He looks exasperated. Then he holds the phone up towards the trees. ‘HANDS OFF BLUEBELL WOOD!’ we all chant even louder than before.

  Twig turns to me and smiles nervously. ‘Here goes, Sassy. The battle has begun!’

  After the men get back into their truck and drive off there’s a party atmosphere. People produce packets of crisps and chocolate bars and apples and bananas from their backpacks. Cans of juice are passed around too. And Mad Midge, who’s usually a brain‐free zone, surprises us all by offering to go to the nearest shop with Beano to make sure we have tons of supplies for the rest of the day.

  After a while everyone starts to go quiet. The girl with braids climbs down from her tree and clambers up beside me and Twig.

  ‘What do we do now?’ she asks.

  My heart sinks. I’d only thought of getting people here. What are we going to do now? Stay up in the trees forever? For a split second I have this horrible image of Twig and me sitting on this branch, our hair all long and straggly and grey, our faces wizened, our clothes in tatters.

  Then Mr Hemphead shouts, ‘Why don’t we sing a protest song?’

  ‘Yeah!’ the Sixth Year guy with bleached blond hair calls. ‘I know one!’ and he starts up, ‘We shall not, we shall not be moved, we shall not, we shall not be moved…’ and everyone joins in.

  In the middle of the song I notice Megan climbing quietly down from her tree and disappearing into the woods. It doesn’t surprise me really. I was amazed she’d come along in the first place.

  The singing tails off suddenly when a huge black shiny limousine with tinted windows pulls up at the edge of the road.

  ‘It looks like a hearse,’ Cordelia laughs. Sindi‐Sue looks confused. ‘You know,’ Cordelia explains. ‘The special car thing they take the coffin to the graveyard in. I’m going to have a horse‐drawn one, black and gold, pulled by two black stallions with huge feathered plumes.’

  ‘At least that’ll be eco‐friendly,’ Twig comments, ‘which is more than can be said for that huge petrol‐guzzler.’

  We’re all trying to be light‐hearted, pretending we’re not bothered, but the air feels tight with tension. Even the birds have fallen silent.

  A uniformed chauffeur jumps out. He walks round and pulls the rear door open. A tall, thin woman in a suit slides out and straightens her skirt. She stares at our banner, then raises her gaze higher and looks, with a piercing blue gaze, straight at me. It’s the Lady Mayor.

  ‘Don’t I know you?’ she asks, smiling coldly. ‘Don’t tell me! Yes, you’re Angus Wilde’s girl. I never forget a face. It’s Sassy, isn’t it? Sassy Wilde.’

  She’s trying to make out we’re old mates, that we can sort this out. I do my best to avoid her gaze. There’s something about her. Like that scary Medusa woman with the snakes for hair. If you look into her eyes you’ll be turned to stone.

  ‘Now, Sassy, perhaps you and your friends would like to come down?’ she says pleasantly, as if all she’s got to do is ask, and like good girls and boys we’ll bow to her authority, do her bidding.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I call out bravely, ‘because if we do you’ll just move in and chop all the trees down.’

  ‘Not at all, Sassy. If you come down, then we’ll all go back to the town hall, have some juice and sandwiches and talk things over –’

  ‘You can’t bribe us like that!’ I protest. ‘We’ve got our own juice and sandwiches!’ And Midge Murphy waves the big bag of stuff he brought back from the shop. The Lady Mayor shoots him a withering look. It doesn’t work. Midge Murphy’s immune to withering looks. He’s spent his life deflecting them.

  The Lady Mayor returns her cool gaze to me and smiles, but there’s something missing from the smile now, some assurance.

  ‘We don’t need to talk,’ I say, as loud as I can, so everyone can hear. ‘If you sign a properly witnessed, legally binding statement promising that Bluebell Wood will be protected from development – forever – then we’ll come down.’

  ‘Quite the little politician’s daughter, aren’t we?’ she says, an edge of ice in her voice. She turns as if to go, then stops and looks back.

  ‘You do realize this will ruin your father’s election chances, don’t you? I had expected better of you,’ she pauses. ‘And I’m sure he did too.’

  Tears sting the backs of my eyes. I don’t mind getting into trouble with the school. I don’t even mind getting into trouble with the police. They can lock me up forever, they can even burn me at the stake, like Joan of Arc.30 I’m prepared to die for what I believe in. But the thought of ruining things for Dad makes me feel absolutely wretched.

  ‘Sassy’s doing what she knows is right,’ Twig shouts angrily. ‘Not like some people.’

  I fight back my tears and find my voice again.

  ‘This isn’t about my dad, Lady Mayor. It’s not even about me. Or you. It’s about the animals who live here – the birds and the squirrels and the beetles and the butterflies. It’s about children who aren’t even born yet having green spaces –’

  ‘Yeah!’ Cordelia butts in. ‘To bury their My Little Ponies in!’ And everyone laughs.

