All stories

Pete made sure his top was tucked into his jeans, his belt good and tight. He topped up his face protection, extra thorough with the cream around his eyes and the tips of his ears. Next, on with the poncho and his gloves, his face mask, his sunglasses, and the final glory, wide floppy hat with the brim pulled down low.

The boys had nicknamed him The Invisible Man, but never to his face.

He left the pub, sloshing through the hailstone ice strewn across the car park. Even close to home he did not slow, despite the sweat trickling down his back. Pete was of an age before all those trillions had been pumped into the weather forecasting game and he still couldn’t take on faith forecasts with their two-minute accuracy.

He went straight through into the kitchen with removing any of his garb. He held a glass under the tap but didn’t set the water running.

His daughter half naked in the garden again.

Pete charged down the decking, trying to keep the urgency from his voice as he commanded Robyn to get inside out of the sun, right this moment, young lady.

He halted, Robyn with one hand up over her eyes. She was not alone. Sitting below her on the steps in just his swimming costume was the boy she’d met at the hospital, Johnathon.

No one said anything. Pete removed his face mask and his sunglasses. The silence continued.

Pete took charge. He said, ‘How is your…uh…grandfather? How are those gallstones?’

‘He’s good, thanks. One more visit, then he’s cured.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

More silence, Pete standing there beneath his layers and his factor five hundred, a grotesque glove puppet towering above these youngsters semi-naked sprawled around on the decking without a care. Robyn with a smile, but it was tight-lipped, and she kept looking at Pete then flicking her eyes to look back at the house.

Pete said, ‘I know I sound like a mother hen, but it’s important. You miss one scrap of skin, just one, and the way the sun is these days…’

Johnathon nodded seriously. ‘I get it, Mr S, but we’ve been real careful. I guarantee it: I haven’t missed one inch of your daughter’s skin.’

This time the silence with real weight to it, fastening itself around the boy’s legs to pull him down into a pit of sudden horror. His eyes had gone wide.

He said, ‘I meant the suntan lotion, Mr S. Mr Sutcliffe. Just the suntan lotion, yeah?’

Pete stared at the boy, Pete trying to not to laugh. There was this little ball of warmth inside him, his wife’s voice again in his head, telling him how could they ask for anything better to apply sun protection to their teenage daughter than a teenage boy?

Robyn had her eyes closed. She said, ‘Oh God,’ then rolled to her feet to tug at her father’s arm and shepherd him back to the house. He let himself be drawn, happier now than he’d felt in a while. Halfway through the kitchen door, he stopped and faced his daughter. He couldn’t help but smile at her scowl. It deepened.

Pete said, ‘I lost one of my girls to the sun. You think I’m going to let it happen again?’

Catherine had always dreamed of running a business.

And with daughters and husband gone, she’d done it. Selling organic bouquet-garnis and other sustainable herb products grown in her garden.

She’d had no complaints about married life or motherhood but this was her time. Alone, in France with a kind of independence that women of her generation hadn’t had before. Using her art degree on the design. Using monetary skills honed by running a house on a budget. Using her deep love for nature, largely forgotten for forty years. True happiness had come like late-flowering lavender.

But the hot sun of this freak summer made it hard.

Shade was a relief as she wafted round the market like a tall poppy, waving at farmers and addressing them in schoolgirl French. (The farmers couldn’t understand a word but smiled benevolently because she paid over the odds and employed their children).

“La Grele! A quatorze heures” said the farmers looking at the sky and ostentatiously shivering to signify something. Catherine nodded sagely but uncomprehendingly. She’d never mastered the 24 hour clock properly and didn’t know what was occurring at whatever time they were on about.

“Oui, il fait chaud!” she smiled.

A coffee in the square with ex-pat friends preceded a lovely walk home through undulating countryside, Catherine loved the smell of hot pine. Her basket was stuffed with goat’s cheese that would moulder in her fridge but was irresistibly wrapped in brown leaves.

A heaven as hot as hell.

Christ these gallstones, she should have taken her pills. 40 degrees. It didn’t used to get this hot in France.

A big sleeve tattoo of purple cloud brewed upon the horizon. She sat down under the shade of a large tree and dreamed.

She couldn’t say how long she’d dropped off for but the wind that whipped her awake was freezing cold.

Everything had changed.

Geese honked desperately and wood cracked in the forest.

