I follow a pathway leading to a turquoise painted door in the middle of the row. There’s an old-fashioned bell pull to the side of it. I ring it once. It chimes all through the corridor. I feel deep in my dungaree pocket for Nana Josie’s chime. The bell sounds to the end of the ring and no one appears. I’m just wondering if I should pull it again when a tall woman wearing a bright orange wrap on her head opens the door. I suppose I was expecting Simon to answer . . . I get all muddled.
‘I’m the Nana . . .’
Instead of giving it another go to get my words in the right order, I just stop. It’s like I really have lost the power to speak English.
‘I’m a grandmother, but I shouldn’t think you are! Start again.’ The woman speaks with a soft French accent. She has a kind look in her eyes.
‘Sorry! I mean . . . My nana was a friend of Simon Makepeace. I’ve come to pick up a book from him.’
‘Does this granddaughter of an old friend of Simon Makepeace have a name?’ the woman asks.
‘Laila Levenson,’ I just about manage to get out.
‘Levenson . . . Leven-son . . . Lev-enson . . .’ She repeats my name as if saying it over again in different ways will spark her memory. It seems to work. ‘Oh my word! Now I see it, Josie’s granddaughter! But you’re—’
‘I’m Mira’s little sister,’ I explain.
And before I know what’s happening, she reaches out, clasps my hand in both of hers and draws me into the hallway.
‘I’m Hope. I shared a tent with your nana for a few nights . . . it was many years ago! She was so amusing. Somewhere I have a dessin . . . drawing she made of the two of us together . . .’ Her voice is like a happy little bird practising its scales.
Hope’s smile turns into a grin. She reaches out and touches my shoulder.
‘Such a shame she had to go so early. She would have been welcome in our commune. But here in you, je crois . . . I believe, there is a little of her calling to see us. Same fire in those eyes, like Josie! I’m so happy you came. Simon’s been bothered about returning that book to your family.’
The hallway is long and sunny with brightly painted doors leading off it into bedrooms. I follow Hope past the yellow, orange, purple and red doors. A piece of art is hung on the wall between each one. Hope taps a painting of a yellow poppy on a stony beach as she walks past. ‘This is of Josie’s hand.’
It does look like one of hers. I’ve never really thought about other people, outside of our family, owning Nana Josie’s paintings. I stop and look at it. From the pale grey colours of the pebbles and that big sky, I guess it might be Suffolk.
The corridor opens into a room flooded with sunlight. It’s something like a conservatory with a back wall painted in the same deep turquoise colour as the front door . . . well, what I can see of the wall, because it’s almost completely covered in grape-vines. In front of the creeper there’s a huge plant with knobbly bark twisting and turning in all directions and ending in fan-shaped branches that look like giant outstretched hands reaching towards the glass. I’ve never seen a plant that big before in someone’s house. It’s like a greenhouse in here.
‘Simon’s soaking up the sun, the sleepy old cat!’ Hope ushers me into the room and as I enter I knock the wheel of a bike that’s resting against a wall. It has flowers and little bells threaded through the wheel spokes just like Krish remembered. Hope steadies it as I pass.
‘Simon’s old bike,’ she says.
‘My brother remembered that.’
‘Well, he won’t be the only one. That bike has travelled!’ Hope says.
I try to laugh but I’m so nervous it comes out sounding fake.
Maybe I have seen a photo of Simon somewhere around the house, because I feel like I’ve seen him before. In the centre of the room is a table with a thick half-melted candle in a vase placed on a mat in the middle. An old man is sitting straight-backed in a chair, completely still, with his eyes closed. His eyelids are the texture of scrunched-up tissue paper. He has bushy eyebrows that lift up like the wings of a baby owl. He also has a thick wiry beard, so it’s hard to see his mouth, but it seems to be turned upwards in a faint smile. His hair is long and straggly, the colour and coarse texture of those little Border terrier dogs that Nana Kath’s sister, Auntie Mairi, breeds. The ones Krish is always trying to persuade Mum and Dad to get. Not grey, not brown, but somewhere in between.