  ‘So
maybe you don’t care what we think because we’re not old enough to vote. Well, maybe we don’t have votes, but we do have consciences. And our consciences tell us to do what’s right!’

  ‘Go, Sassy, go!’ Beano shouts, punching the air.

  ‘You tell her, kid,’ the girl with braids shouts.

  Then Cordelia starts up the chant. ‘HANDS OFF BLUEBELL WOOD! HANDS OFF BLUEBELL WOOD! HANDS OFF BLUE‐BELL WOOD!’ and the Lady Mayor, her face stony with anger, strides back to her limousine and climbs in.

  Just then, to our astonishment, Miss Cassidy and Miss Peabody and more kids from the school arrive!

  ‘We’ve decided to join you,’ Miss Peabody shouts up to us. She looks around at the protestors perched in the trees and smiles happily. ‘Reminds me of my student days! I was at Greenham Common, you know. Knitted seven jumpers in my time there. Oh, and three scarves. And a tea cosy.’

  Mr Hemphead, who’s grinning like a lovesick thirteen‐year‐old, leans down and hauls her up beside him. Beano and Midge and the crew start whistling and cheering and Mr Hemphead blushes as orange as his jumper.

  Miss Cassidy stands below our tree and casts a critical eye over Twig’s banner.

  ‘Miss Cassidy’s our art teacher,’ I whisper to Twig.

  At last she steps back and beams up at him. ‘You’re really talented.’

  ‘I know,’ he says, and we both laugh.

  Then Miss Cassidy takes a mobile out of her big velvet bag and takes photos of the banner and us. We shout, ‘HANDS OFF BLUEBELL WOOD!’ a few times especially for her.

  ‘Miss,’ I say, when things go quiet again. ‘About telling you a lie this morning. You know, to get into the school. I’m sorry.’

  ‘No sweat, Sassy,’ Miss Cassidy says. ‘It was all for a good cause.’

  And that’s when Megan reappears and, to my amazement, she’s carrying my guitar! She stops under my tree and looks up.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind. I climbed in your window, you know, the way we used to. I’ve been wanting to say sorry about using your poem.’ She passes the guitar up to me. ‘I wanted to do something to make up for it. I think you should sing one of your songs.’

  ‘So do I!’ Twig says, grinning. ‘Nice one, Megan.’

  Megan fires him a look. ‘Did you just pay me a compliment?’

  Twig laughs. ‘Yeah, stepsis. I do believe I did.’

  ‘Thanks, Megan,’ I say quietly. ‘Let’s forget about the poem now. We were both kids then.’

  ‘You sure?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Sing us a song, Sass!’ Midge Murphy shouts.

  ‘Go on, Sassy,’ Miss Peabody calls. Then she turns to Mr Hemphead. ‘She’s really good, you know.’

  I tuck my end of the banner under my bottom so I can have my hands free to play. Then, quickly, I start tuning my guitar. And almost fall out of the tree!

  ‘Steady, Sassy!’ Megan shouts from a branch opposite. ‘You’re supposed to wait till AFTER your first hit before you kill yourself !’

  I strum a few chords then take a deep breath. My third public performance. I begin to sing, softly at first, and everyone falls silent.

  When the little birds stopped singing

  The TV sets were blaring

  The cars were roaring up and down the busy motorways

  The telephones were ringing

  The checkout tills were pinging

  And no one noticed that the little birds had gone away.

  Until the night came creeping

  And darkness it came seeping

  Exhausted people snuggled down to sleep their aches away

  But the babies started crying

  Cos they knew their world was dying

  Cos no one stopped the little singing birds from going away.

  When I finish everyone whoops and claps, and someone shouts, ‘Give us another song, Sassy!’

  I look at Twig and he nods. I know exactly the one to do next. It’s loud and it’s angry.

  ‘This one’s for the trees,’ I say. Then I strum a few loud chords and go for it.

  Don’t put your axe to my throat

  Don’t spray toxic fumes in my face

  The world is a beautiful place

  And in it there’s plenty of space

  For the fishes that swim in the ocean

  And the birds that nest high in the trees

  There’s room for the whales and the dolphins

  For the spiders and beetles and bees.

  Don’t spoil it, don’t kill it, don’t waste it

  Don’t use it, abuse it, pollute it

  Don’t chop it, don’t harm it, don’t shoot it

  Don’t spoil it for you and for me…

  Suddenly a police car comes roaring towards the wood, sirens blaring, lights flashing, and screeches to a halt. To our amazement Mr Lovelace steps out, complete with the megaphone he usually uses for school sports.

  He walks over and plants his legs, arms akimbo.

  ‘This is a message from Mr Smollett,’ his voice booms. ‘Come back to school NOW and you will be treated leniently!’

  ‘Treated what, sir?’ Sindi‐Sue shouts, like she doesn’t know what ‘leniently’ means. Everyone laughs. Lovelace looks furious.

