George and Spider Part Nine - The Lawns Estate

The Lawns Estate was a stark collection of human dwellings, constructed upon a flat expanse of land, high above sea level.

It consisted of four high-rise blocks of flats and two rows of terraced maisonettes, these were houses in miniature; tiny homes with tiny rooms, confined and confining on all levels. There were no trees or shrubs on the estate, or indeed anything to please the human eye or lift the mortal spirit. Instead there was just an awful lot of short patchy grass, criss-crossed with earthy paths created by years of moving feet, attired in the various passing fashions of footwear.

It was said, that the wind that whistled across The Lawns came straight off Siberia, so harsh and raw was its character. Years of repeated exposure could, over time, wither away a man's spirit and harden the face of a woman.

In essence the place was hostile. Children didn't play, instead they lingered and scowled, plants didn't thrive, they grew twisted and prostrate, stifled by the cruel wind. The dogs on the estate barked in a high pitched tone of desperation. Even the pensioners were barbed and dangerous, for they expired long before they grew old enough to become vulnerable.

It had been during the nineteen sixties when a fine white Georgian house was demolished to make way for this once, state of the art, modern village. At the time of its unveiling there were great celebrations. The local council were very proud of the new estate and people simply couldn't wait to move in. Local folk were quick to refer to it as "the archipelago", on account of the way that the buildings seemed to rise out the flat expanse of lawn like islands rising from the sea.

In many ways it had lived up to its nickname; thirty years later many residents felt isolated, cut off from the rest of the city, or "the mainland". There was a sense that to cross the estate was treacherous, particularly after dark, it was like a perilous sea; gangs waited in the subway like shoals of fish, and dangerous monsters would wander around looking for vulnerable fry on which to prey. From time to time the decaying shells of wrecked vehicles were left washed up on the turf, like sunken ships stranded upon sand banks. These rusting playgrounds acted as a reef; attracting various litter and debris and small children.

The more mature residents still referred to the estate as the archipelago, but younger generations called it by its proper name, and edgier members of the local youth simply called it "the grass". Spider in particular had an aversion to the word archipelago, he cringed when Maureen and her friends referred to it so readily by this soft title. It seemed to him like an endearing name for a place which no-one loved and which loved no-one. This contrast had a sad, churning effect on Spider's spirit, it somehow reminded him of the pain of his childhood.

At the base of one of the tower blocks was a once thriving little row of shops known as Meadows View Precinct. Two of these units had long been boarded up with metal and covered with graffiti, one had been converted to a sort of neighbourhood drop-in centre, another was a kebab shop which only opened late at night. There remained a very handy news agent which provided all the local children with alcoholic poisons of their choice. Honest minded people with warm blood and clean livers would have been wise to avoid passing this area. It was rather like crossing "the doom bar", even in daylight.

Spider still lived at his childhood home, maisonette number forty two. Like the surrounding homes it was one room wide with no hallway, the front door opening straight onto the cosy sitting room, at the rear was a little kitchen with fold-out table, beyond that a tiny patio garden; loose paving slabs mortared with cigarette butts. None of the maisonettes had driveways, the estate being sort of pedestrianised with a separate communal car park and a long walkway running along the front of all the properties. Adjacent to the walkway were the vast windswept lawns and the tower blocks beyond.

It was generally thought that the maisonettes were slightly superior to the flats but this wasn't true at all. The rooms within the maisonettes were smaller, they had less bedroom space and were considerably less private since the public walked directly in front of their windows throughout the day.

George strode along the walkway with his hood up to keep out the worst of the wind. In his experience it was rare for a trip to The Lawns to pass without some minor incident or other. Youths would sometimes approach him to ask for a cigarette while the flicker of some other, more sinister intention burned in their eyes. There would often be some incongruous object left upon the path, such as a toaster, or a sleeping baby in a drawer. The journey to Spider's place was never relaxing.

