by Kim Slater
‘More buildings?’ I glare at him. ‘Where do you think you’re going to put them? You’ve already filled my room to bursting with your tat.’
‘I will build only my favourites,’ he continues, undeterred. ‘They should fit easily on my shelf.’
Did he just say his shelf?
I just don’t see the point in spending time making stupid toy buildings. He’s obviously had his mum running round after him in Poland while he sits and puts together cardboard models like a big kid instead of having to worry if there’s enough electricity on the meter card or food to manage through until the end of the week. Welcome to my world.
‘You see, the bases are quite small and take up very little room because it is the height that needs most of the space.’
‘Yeah, I’m guessing that’s why they call them skyscrapers,’ I say, rolling my eyes.
Sergei doesn’t reply; he stands up and walks over to the Empire State Building.
‘The height is not the most important thing in the building process.’ He traces a finger up from the base to the pointed tip of the model.
‘But it’s the best thing,’ I remark. ‘The height is the whole point of building skyscrapers, to create an impressive city skyline.’
I think about the picture I have on my phone of The Shard with its mirrored angles that slice up the sky. So beautiful and impossibly high.
In the spring term there had been a Year Eight school trip organized to London. Dad signed the consent form but forgot to leave the money and he was working away all week.
Mrs Barnes said if I brought my money the next day I could keep my place, but in the end I pretended I wasn’t bothered about going. I could hardly tell her I was home alone all week and wouldn’t see Dad again until Saturday.
‘Yes, Calum, but its height is the most fragile thing and many situations could bring it down. Such as tremors, wind even.’ Sergei taps the floor with his foot. ‘The most impressive thing is what you cannot see.’
‘The foundations.’ I yawn, wishing he’d just go away. No such luck.
‘Correct. The foundations of the actual building extend to fifty-five feet down from base. Impressive, yes?’
I ignore him but, as usual, it makes no difference.
‘Without a solid base any structure is weak, no matter how strong or impressive it appears to be.’
I think about my idea for the screenplay competition. The theme is ‘A Place I Want to Go’ and I wonder . . . if that place could be a building that can take you up to the sky. Is the sky a place you can go?
I’ve never been anywhere really high, up away from this flat, this estate and the stuff that’s happening at school. I could just start to write for my own entertainment, I don’t even have to hand it in and get ridiculed.
It’s weak at the moment, but maybe, just maybe, if I put some thought into planning it, the foundations of the story will grow stronger. For now, I’ll keep it to myself.
Sergei is still rattling on. I can’t believe I’m sitting here listening to him. As if he knows anything.
I get up off the bed and walk out of the room. All thoughts of silly competitions are gone, suddenly pushed away by a real concern.
I still don’t know how I’m going to explain everything to Linford.
‘I’m just popping out,’ I call, and shut the door before Dad can ask me to get him anything from the shop.
I just need to stretch my legs and get some fresh air. I feel like I can’t move in that flat, with Sergei and his mum there, everywhere I look.
I head down towards the canal.
There are crowds of girls outside the Motorpoint Arena. They are clustered around their mobile phones, sharing pictures, speaking excitedly in low voices, and I wonder what boy band is playing tonight.
I walk past the BBC Radio Nottingham building on London Road. There’s probably someone famous in there waiting to be interviewed by the presenters, telling the listeners all about their fabulous life.
I’m nearing the entrance to the canal bank now.
Cars stream by me on the busy road leading to Trent Bridge, past the train station and tower-block hotels. Apartment buildings and offices line up like concrete soldiers on the edge of the pavement, and I try not to breathe in too deeply, as the air is thick with exhaust fumes.
On this side of the road is the water, the cyclists, the joggers. There are ducks and I even spot a couple of swans, serenely gliding away from me.
I take a sharp left and descend the steep steps to the canal side. The hum of the traffic fades down here and as I walk, watching the oily black swell of the water, my jumbled thoughts start to fade a little.
Another five minutes of walking at a good pace and My Fair Lady comes into view. The glossy primary colours I first thought of as gaudy brighten my mood now as I approach. A thin coil of smoke winds up from the wood-burner chimney at the back, and the pots of geraniums and leafy plants quiver slightly in the breeze as if they sense my presence.
I was hoping someone might be out on deck but there is no sign of life; the boat looks all locked up. I walk alongside it and bend down to peer through the window. It’s difficult to see inside, through the lace and the curtains.
Then suddenly Spike’s beaming face appears from inside. He bangs on the glass and waves. Seconds later, the two small wooden doors at the end fly open and Amelia jumps up on to the deck.
‘Calum! Come inside.’
I start to say I haven’t really got time and I was only walking past, but the boat looks cosy through the open doors and Amelia will be disappointed. Plus, I don’t want to go back to the flat yet. So I climb aboard.
Sandy is standing in the galley area.
‘You arrived at the perfect time, Calum.’ She smiles. ‘I’m making hot chocolate, fancy a cup?’
‘Sounds lovely, thanks,’ I say.
‘Come and sit down, Calum,’ Amelia says, and we edge past Sandy and move to the end of the boat to sit near the warmth.
Spike stops bouncing around on the cushions and sits down next to me.
