The Grove

The Grove

The cold dark thrust of the winter's night did not deter the group from
meeting, on cue, in their shed. Well it isn't exactly a shed. More of a
backdoor dumping ground for broken down electrical items such as
toasters, fridges and televisions, sometimes even mattresses - the
outgoing council tenants could not be bothered to have repaired. Yet
the mixed race group, an ad-hoc selection of girls and boys whose mean
age numbers their composition, do not seem to heed the signs. And
neither does the present tenant. But he is away during weekdays,
working on plans to dominate the world from somewhere else. I just have
the misfortune living within visual and audio distance, witnessing his
absent troubles on the home front.

"What are they up to now?" I said knocking over the half-cold coffee
with the curly flex of the warming iron. The stain would go away,
eventually. "I see and where did they get that idea from?" Despite
their usual library of boisterous tricks they carried a generally
placid nature. But pushing a stolen car into the middle of the grove
told me something else was stirring their energies. "Ah ha, and there
goes the windows!" Not one for being first in line when issues involve
other peoples cultural leisure activities; I would normally not bother
registering the existence of something that I disagreed with. After all
if God had intended us to be, he would have made us all better
citizens. But on this occasion the police had to be informed. At first
I resisted, sure that they would go away eventually. But that
eventually, like all the rest of them, passed this citizen by like a
bad complaint. It was like waiting for a number nine bus, the one I
usually catch to sign on once every fortnight. When they are running
late they take a few out of service dismissing some of the temporary
drivers early. They probably don't save much money by doing it either,
just the cost of a couple of postage stamps and two manila envelopes,
one of which is for the sae. Half an hour later, I realised that the
volunteer's label had my name on it. I dialled and got one of those
answering machines. I don't like talking to those things.

The following evening, as if on cue from some scriptwriter's pen, four
of the group leopard crawled across the no man's land between verge and
artefact, making good headway towards the now derelict car. I suppose
some art gallery would pay a lot of money for spontaneous anarchic art
like that. For me it was just a heap of twisted metal awaiting a
funeral director to press the button to cremation. They were good, I'll
give you that, perfect imitations of universal soldiers. They even
managed to miss the sticky oil slick now strangling the dying prairie.
After all, when mother saw the dried results that would raise
suspicions on washday. They slithered up the ramparts, camouflaged by
the irregular shadows from the meagre street lighting. Bodies like
limpets on speed. Someone shouted something very loud. Within less than
the time it takes to wipe a tear, the event was complete. The voice.
The flash of Chinese crackers. The explosive burnt red, orange and
yellow flailing arms bringing back the sixties, prizing their way
through the blackened veil. The adroit regular shadows running from the
epicentre of their creative world. The thirty-minute wait after the
gentle but firm voice assured the fire crew were on their way for a
second time. My nails were broken from the irritated, nervous tapping
on the side of the mug. The grand entrance pierced by ultra blue light
spiralling its course. The further frenetic activity of withdrawal from
the normally blood stated sharks. The generous helping of noise
pollution as the water pump started and the fountain of youth
contained. The delayed realisation from the crumb-filled unspeakable
makeshift bed. The Anglo Saxon hero's had housed their hoses back into
their angelic bright red machine and had departed. Unfortunately their
enthusiasm destroyed any possibility of finding forensic evidence.
Having left the message on the answer machine I would have expected
them to knock. Is it too much trouble to ask for a word of
thanks?

My diary tells me it was a whole two weeks before the next art event
was staged. It must have been two weeks because I had just been to sign
on. Selecting Friday showed more their cunning because the following
day was Saturday. That was the fundraising day, an expected event
because of the posters in the job centre, when all the fire crews would
have their buckets full, lathering up people's new and not so new
obsession with speedy transport. Not that these new models do not look
sleek. Those car programmes on television know a good curve when they
see one. But if I were a car, would I want to evolve into looking like
every other one that comes off the factory conveyor belt? Some of those
willing to pay for their cars to be pampered in such an ostentatious
fashion could just as easily walk. Especially if they're using them to
visit the community recycling bins. I have to walk to recycle my waste.
Not that I am against this type of entrepreneurial spirit. Give me
transparent wings and I would also try and fly. But like the bumblebee
no one can believe it possible to move that fast and within that body.
Some miracles will never cease to amaze. When you have nothing you live
on nothing and wasting is a luxury. What irony when I seek to be alone
and society makes a big issue out of it. The issue that most concerned
me, because of the safety of my four-month old daughter, was that I
remained unsure whether the police would use my garbled and rather
unsavoury message left, in my defence, during the heat of the event.
Even though I didn't make public the fact that I had earned my
volunteer wings, gossip had performed its function and the news was not
good. Indeed if the fire crew had knocked on my door I heard there
wouldn't be a door still hanging there.

