To See the Light Return
Page 27
For most of her life before the farm, she remembered her mother as pregnant, or breast feeding. Then pregnant again. She might as well have been one of the sows in the farrowing pen. If Primrose hadn’t run away from the fat farm, had been sent across the sea, that could have been her. With a shock, she realised her mother had had no more choice over the direction of her life than Primrose would have if she had been sold to a baby farm in New Jersey. Her father hadn’t been so much better off, even if as a man he had more status. Both of them had been trapped from birth, given roles and responsibities regardless of whether those suited them or not, because that was what benefited the people in charge.
What a relief. She could stop feeling so sorry for herself, as the burden of pity shifted and she found herself feeling sorry for them. She looked up and saw Will watching her, looking worried. A huge smile burst out of her as she looked at his face, grateful to have this chance of a new start.
The car was returned to its owner in Yealmpton, who accepted the keys from Will with a sardonic smile but no reproach, before leading them to the rooms they would stay in overnight and telling them a small party was being held in their honour; information that prompted a mix of social anxiety and delight in Primrose, who had never attended a party before. She worried she was not appropriately dressed, but everyone present in the rather grand dining room was wearing ordinary clothes, and she felt quite at home in Mrs Prendaghast’s castoffs. A toast was drunk to the four of them, and she blushed at the attention. It was all delightful, but she was happy to leave them to it after a couple of hours and accompany Will to the room they had been given, where they curled up together in the big bed and fell straight to sleep.
They left early the next morning, walking down a steep and winding path through woods to the river, as the rest of their journey would be made by water. Merryn had explained that Cornwall had been cut off since the Devon militia blew up the road and rail bridges to Saltash and mined the roads. There were good transport links with northern France and the south coast of Wales, but the county had been largely cut off from the mainland since.
‘Did us a power of good,’ he had said. ‘We pooled resources, sorted out our food and energy, without resorting to any of the drastic measures Devon adopted. We’re almost self-sufficient now. But having the border open will be a boon, once we’ve cleared the mines.’
A crossing could be made across the Tamar, but it would be safer for them to sail round to Saltash. Plymouth was having some trouble adjusting to change, and the area was considered too volatile for a river crossing there.
Primrose had never been on the water before. The novelty of climbing on board the dinghy and being rowed out to the boat – which seemed large enough from the riverbank but was dwarfed the moment they left the mooring and headed out midstream – swiftly wore off. There was so much space between her and the horizon, once they emerged from the steep valley that cradled the River Yealm, that she hid below deck until forced back out into the fresh air by seasickness. Will held her close and told her to look at the horizon to keep the nausea at bay. She gulped the air and, as feelings of sickness and panic receded, the exhilaration of moving across water asserted itself, the only sound the creak of ropes and mast.
Fires were burning in Plymouth. Great plumes of black smoke tainted the blue of the sky. Some had been caused by the power grid coming back online. Others had been set by rioters trying to assert control in the power vacuum left by Spight. Merryn told them local SCREW activists were patrolling the streets on behalf of the UN, until the new Devon decided how to handle things.
Her head was nodding as they arrived at the stone dock below the ruins of the old bridges at Saltash. The sun was heading towards the horizon by the time they were done putting the boat to bed, but as the four of them walked up the steep road, there was enough light left in the day for her to look around and wonder at how much difference such a comparatively short journey had made.
The street surface they walked upon was even and flat. The doors of the houses stood open and children ran in and out in gangs, looking cheerful as they shrieked and played; all the children she had known in Bodingleigh had been too tired from chores to do much at the end of the day. Older residents sat on the front doorways of tidy-looking buildings, or weeded windowboxes full of salads and herbs. House and street lights were on, powered no doubt by the solar panels that covered the southerly exposure of every rooftop.
When they reached the top of the street they emerged into a sea of colour from a large garden that occupied the whole of the road, which Will told her was communal. Anyone could help plant or tend vegetables and fruit, and everyone could harvest, regardless of whether they had done any work. Primrose remembered her father beating someone who had snuck in and stolen potatoes from his patch, and the people hanged for taking what didn’t belong to them. Such abundance and generosity were shocking to her.
‘Where are the cars?’ she asked, as they moved along the road. The garden spread out before her as far as she could see. She could even see stands of grain and rows of small trees growing among the vegetables, herbs and flowers. A few sheep were tethered in one area of grass, cropping it peacefully.