‘Look, Calum, I drew Spiderman.’
He shows me his sketchpad. He’s drawn Spiderman in pencil and it’s not bad at all.
‘That’s brilliant, Spike,’ I say. ‘Wish I could draw.’
‘What are your hobbies?’ he asks.
‘Dunno. Writing,’ I say, surprising myself when I realize I mean it. ‘I’m writing a screenplay that I might enter for a competition.’
I’m stretching the truth a bit because I haven’t actually started writing. But all films start as an idea and I’m mulling one over in my head.
‘Ooh, get you!’ Amelia teases.
‘I dunno though,’ I add quickly. ‘I haven’t decided yet. I don’t know if my idea is going to be good enough.’
‘You should go for it.’ Amelia nudges me. ‘You can thank me when you’re famous.’
‘Yeah, right.’ I snigger.
Spike looks up at me and his face breaks into a wide grin.
‘I know! I can teach you to draw, if you like? My dad was a good drawer.’
‘Great,’ I say. ‘I’d like that.’
Amelia looks at me over Spike’s head and smiles. Not one of her mischievous grins this time; if anything she looks a bit sad. I wonder where her dad is but I don’t ask.
I look around, watching Spike flicking through his sketchpad, Amelia warming her toes in front of the burner, and further up the boat Sandy whisking a jug of hot chocolate up into an impressive froth.
I only just met these people but I feel welcome and relaxed, like I’m one of the family. So much better than being stuck in the flat with those two interlopers.
Sandy brings our drinks over and we sit together in companionable silence for a few minutes.
‘How come you’re down by the canal at this time?’ Amelia says after a while. There’s a faint rim of creamy chocolate milk around her mouth. ‘It’s nearly eight o’clock. I’ve never seen you around here in the evening.’<
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I shrug. ‘Just fancied getting out of the flat.’
‘Why?’ Spike asks. ‘Don’t you like your flat?’
‘Not really,’ I say honestly. ‘It’s tiny and it’s stuck in the middle of a housing estate.’
‘My Fair Lady is tiny,’ Spike remarks. ‘But we still love living on her, don’t we, Ma?’
‘We do.’ Sandy smiles. ‘But everybody is different, Spike. People like different things; it wouldn’t do for us to all be the same.’
‘Why not?’ Spike frowns.
‘Well, because it would be a boring world to live in if we were all the same, right?’
‘Suppose so.’ Spike shrugs. ‘You could come and live with us on My Fair Lady, Calum.’
‘Yeah, great idea.’ Amelia grins. ‘Let’s do it.’
‘I think Calum’s family might have something to say about that.’ Sandy winks at me.
A few moments of silence. I realize they’re all looking at me, expecting me to say something.
‘I don’t so much mind our flat, it’s who’s in it that’s putting me off. I’m crawling the walls, stuck in there.’
‘Is it Spiderman?’ Spike’s eyes are wide.
‘Nah, I could cope with Spiderman, Spike.’ I wrinkle my nose. ‘Dad’s moved his new girlfriend and her son in. I’ve got to share my bedroom with him.’
I wait for them to gasp in horror, say they understand how awful it must be for me.
‘We have to share space in here.’ Amelia shrugs. ‘You get used to it and there’s always room for one more.’
‘Don’t you like him, this boy?’ Sandy asks.
‘He’s Polish.’
They all look back at me with blank faces.
‘What’s Polish?’ Spike says.
‘Someone who comes from a country called Poland,’ Sandy tells him. ‘It’s in Europe.’
‘Why is he here and not in Poland then?’ Spike asks.
‘Exactly, Spike,’ I say. ‘Why’s he got to live here in Nottingham, in our flat, and share my bedroom? Supposedly, it got too dangerous for them to live there.’
I roll my eyes and wait for them to tell me it’s awful and they totally understand how difficult it must be for me.
But there is just silence.
I feel a heaviness in my chest and I’m suddenly worried they’ll think badly of me.
‘It’s just that I don’t want to share my bedroom with a stranger,’ I say to Amelia, trying to get her on my side. ‘Our flat is tiny – there’s barely enough room for me and Dad as it is.’
Three pairs of eyes look away from me, down the narrow, cramped interior of My Fair Lady. The tiny boat that has far less space than our flat.
Through the window I can see the light is fading slightly outside. The boat is rosy and glowing inside from the hot stove and a small lamp. The cold, aching feelings I had when I left the flat have faded. I wonder briefly if that’s how Sergei and his mum felt when they came to stay with us. I think about how I’ve just turned up here tonight and been invited inside and made to feel so welcome. How they’ve shared their food, drink and space with me ever since they moored on the canal.
I need something else – something to show them the unfairness of it all.
‘People should live in their own homes, stay in their own places,’ I add. ‘What gives people the right to live on someone else’s patch?’
‘Are you angry we’ve come to live here in Nottingham, too?’ Spike asks me, his eyes wide.
‘Course not!’ I laugh. ‘It’s different. I mean – you’re . . . it’s just different.’
‘Sometimes people come here and bring much-needed skills that contribute to the economy,’ Sandy says softly. ‘Doesn’t that make it a better place for all of us?’