The man has a big forehead with a single deep line running across the middle from one side to the other. His nose is long and straight, his cheeks shiny and red, and he has a fan of fine lines around his eyes. He’s wearing jogging bottoms and a navy-blue T-shirt with the words ‘Free Tibet’ embroidered in orange across the front. He has friendship bracelets on his wrist and what looks like a necklace made of painted seeds. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone old dressed like this before. These clothes are more like the sort of thing Krish wears. And no shoes, no socks. His hands are resting palms upward on both knees, like he’s waiting for something to drop into them. A pair of beaten-up old trainers are on the floor by the table.
‘Meditating,’ Hope whispers. ‘Sometimes he sits like that all day, but I’m sure you won’t have to wait that long!’
‘I don’t want to disturb him,’ I whisper.
‘No, no, you will not. It’s not a problem. Just to have patience. He’s not sleeping; he’ll hear us in the room. It may just take him a little time to return to us. I’ll prepare some tea while we wait.’ Hope walks off in the other direction and leaves me on my own with the meditating man who is Simon Makepeace – the sender of the letter and Nana Josie’s good friend.
This feels so awkward, standing here waiting for this stranger to open his eyes. I carry on looking around the room. It reminds me of a tiny section of the butterfly house Mira once took me to in London Zoo, and it’s almost as hot too. I unzip my hoodie, sit down on an old church pew and wait for him to sense I’m here. I glance over at the bike and wonder why I ever thought it was a good idea to come.
The reflection of the sun through the glass roof casts a circle of light on the wooden floor. Simon’s trainers are right in the middle of the sun-pool. I lean back and look up through the glass roof at the swaying branches of the tree outside. A few mustard-coloured leaves float down.
‘Hello. I didn’t hear you come in!’ Simon’s voice is slightly dry and crackly. He opens his eyes slowly, like he’s trying to wake up after a long sleep.
‘Josie?’ he whispers, and presses his knuckles on the table, leaning hard on it to try to push himself up.
I stand too.
‘Is that you, Josie?’ he asks again. I wonder if the old man’s lost his mind. I look down the corridor to see where Hope is. She could have told me he’s confused. I wish she’d come back.
Simon’s staring at me like I’m a ghost or something.
‘I’ve come about Nana Josie’s Protest Book – you sent my sister a letter,’ I explain.
I place the envelope on the table between us.
‘Of course!’ He laughs and shakes his head. ‘Sorry! I’ve been in a different space–time continuum!’ He chuckles.
I’m not sure whether I’m supposed to reply or not.
‘What do you suppose this means?’ he asks. ‘A few minutes before I started meditating, Josie was on my mind . . . she was holding this orb – a little ball of sunshine in her hand – and now I open my eyes and find you dazzling me!’
I point to his trainers in the middle of the sun-pool. ‘It is sunny in here!’
Hope goes over to the candle and blows it out.
‘Did you have a peaceful journey?’ Hope asks.
Is she talking to me?
Simon shrugs and looks down at his trainers. ‘My shoes were more peaceful than my head!’ Hope laughs like she completely understands. ‘My mind was full of the news. Maybe I felt my visitor coming!’ He grins at me. ‘I think when I’ve handed over the old book I’ll be able to let it all go. My head was all over the place, leapfrogging f
rom all the marches I’d be on if I could . . .’ He looks at me for a while. ‘So, you must be the younger sister, Lai . . .’
‘Laila.’
‘That’s right! The little protester!’
‘Sorry?’
‘That’s what Josie used to call you! It was her joke when I went to visit her just after you were born. I seem to remember you had a foghorn voice for such a tiny little thing! She told me, “I’ve got my replacement now, Simon! One protester on the way out, one on the way in!” That was the thing about Josie. She kept her sense of humour right to the end. I’m planning to do the same.’ He looks at Hope. ‘Not that it’s hard to do when Hope’s your right-hand woman!’
She smiles at him in a way that makes me think that they might really love each other.
‘Come and sit down here!’ Simon says, pointing to the chair opposite him. ‘Sorry if I freaked you out, but it’s uncanny how alike you are to Josie!’
‘Everyone says that.’
Simon’s grinning at me with his sparkly blue eyes. He has one tooth missing on the side of his mouth. You don’t notice unless he smiles really wide, which he does now. His smile lines fan out from each eye like he’s spent years laughing and smiling them into their grooves.