‘We keep them on the outskirts,’ Demelza replied. ‘We have bikes, rickshaws, scooters, skateboards, all sorts inside our towns. Cars are shared. Will can teach you to drive if you like, so you can book one through the car club if you want to explore, or go visit Mrs P once the roads have been repaired.’
Primrose looked at Will to see if Demelza was joking, and he nodded, amused by her expression. The thought of driving was something she had never considered before. Perhaps learning to ride a bike should come first.
Merryn stopped outside a house. ‘This is where I leave you.’
‘This is where you live?’
A small face was watching them from inside. It disappeared, and a moment later a girl aged about five had shot out of the open front door and thrown her arms around Merryn’s legs. He scooped her up and held her close, nuzzling her hair so she squeaked with delight.
‘Yes. Come visit tomorrow and Will and I can show you around the bigger farms, the wind farm and anaerobic digestion plants if you like.’ He turned to Demelza. ‘You take care now, I’ll see you at the Assembly next week.’ He hugged them all in turn with his one available arm, said goodbye and went into the house, his daughter chattering her news throughout.
‘What’s the assembly?’ asked Primrose, as the three of them continued onwards.
‘It’s a general meeting, anyone can come,’ Demelza explained. ‘It’s where we share news, celebrate successes and make decisions. It’s fun, you should come. The next one’ll be, like, a huge party.’
Demelza left them at the car club at the edge of the town, to collect a vehicle to drive to her home village of Millbrook. The cars were parked neatly in rows under screens of solar panels, heavy black umbilicals leading from the panels to power them. Primrose could see how this would shade them in hot weather, and the panels could be placed where they were needed, without taking up more room than necessary.
She admired the logic, but ‘How much further?’ she asked, starting to droop.
‘Not much, we’re just a couple of streets further on.’
Will’s house was in the middle of a terrace. Here too, the door was open, light spilling out onto the front step. It was almost full dark now. Primrose hesitated when she heard voices inside. What if his family didn’t like her? Will dragged her up the shallow steps, then paused in the doorway. When his eyes met hers, he looked nervous.
‘I hope you’ll like it here, Prim. I want you to stay.’
She looked at him, incredulous. ‘Are you kidding? Where else am I going to go?’
‘Anywhere you like. No one’s making decisions for you anymore.’
She considered that for a moment. It opened up a freedom that made her feel dizzy with possibilities. The whole world was hers to explore.
‘I think this will do fine, fo
r now at least.’
He looked anxious at that, until he saw the smile at the corner of her mouth and kissed it.
‘Come on,’ he said as he pulled her through the open doorway. ‘Come meet my folks.’
acknowledgements
Many thanks to my readers, Jo, Jane, Rebecca and Becks for giving feedback on early drafts, and keeping me going with encouragement. Also thanks to my editor, Lynn Curtis, and to designer Tricia Stubberfield for the awesome cover.
Thanks also to the people inspired me. In particular:
Pete Bethune, of Earthrace Conservation, who sparked this story when I read in an interview that he and his crew each donated a kilo of fat for their first boat. (One kilo = 1 litre fuel, approx. Don't try this at home.)
Polly Higgins and her team, for their campaign to criminalise the destruction of ecosystems and have ecocide recognised as a war crime.
Greenpeace.
Bill McKibben and 350.org.
Greta Thunberg and the school strikers.
Extinction Rebellion.
Everyone who has put their bodies on the line or otherwise dedicated their lives to maintaining a liveable biosphere on our beautiful planet. I salute you.
about the author
Sophie Galleymore Bird has a varied CV that includes selling audioguides at the Tate and life modelling for the Royal Academy. Her first novel, Maneater, was published in 1993, an experience that led to her working in marketing and social activism for the next quarter century. To See The Light Return is her first self-published novel.
Sophie lives in a corner of a mock-Gothic manse with a laurel-infested garden, in Devon, with her family, dog, cat, chickens and abundant wildlife.
She is currently working on a trilogy of crime thrillers. To find out more, visit her Facebook author page or find her on Instagram under sophiegorebird.
10% of profits from this book will go towards funding the activities of Transition Town Totnes, part of the Transition Network.