The storm broke. Savage skies threw hailstones at her as though she were a Saudi woman stepping out of line. She tried to walk on through nature’s fury, too old to run. The wind blew right in her face. The golf ball sized spheres of ice battered her mercilessly. They knocked her down and blacked her eye. She cried for help. A 2cv with an English number-plate passed but did not stop.

She staggered blindly through the space where her gate had been and into the carnage of her beloved garden and scrabbled desperately to save things.

The largest branch of an apple tree was ripped from the trunk and knocked her to the floor again and this time she slept for a long time.

She woke again days later. She was in bed. It was sweltering again. Her daughters squabbled about whose fault it was she’d been left out here on her own. And who would be taking her home to England. She knew neither of them really wanted to, she didn’t want to either, but she also knew from the pain that wracked her body that she wouldn’t walk again.

She felt despair and regret that her changed life and her conversion to the cause of nature had been too little and too late for both of them.

Spuds were on, chicken was roasting, carpet was clean. They’d be here any minute and Ruth really didn’t know why she was so nervous.

Rachel had brought boys home before; nice lads, all beardless blushes and polite smiles, each smooth, nervous face blending seamlessly into the next, a string of Johns, Dans, Daves and Christophers.

But Rachel seemed really taken with Ocean. She said he was really authentic, whatever that meant. She’d phoned the night before to make sure she wouldn’t wear something embarrassing and that Elly wouldn’t get in the way. She didn’t want Ocean thinking they were lazy or poor or stupid.

So Ruth had splashed out on the chicken from the supermarket, Elly happily engaged with garish glove puppets on TV and the house was as immaculate as five hours’ cleaning could get it.

The doorbell rang.

“Rachel. love, welcome home. You must be Ocean, come in, sorry, my husband’s away - gallstones it is, so he’s up the hospital. He’s sorry he couldn’t meet you.”

“Mum stop fussing”

“Sorry, love sorry. Sit down. Chicken’s in the oven. Ready in about ten minutes.”

Ocean cooly scanned the room “Don’t eat chicken. Sorry. Biggest contributing factor to climate change, the meat industry. Barbaric.”

The sentence hung in the air for a second. That voice, that accent he sounded like someone from Radio 4. Ruth broke the silence.

“Sorry, Ocean, love, I didn’t realise. We’ll just have some nice veggies instead then, is it?”

Ocean didn’t speak, but he did sit at the table and Ruth took that for agreement. She poured them all a glass of chilled Blue Nun.

Over dinner Ocean explained that Ruth’s TV, her lifestyle, her clothes, her food were all basically destroying the planet, that people like her were just making everything worse.

“Those hailstones in Texas last month? Size of cars, some of them. People died. But if everyone just did their bit the world would be a better place. With just a few tweaks even you could make a huge difference.”

Ruth nervously hid her chicken under her cabbage and stammered something apologetic. Rachel was gazing at Ocean with undisguised adoration.

“After Uni, Mum, me and Ocean are going to India. He says we can buy clothes and jewellery there for basically nothing and then sell them for, like, ten times as much at Glastonbury. He says people will pay more for them because they’re authentic.”

“But isn’t flying bad for -”

“Mum!” hissed Rachel, glaring. Ruth closed her mouth, confused. Hadn’t David Attenborogh said something about flying being bad for the environment? Maybe Ocean would be interested in the programme. She had recorded it off of Sky -

But Ocean couldn’t stay long after dinner. He finished the Blue Nun, sparked up a Marlborough and hugged Ruth goodbye.

“Thanks for the food Mrs Davies. Think about what I said won’t you? Next time I’ll bring some authentic quinoa I had imported from Peru. I think you’ll love it.”

“Keen-who? Oh him from The Matrix? Do you know him then? That would be exciting wouldn’t it, Rachel?”

Rachel rolled her eyes and Ocean just smiled, patting her shoulder before the two of them clambered into Ocean’s enormous, ancient VW campervan and chuntered down the road in a cloud of authentic black smoke.

I seemed to be upside down. The car radio was playing "Goddamn right it’s a beautiful day" by The Eels and I tried singing along. Something in my mouth got in the way. There was no other noise, silence shimmered off the tarmac. I realised that my face was very close to the road. I became aware of the pressure across my chest and stomach.

"Goddamn right it's a beautiful day." My tongue wouldn't form the right sounds. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a large white form. It wasn't quite a perfect sphere and it was melting. Melting? That seemed odd the more I thought about it and I thought really hard, as hard as I could.

I had driven through a storm, I was on the motorway. It was a gallstone. Huge. Like a rock. I could see others in my peripheral vision. I like The Eels.