‘There aren’t enough jobs for the people who were born here, though,’ I say, pleased I’ve remembered something Linford is always saying. ‘They can’t just come over here, taking what we have. People can’t just live where they like.’
‘I didn’t have you down as being such a prat, Calum.’ Amelia stiffens in her seat. ‘But now you’re talking just like one.’
They all stare at me as though I just grew another head. I make my excuses, thanking Sandy for the hot chocolate, and leave.
While I’m walking back home I think about life on My Fair Lady. How it would feel if Sandy invited me to live with them, move on to their next place. No more suffering Sergei and his mum, having people around all the time. Just family.
I think about people moving around, finding new homes, visiting new places. Like Sergei and his mum are doing, I suppose.
I don’t know why I think differently about the Zurakowskis. It’s like some unspoken rule says we have the right to live where we want and they don’t. And even I have to admit that sounds pretty stupid.
★
EXT. ON BOARD MY FAIR LADY – DAY
A narrowboat is moored on the canal in Newark. Official-looking MAN approaches boat. BOY, GIRL and YOUNG BOY watch through an open window. SANDY jumps down from the deck to talk to him. Soon she is gesticulating and there are raised voices.
MAN
I told you, you can’t stay here.
WOMAN
(frustrated)
But why? What harm are we doing? I find maintenance work on boats while we’re here. We don’t ask the authorities for anything.
MAN
Madam, I don’t make the rules; I only enforce them. How would it be if we let everyone live on the river, eh? Nobody would be able to move.
WOMAN
But not everyone wants to live on the river. There are hundreds of miles of canals – there’s plenty of room for everybody.
MAN
As I said, I don’t make the rules. You have to move on because your permit has expired.
WOMAN
(frowning)
Since when did you own the water?
MAN
(pompous tone)
There are boundaries that must be observed, laws that must be upheld. The canals are on our land; they belong to the council. You cannot live here. You must go back to where you came from.
WOMAN
(pleading)
We don’t have a set place to live. We travel around, living and working in different places.
MAN
I’m sorry but you cannot stay here. You must leave. You must go somewhere else.
WOMAN
Where do you suggest we go?
MAN
(dismissive)
That, madam, is not my problem.
END SCENE.
I sleep a bit better, mainly because Sergei isn’t shouting out his weird words in the night. He stays in bed a bit later this morning, too.
In my head, I keep running over the conversation I had yesterday with Amelia and her family. It’s bothering me. Those things I said about people sticking to their own patch . . . I hope they don’t think I mean them because I like having them around – they bring something new, something exciting to the canal. And I think they should be able to live where they like, not bound by silly rules and regulations.
Sergei’s face pops into my mind. What’s different about him and Angie coming to live here? I don’t mean in our flat; I mean here, in our country.
It feels like they’re taking something away from us just by being here and I know that doesn’t really make any sense. The things that Linford says about foreigners and the headlines I’ve seen on the newspapers outside the shop . . . they’re all swirling around in my head and it’s really difficult to get past them to decide what I think. It just feels too hard and uncomfortable, so I push the thoughts away again.
I should’ve kept my mouth shut yesterday, instead of spilling my guts to Amelia, Sandy and Spike. I’d tried to change the subject but they all seemed a bit quiet after that. I did the right thing in making an excuse to leave.
After wolfing down a bowl of cereal, I grab my rucksack and head out while Sergei is still in the bathroom. When I get
to the school gates there’s nobody there in our usual meeting spot. Again.
I find them in the inner courtyard. I join the group and apart from a couple of grunts, nobody really says anything. A stupid tic starts up in my eye. Jack and Harry stare down at the floor as if there’s something fascinating there among the new paving stones, scuffling their feet with their hands stuffed deep into their trouser pockets.
Linford, as usual, is glued to his phone.
‘All right, Linford?’ I say.
‘Yeah, cool.’
He glances up at me and back down really quickly, but it’s enough for me to spot it. A dark maroon puffiness that encircles his whole eyeball, even covering the eyelid.
My eyes flick to Harry and he holds my questioning look for a second before giving a slight shrug and looking away again. I can almost hear him hissing, Don’t ask what happened.
‘What happened?’ I ask Linford.
He doesn’t look up or speak. The silence seems to swell until it confines all three of us in an invisible bubble we can’t seem to break out of.
‘What happened?’
Linford doesn’t answer me or even show he’s heard me ask the question again. I glance at Jack and Harry but they won’t meet my eyes and their hands burrow even further into their pockets.
Nobody speaks and somehow that just makes everything worse.
I can see Linford isn’t really looking at his phone. He’s just staring down at it, his fingers hovering motionless over the screen. The only thing moving is a muscle that flexes repeatedly in his jaw.
‘Looks painful,’ I say, looking over at Harry and Jack. They still won’t look at me, but Harry’s face looks scorched red.
I can feel the invisible bubble of silence pressing in closer until suddenly it bursts.
‘Why don’t you mind your own business?’
Linford doesn’t shout or snap; his voice is calm and quiet, and somehow that makes it worse. I swallow hard and struggle to keep my voice sounding level. I feel the tic start up again in my eye.