‘Very pleased you got my letter. Where’s your sister Mira then?’
‘Gone off to college. She asked me if I would collect the book for her.’
Is it always wrong to lie?
Is it always right to tell the truth?
I half expect a lightning shaft to break through the skylight – ‘Lai Lai Liar! Lai Lai Liar!’ . . . But nothing happens, though the sun does go behind a cloud and the room darkens.
‘What’s she doing at college?’ Simon continues.
‘Art – she’s at Glasgow,’ I say.
Simon’s eyes twinkle little stars of bright blue happiness.
‘Josie had her down as an artist! And how about your brother . . . Krishna?’
‘Krish,’ I correct him. ‘Music and Sport mostly. He’s doing this outward-bounds apprenticeship in the Lake District. He plays the guitar and sings . . . makes up his own songs.’
‘What kind of music’s he into?’
‘He calls it ambient. I don’t really know. He’s always got his headphones on!’
‘Ambient.’ Simon repeats the word really slowly, looking up at the leaves. He’s tracking another yellowing leaf as it floats down and lands on the glass roof. ‘And you, Laila . . . ? What are you into?’
‘Not sure yet.’
‘Fair enough. Your Nana Josie dreamed of being a dancer. Did you know that? She looked like a little ballet dancer too, a bit like you.’
I shake my head. I didn’t know that. I suppose I don’t know much about her . . . yet.
‘My cousin Priya’s a dancer; she’s really good. She does Indian dance and contemporary . . . fusion stuff.’
‘I’m liking these words . . . ambient . . . fusion . . .’ Simon looks at Hope and laughs.
I can’t believe how easy Simon is to talk to. He’s not like an old man at all. It’s more like talking to Krish. It’s the way he thinks and speaks, like talking’s a game.
‘How did you get here, Laila?’ Hope asks as she pours the tea. ‘Did your family drop you off? Are they waiting for you – perhaps they would like to join us for some tea?’
‘Oh no! I came on my own . . . on the tube,’ I say.
‘Good for you. Not like your daughter, Hope, insisting your grandchildren get chaperoned everywhere.’
‘I know they’re – how do you say, Simon? – mollycoddled . . . but the world is different today.’
Simon purses his lips and raises his bushy eyebrows a couple of times. It makes me laugh.
‘Not sure about that! Same world, different psyche,’ he says, tapping the side of his head. ‘I remember what me and my friends used to get up to when we were kids, claiming the streets on our bikes . . .’
‘What’s mollycoddled?’ I ask.
‘Hope’s grandchildren!’
Hope pretend-scowls at Simon.
‘Overprotected,’ he explains.
‘How old are you, Laila?’ Hope asks.
‘Thirteen.’ My voice wobbles a bit. Even I’m not that convinced by the way I say it.
‘You see, two years older than my Corinne.’
Simon’s frown deepens . . . maybe he’s doing the maths. Then he winks at me. He totally knows I’m lying about my age.
He leans forward and looks straight into my eyes but doesn’t say anything more. Adults don’t normally hold your look the way Simon does. It feels a bit like that toddler on the tube sussing me out, but friendlier. There’s a pause, as though he’s waiting for me to say something. When I speak, my voice sounds weird, even to me. I realize that in our family it’s not usually me who has to get a conversation going, mostly I just join in. I can’t think of what to say, then I remember Mrs Latif’s advice the other day that if you’re stuck just ask a question. I wonder if that’s why Mum always fires questions at me.
‘When did you start meditating?’ I ask.
‘Now, let me see . . . I’ve been practising it for about thirty years, but it’s only in the last ten that I’ve really got into it.’
I laugh. It’s half nervous laughter, but the way he speaks does make me smile.
‘Are you a Buddhist? My tutor was talking about the Dalai Lama. He’s into meditation, isn’t he?’
‘He is! But I’m no Dalai Lama! I’d say I’m more of a searching Simon!’ He smiles at me, as if that’s an answer that makes sense. ‘Now, if the existential questions are over, go and search out your Nana Josie’s book. It’s on a shelf over there in a Jiffy bag,’ he says, pointing to the yucca plant.