“No, it's not a bloody gallstone you twat” said a voice. “It's a hailstone.”

Of course it was. Enormous hailstones. Just another freak weather event that was no longer so freaky.

“What are you, a fucking Yank, what do you mean freaky?” said the voice again. Yes, right, I'm not American, I should have said unusual. It was so hard to think.

All the blood had rushed to my head, on account of me being upside down. Some of it was rushing out of my head too. I could taste and smell the iron, feel the warm slime of it. I could see it dripping down past my nose onto the road.

It was crimson and that made me feel proud. Like when I gave blood, saw it so red and luxuriant in the plastic blood bag, feeling proud as I had my squash and penguin bar afterwards. Maybe I could have some back now, some of my own squash.

“You're at it again idiot, you don't want your squash back, you'll need blood. What the fuck is the matter with you?”

That seemed like a good question. I checked. I appeared to be hanging from a seatbelt, bleeding out and a little broken in a mangled mess of metal. I felt that I should tell the voice, whoever it was. There didn't appear to be anyone around, I tried to move my head again but it hurt so much.

“Keep still you knob.”

This time the voice seemed to be coming from my right. With effort I could see the colourful stripy hat and the little furry ears.

“Don't look at me” it shouted. It was a small monkey looking thing, fluffy with pink dungarees. It had no feet. Just arms. I wondered where its legs had gone.

“I'm a fucking glove puppet” it said. “I have no legs, that's where you shove your big hand.”

Glove puppet. Janey’s glove puppet. Janey in the back, strapped into her seat. Little blonde girl with the curls, who hadn't made a noise this whole time. Good girl I thought.

“Goddamn right. It’s a beautiful day”.

"He's been talking again."

"Talking?"

"You know," said Harvey. "About change."

The other man sighed, kneading his temples. "And the vitals?"

"All good. Stable. Took a bit of a knock but he's a tough goat. That's your headline right there."

"Listen, Harvey. You need to talk to him again. We can't have this whole change thing out there in the world. It won't run well."

Harvey raised his cup. "I'll drink to that."

---

The curtains had been drawn early this morning, and the window opened, but the air was stifling. The bed's occupant sat up a little.

"Morning, Harvey."

"Good morning, sir, how are you? I've brought the papers, some fresh clothes, and this.” He opened a leather case stuffed with envelopes. “I’m guessing you’ll read them later?”

“You know me. I love the well-wishers.”

Harvey fussed a little with the bedside flowers, poured fresh water, then sat down.

“Harvey, I know this has been hard for you.”

“Sir?”

“All this. I know it makes everything difficult to manage, I know you think I should jack it in.”

“Sir, I would never -”

The patient waved him away, irritated. He breathed heavily out of his nose.

“All this over goddamn gallstones. Half a day, they said. Home for tea, a little recovery time, then back in the hot seat. But that’s not what I want to talk about. I’ve used this time, Harvey, really used it. To think. My son was here the other day, you know what he said?”

“Sir?”

“He said, ‘Dad, when are you going to get back to saving the world?’ I had to laugh, because you know, that is funny. We’re not in the saving-the-world business. We’ve been lighting a fire, waiting till it covers the whole godforsaken world, then spraying it with a little ice water for show.”

He shifted in his bed, raised himself up on his elbows. His cheeks glistened with sweat.

“Well, it changes now. You hear me?”

He explained that a draft speech would be delivered that day; how he wanted the office prepped, every reporter in town convened the moment he was fit enough. Harvey made a show of diligently noting it all. Finally, he looked up.

“You know, sir, I heard a story yesterday. They said they were hailstones the size of baseballs in France. Coldest winter temperatures they’ve ever recorded.”

There was a pause, then fury. He looked as if he might actually strike out. “Harvey, I am not your glove puppet! I will not be treated this way. I am the goddamn President of the United States!”

“Of course, sir. I apologise.”

“You will do this, and that is an order.”

Harvey nodded and gathered his things. As he opened the door to leave, he turned. “You know, sir, these things do take time.”

“We don’t have time.”

“I know, sir. I just mean, this is a challenging timetable you’ve laid out here. You may want to prepare yourself for things to slip a little.”

“Just a little. Days, not weeks.”

“Of course, sir. That’s all I meant. Just a little time for us all to adapt. In the meantime, shall I get them to bring an air-conditioner in here? Just to get the heat down a little, let you breathe?”

“Thank you, Harvey. I’d appreciate that.”