Today's peculiarity was a large yellow tent, erected in the middle of the grassy expanse. George stared at it. It looked so ridiculous there, blowing about in the wind, in a place that surely no-one would want to camp, and so yellow too. Such was his perplexity that he forgot to watch his step and tripped on one of many uneven paving slabs. He cursed and walked on, but his thudding heart had attracted the attention of one of the residents. The huge white German Shepherd from number thirty two was out and about. George had often seen the creature sitting in the window, blocking out the light with its pink tongue hanging down. It had been sitting on the grass like an enormous heap of slightly yellowed snow, but now it pricked its ears and being rather cow-hocked, it began to hobble towards George. He was a dog lover, an avid dog lover but this creature frightened him and he walked a little faster, trying hard to keep his gait casual.

Such was the monotonous appearance of the maisonettes that George often walked straight past Spider's home, despite having made hundreds of visits. He was careful not to do this, for the dog was trotting behind him now; he could hear its overgrown claws clicking rhythmically on the pavement. He imagined the thing was stalking him, like some hungry urban polar bear. Spider's front door was discernible by a hard white stain on the glass panel, perhaps from an egg, thrown many years ago on Halloween and now set solid like glue. George rushed up to the door, pushing his chest to it and pressed the bell.

Spider had been crouched down picking bits off his carpet. He sensed a level of urgency in the way that the doorbell had wrung and he could see from the height of his visitor that it was George, for his form was faintly visible through the bevelled glass.

Instead of standing up, Spider walked to the door upon his bony knees and reached up, stretching to open it. George burst in, pushing his friend out of the way and slamming the door, panting with relief.

'George! What's in your mind?'

George continued to pant, then pulled down his hood and said, 'What? Why are you so small?'

'I've been cleaning - picking up dots.' Spider stood up now and said, 'Why are you stressed, what's happened?'

'Phew. That bloody, gigantic white dog was following me. I don't like it mate, it scares me. It's still out there, it's still there Spider!' George said, pressing his face against the glass.

'Oh her - Angel. She's not that big you know. The guy shaved her once, when we had that heat wave last year. She was like a whippet under.'

'Don't be silly Spider. She's a bloody polar bear. Good job I didn't bring Crystal, she hates shepherds.'

Spider was distressed by this news. 'Why didn't you?'

'Just been to the cemetery mate.'

'Oh. White ones are different anyway, they've got different DNA.'

'What to normal shepherds?'

'T's what I said. Sometimes in the summer, I let her in for a biscuit. Stinks the place out, white hairs everywhere, each one as long as a needle.'

George threw off his jumper and sat down on the sofa. This was actually an ancient sofa-bed with a small dip on one side where Spider had sat for the past fifteen years. The room was sparse, but its small size dictated that it could only ever be a cosy space. Dotted around were a few ornaments and objects which hadn't moved since Spider's mother had lived there. There was a porcelain figure of a mother holding a child, a white dove and an encyclopedia of family health. These objects seemed to jar with the reality of Spider's childhood. He'd never thought of removing them, he simply didn't see them, they had become invisible.

Just next to where George was sitting stood a large bin constructed of wire mesh and full to the brim with golf balls, mostly white in colour, broken up with the odd orange or pink one. Spider had found and pocketed these during his nocturnal pursuits on exclusive estate. He'd never played golf but he often took these balls out to "play with".

'There's a smell in here you know Spider,' George said, lifting his head and sniffing the air. 'It's not German shepherd, it is bad though.'

Spider shook his head and shrugged. 'Can't smell nothing.'

George pointed to the large model of a spacecraft which sat almost complete upon a little coffee table, the middle one of a nest, and said, 'How's you project going?'

'What?' Spider pretended not to know what George was speaking off, for he was proud of his creation and shy about it. 'Oh that, Battlestar Pegasus. She's almost complete, I'm taking my time George, can't afford to buy any Humbrols until next week, they're bloody expensive, and I don't want to be left with nothing to do, I hate that. I was going to ask actually, can we fit in a small job this week?'

George sighed and rubbed his forehead. 'No mate, I don't think so,' he said, 'We're biding our time now, working up to the big one.'