Then Simon stands up slowly, like he’s checking that every bit of his body is ready to hold him up, starting with his feet.
Hope stands too, getting ready to help him, but Simon shakes his head and pats the back of his chair as if to say, ‘Sit down, I don’t need your help.’
He holds on to the side of the table until he’s balanced enough to carry on. It’s like he’s walking in slow motion. He doesn’t turn back to me but raises his hand and touches one of the giant leaves of the indoor tree.
‘Excuse me, I’ve got to pee. It’ll take me about the same time to get to that bathroom over there as it used to take me to run five K!’ He holds on to a thick stem of the yucca as he passes. ‘You’ll have to find your way through these branches . . . you know, Josie gave me this from a cutting. She had green fingers, your nana. She said it would flower, but I’m still waiting! Anyway, I’ve always been more of a leaf than a flower man. It was only in a little pot plant when she gave it to me . . . now look at the span of it!’ Simon finally reaches the door.
I climb under and over the tangle of plant that’s spreading its fan-shaped leaves across the roof. From this angle it looks like its branches really are trying to break through the glass.
I duck underneath a giant leaf finger and hold back some grape-vines to find the shelf.
I pick up the Jiffy bag. It’s heavier than I expected. I climb out back over the branches to find that Hope’s gone, leaving me on my own to open Nana Josie’s Protest Book.
The words on the cover say ‘Josie’s Book of Protest’. It’s written in her arty swirly handwriting. I wasn’t expecting to feel so nervous about opening this. It’s like I’m meeting my nana for the first time. I take the chime out of the silk purse in my pocket, hold it in my hand and turn to the first page. There’s a black-and-white photo of Nana in a straw hat. Her hair is wound into long thick plaits. She must be about twenty years old. She’s smiling at me.
I turn the next page. There’s a card, it says Josie Levenson – it’s an Anti-Apartheid membership card. In a little envelope stuck on underneath there are some small black-and-white photos and newspaper clipping of people on marches holding banners. There’s one of Nana Josie in America on a Civil Rights march. It’s hard to believe that not v
ery long ago there was segregation in American schools. It’s scary to think about. I peer at one picture. I think the tall woman with the floaty long dress might be Hope. It’s so weird to see old people when they were young. I pick out Simon in a crowd, pushing along his bike. It actually looks like the same one . . . Simon hasn’t even changed that much, except in the picture his beard and hair are thick and sun-streaked, hugging his face like a mane. He’s got the same playful expression in his eyes. I wonder if he’s ever cut his hair.
I flick forward. The book is crammed full of articles and leaflets about marches, campaigns, protests and vigils . . . I’ve seen some of those on the news, people standing on pavements of flowers and lit candles. I love the way that Nana’s arranged tickets and articles on each page, like she knew they were important. She’s written a list of all the marches she’s been on, and on one page there are lots of slogans. At the head of another she’s written the lyrics for protest songs. I think Krish would like to read that page. Why did she record all these things so carefully? I suppose it’s just that she wanted to keep a record, like people post things on Facebook . . . but actually not, because it feels like she always knew someone in our family would hold it in their hand eventually and maybe treasure it . . .
There’s an article about rabbits that they test make-up on. Who could think up doing something like that? The rabbits’ eyes are all swollen and it says here that some of them go blind – just so people can use make-up. Maybe if Kez knew this she wouldn’t be so into her eyeliner and mascara. I’ll have to tell her to check if they’ve tested it on animals. Maybe people don’t think about this stuff. I never have before. There’s all these pictures of how animals are slaughtered. I can’t even look at them.
I turn another page and wish I hadn’t, because there’s a photo of Simon on his bike with flowers threaded through the wheel spokes and garlands around his neck, and apart from the flowers he’s not wearing anything else. He’s riding alongside a girl with curly red hair streaming down her back; wild and long like a cloak, covering her milky-white skin. She reminds me a bit of Kez. Apart from the hair and flowers, she’s naked too. Behind them someone is holding a placard that says ‘Naked Bike Ride – Campaign against Climate Change’. I suppose if you’re wearing no clothes and you’re riding a bike, you’re definitely going to get your message across!
Tender Earth Page 10