It was early, around ten, the following frost-free morning. Well I say
early but it usually is for the council, especially at the weekend when
only a few of the skeletal emergency service personnel had managed to
overcome the temptation to call in sick, preferring instead to be a
participant in the crowd at the local football derby. A white transit
circled the grove and the burnt out shell of the second car several
times, stopping occasionally whilst the passenger, possibly a
journalist because of the size of his zoom lens, took photographs. You
knew it was the council because of the big red letters, capital
letters, informing everybody who could read that the council had
contracted out some of its services. In between the council's and
photojournalists cameo appearance together with the appearance of the
lead role as played by the uniformed vehicle breakdown man, who removed
the post-modern blemish from the naturalising landscape, five of the
group returned for a once over. Once over the fact that they had just
had their playground thing removed, they turned their ever changing,
short time frame attentions to the grove searching it seemed for their
next potential prey. I hid behind the lace curtains leaving the light
on because that was what you did when you went out. Their wandering
anger in the event of their loss could all have been innocent. I am not
that ill witted to not be able to see the results of children's
inventive imaginations. But what people think is humorous is limited.
The group approached and there was no way of knowing what they could
achieve if they set their mind to it. I mean Einstein and Marilyn
Monroe, who would have thought it? I didn't even touch the phone until
the very last minute, mainly because I know what it is like to on the
receiving end of misplaced accusations. The definition of normal in
some people's mind is the opposite of subnormal. I couldn't prevent
myself from picking up it up though. It was sort of instinctive even
though I don't hold in high regard any uniformed activity. I was
expecting an answering machine again but a polite sergeant answered.
All he could do was apologise. Unfortunately the usual emergency desk
operator had had to go home early that Saturday morning because of a
domestic emergency. A concerned citizen had called the office saying
that some young people were about to set a car aflame. Ironically it
belonged to her and had been criminally removed from the car park of
her local pub from where she had walked home the night before. I
suppose it is a shame that the birch isn't more popular these days,
days when everybody is defending his or her own human right.

The doorbell rang. I checked who it was before I opened the door.
Safety these days cannot be taken lightly. The neighbour beamed a
warming smile as he handed me a bunch of colourful flowers, by way of
thanks and apology. Concerned, he said he was going to do something
about the shed before he went away again Sunday evening. I accepted the
offering without hesitation knowing the cost of cut flowers is on the
up. If he returned with them to his one bedroom flat they would have
ended up heads down in the bin. And besides, from small seeds as they
say&;#8230; I mentioned that the police had circled a couple of
times since the attempt at reconstructing Armageddon. He, like me,
thought that they were at least starting to show some concern for their
citizens. And that their actions might have a positive effect. He made
a witty comment by saying what you don't see won't hurt you but it made
little sense when faced with taking the law into your own hands. In
contrast, I mentioned that the police had spent time with the group
last week. One had even taken down names in one of those palm-sized
notebooks sharpening his pencil with one of the group's confiscated
pocketknives. The neighbour laughed suggesting that the names they gave
were probably those of their jailers at the local school. Probably, I
confirmed, inviting him for a mug of coffee. He looked the sort who
didn't mind a mug. He declined but by way of recompense invited me
around to his flat when he had completed his contribution towards
reshaping the future. Of course I accepted, I would have been a fool
not to wouldn't I? However I don't yet know a trustworthy local
babysitter who will act as surrogate mother. Someone in the grove might
help me but I doubt it. Despite the neighbourhood watch signs they
remain aloof. And I doubt if they would show to me the same concern as
they did recent events. I am supposed to be a responsible mother with a
charge accepting accordingly the criticisms of my peers. What the other
residents don't realise is that I do accept those responsibilities,
perhaps more so. Or perhaps not. Perhaps I will reciprocate the same
sparsely scatted seeds of warm regards. The hens will have a field day
around the plastic cocks kept in perpetual motion by water. I can't
wait to see the look on their stern criticising faces when I leave the
grove a married woman.

It took ages to rock baby to sleep, but she's down now. Not that she
should have been woken up. Her from downstairs, the one they say has
only brandy and milk for any meal. She panicked calling me on my mobile
and I could do nothing else but tell him the truth. Oh well, no use
crying over spilt milk as they say. I seem to have wasted more gallons
than there are teats on a cow's udder. I suppose if I had slipped
cigarettes to one of those girls she would have minded the cot. Had the
sense not to disturb a woman and her potential man. She would have
understood that I meant call only in an emergency, not when the half
bottle of brandy I managed to put on the slate turns out to be off. The
things those corner shop keepers think they can get away with! It's
licence for crime and you know what they say about ablutions on the
doorstep. But I still don't trust them. None of them. Perhaps that's my
problem. The midwife mentioned that I was a trust less person when she
called by the other week. She didn't have to come by. She said she was
on her way home but it looked to me like the visit was official. I
threw the letter in the bin, unopened. If they want something they'll
call round again no doubt. Any way I didn't tell him that he was the
father. At least I kept that promise to myself. He'll probably leave
early now without touching that shed and it's spilt contents.
"Now what's upset you? Okay my little secret, I'm here".