  ‘As I said,’ he repeats, ‘if you come back to school NOW and report to the assembly hall, there will be NO SERIOUS REPERCUSSIONS.’ Then he drops the megaphone from his mouth and says, so only those nearest will hear, ‘Except, of course, for the ringleaders.’

  ‘RINGLEADERS?’ Twig yells. ‘WHO ARE THEY?’

  Lovelace throws him a look as hard as a fist, then shifts his gaze along the branch to me. ‘They know who they are,’ he says, eyes narrowed.

  ‘What if we’re all ringleaders, Arthur?’ Miss Peabody shouts, and everyone laughs and cheers.

  ‘Yeah! I’m a ringleader!’ Sindi‐Sue’s new boy‐friend shouts from the branches of the oak tree.

  ‘Me too!’ A girl’s voice this time.

  ‘And me!’ another voice rings out. Then another and another, until everyone’s shouting at once. ‘I’M A RINGLEADER! I’M A RINGLEADER! I’M A RINGLEADER!’

  ‘Have it your own way!’ Lovelace bellows through his megaphone.

  As he turns on his heel Cordelia starts up the chant again: ‘HANDS OFF BLUEBELL WOOD! HANDS OFF BLUEBELL WOOD!’

  I eye the police officers and hug my guitar tight. If I’m going to be pulled down from the tree I don’t want it damaged in any way.

  ‘Calm down,’ Twig says, seeing the panic in my eyes. ‘They’re not going to storm us. They wouldn’t dare. Look!’

  A white van with blacked‐out windows and a satellite dish on top is pulling up behind the Lady Mayor’s limo. A couple of men and a woman climb out. Then I see the logo on the side of the van. It’s the TV news team!

  ‘It looks like we really are going to be famous,’ Twig chuckles.

  Half an hour later there are cars parked all along the road. Some parents have heard what’s going on and have turned up to shout encouragement to their kids and bring them more supplies. The Lady Mayor has done a brief interview with the TV crew and has retreated again into her car. The police are standing around, enjoying the sunshine. A couple of journalists are leaning against their cars, smoking, and photographers have turned up from the newspapers and photographed Twig’s banner.

  ‘So what are your demands?’ one of the journalists shouts up to Twig and me.

  ‘We want them to leave Bluebell Wood alone,’ I call down.

  ‘You’re saying you don’t want a new mall? A new cinema, swimming pool, ice rink?’

  Just then another car drives up. I recognize it right away. It’s Digby’s little Metro. He unfolds himself from the driver’s seat. The blood freezes in my veins as Dad climbs out too.

  The Lady Mayor homes in on him. ‘Not before time, Mr Wilde,’ she says loudly. ‘Perhaps you can talk some sense into that girl of yours and get her to call off this silly protest.’

/>   My stomach clenches. Dad looks grim‐faced. Digby’s eyes shine manically. I want to tell Dad how sorry I am. I know I’ve lost him the election. And he’s put so much work into it. I feel sick that I’ve let him down.

  Dad turns and looks at the banner. Then he raises his gaze and looks directly at me. The colour drains from my face.

  ‘No, Lady Mayor. That’s not what I’m here to do,’ he says, loud enough for me to hear. ‘I’m here for a press conference.’

  Twig fires a questioning look at me, as if he thinks I know what’s going on. I shrug. And my blood starts to flow again.

  While Dad’s been speaking, Digby has pulled our old folding picnic table from the boot of his car. He sets it up so the banner hangs like a backdrop behind it. Then he rounds up the TV and radio crews and the journalists.

  Meanwhile Dad has set his briefcase on the table and is taking out various documents and maps.

  ‘OK,’ Dad says to the waiting reporters, ‘as you know, the town council has, in the last few days, approved plans for a new mega‐mall multiplex to be built right here, on the site of Bluebell Wood.’

  From the trees opposite someone starts up a chant again. ‘HANDS OFF BLUEBELL WOOD! HANDS OFF BLUEBELL WOOD!’

  Dad raises a hand for quiet. ‘Bluebell Wood has been here since I was a boy,’ he says. ‘I played here. My daughters played here. It’s too important a natural resource for us to destroy.’

  The tree protestors cheer.

  ‘But isn’t it true, Mr Wilde,’ one of the journalists asks, ‘that most people in Strathcarron want the new development? That the town desperately needs better leisure facilities, and that it will bring much‐needed jobs?’

  ‘Yes. That’s all true,’ Dad says. ‘And as someone who wants to represent the people of Strathcarron I want all those things too. But perhaps the Lady Mayor would like to tell us why she’s chosen this particular site?’

  The Lady Mayor looks coldly at Dad, then turns to the waiting journalists.

  ‘Bluebell Wood was chosen after extensive feasibility studies. It’s not just the best location, it’s the ONLY available location –’