Chapter 7 Anna
Anna
After dinner, when I tell Mum I want to go to Chelsea Bridge, she just shrugs and says, ‘Sure, it’ll be nice to look at the river for a bit.’
‘I don’t want to look at it, I want to scream at it.’
She raises an eyebrow. ‘Oh yes? Some kathartic Wuhan-style river shouting?’
As predicted, I can hear the ‘k’ Mum puts in katharsis, an extra hard consonant added in honour of Dad’s old research.
Usually, I’m all for Mum expressing stuff, but today I roll my eyes, trying to cover that I’m on edge.
I always feel weird after I’ve seen the-face-that-isn’t-my-face in my reflection. ‘How do you know about that?’
‘I too have the internet, m’dear. And I too read the Guardian.’
‘Shows what you know, I heard about it on TikTok.’ I grin victoriously as Mum yucks and rants about the evils of social media.
She takes a backpack with snacks and water; I take my earphones and make sure my new Lo-Fi playlist has downloaded.
She puts on her over-the-top N95 mask before we’ve even left the house, but I leave my pink reuseable fabric one in my bag, because the stairs are so ventilated they’re basically the outdoors anyway.
We take the stairs automatically now; neither of us has even suggested the lift in months.
Maybe we won’t ever take it again. Most of the time that’s what it feels like, as if COVID is the universe expanding, and we’re just getting farther and farther away from each other.
I genuinely can’t imagine being in a normal classroom again, the naughty gang firing spitwads—spitwads—at Julian because of his hemp shoes, Maddie and me gossiping in our old corner, heads bent so close together we could catch lice, let alone COVID.
‘You’re quiet,’ Mum says as we exit our building.
‘Just thinking.’
‘What about?’
‘School.’
She looks at me sideways. ‘Did something happen earlier?’
‘No, no, I mean actual physical school.’
‘Ah I see. Do you miss it?’ She fills in my silent sardonic glare, saying, ‘Yeah. Right. Duh, Mum. Of course you miss school. Stupid question.’
I don’t like it when she calls herself mean things.
I feel guilty, like maybe it’s my fault she thinks those things because sometimes I do call her ‘duh,’ but even when I do, I know it’s not true.
Mum’s really clever, way more than my teachers I reckon, or even Julian’s dad.
Mum just doesn’t have a chance to show it off because she works for a startup no one’s ever heard of.
Her pay isn’t great, but it doesn’t matter because she likes staying living in our little flat where she and Dad started out, and anything she does have left over at the end of the month goes into a savings account for my uni fees.
I haven’t told her, but I don’t actually know if I want to go to uni anymore.
It’d be super fun and interesting and everything—and I really like physics so probably I’d end up doing something with that—but Julian says what’s the point when the world’s on fire and everything’s going to heck.
Mind you, his dad wants him to go to uni too, he says we’ll need scientists and storytellers more than ever in the decades to come, so maybe—
‘You’ve gone again.’ Mum gives me a gentle elbow-nudge.
‘Sorry, I’m super spaced out this evening.’ I offer her one of my earphones. ‘You want to listen to some music?’
We string the wires between us, walking slowly so they don’t get dislodged.
It’s too hot to walk fast anyway. Mum doesn’t love the Lo-Fi because she’s been listening to coding music all day, and it’s a bit samey, so I let her stick on Abba, and we boogie around the edge of Clapham Common until the earphones come flying off, and I put them back in my bag because we come across some actual people.
Not just a lone runner keeping their head down and minding their own business, or a small family group staring longingly at the taped-off swings, but a gathering.
Beside Clapham duck pond, two sets of parents are keeping their social distance on a pair of benches, while their kids chase each other across the field and back.
‘Hey, don’t play “it”!’ one of the Mums shouts when her little boy reaches out to tag the other’s back.
‘Remember, you can play, but don’t touch! ’
Guess we’re still living in a sort-of dystopia after all, because now I think about it, it’s kind of anthropocentric of me to think London’s coming back to life just because people are hanging out together. The birds have never socially distanced.
Battersea Park, when we finally get there, isn’t much busier, but the vibe is different.
We pass two groups who are clearly obeying the rules, picnicking in pairs or threes, sufficiently distanced even from the pavement just in case an eager jogger goes by and showers them in sweaty particulates.
But there’s also a group of folk about ten years older than I am who are just as clearly pushing the rules.
They’re lounging on blankets laid out under the trees, their bikes scattered around them, closer than they should be, and obviously from about five different households.
They’re sharing a fat cigarette, which I think must be a joint, but I’m not sure because I’ve never seen one in real life before.
Me going on a climate march to actually save the planet surely isn’t as outrageous as getting stoned in a park just for funsies?
I feel tight in my chest, boxed in, like how Maddie describes her claustrophobia.
I really hate being a teenager sometimes, because we get all the fear adults have, but none of the freedom to deal with it.
Mum follows my gaze and ‘tsks’ behind her silly medical-grade mask.
‘You know you don’t have to wear that outside anymore, right?’ It comes out nastier than I mean it to, but if Mum’s hurt, her eyes don’t show it.
‘It’s a reasonable precaution, Anna. Think about it, if I die, you’ll have no one to look after you. Absolutely no one.’
‘I can look after myself,’ I say stubbornly, hoping the group under the tree don’t spot Mum and judge me for being with such a stiff.
‘Come off it.’ She throws me a disappointed glance.
She doesn’t mind arguing with me, so long as it’s a ‘worthy’ debate, but what I just said was illogical—I knew that even as it came out of my mouth—and she expects more from me than that.
‘You cannot legally look after yourself. You can’t get a job, or live on your own. You can’t even drive yet.’
‘You can’t drive either.’
The disappointed look returns, but I don’t really care, because it feels quite good being recalcitrant. Mr Bunting’s always saying Julian’s recalcitrant, but Julian just grins and says it’s a key trait for revolutionaries.
‘You’ve seen me drive, darling,’ Mum says, ‘I just don’t have a car. Point is, I’m not being careful for me, I’m considering my life in terms of the very literal value it holds for you.’
I try to stop my anger seeping away, but just end up mumbling some kind of thanks. If I’m honest, I’d definitely rather Mum stayed safe, but I’m still worried the gang under the tree will think I’m an idiot.
Otherwise, Battersea Park is abandoned: The tennis courts are locked, and the lie-flat tricycles normally for hire are hidden away.
Even the pagoda is cordoned off. All over the paths, kids have been writing chalk messages to each other, but there’s a particularly dense patch near the pagoda.
Weeks of writing in pastel hues, layered over where rain’s smudged the words.
Happy birthday Adil, flanked by suns with extra-big rays.
nathan and andrew i miss u and we will go to the library together again soon, scrawled in a particularly untidy hand.
TILLY + FLO BFFS 4EVA, squeezed into an elaborate, lacy pink heart.
Miss you Class 4H. Clapham Primary is best, we’ll be together soon!
luv you tom and sanjay and clara and—haven’t forgotten you hockey gals—Missing you so mu—be together agai—big hugs—appy birth—see you soon hopef—missin—love—luv—miss—happy—hope—love—
My throat gets all tight and hot reading the kids’ messages, like I’m about to cry, but I can’t figure out why.
I spend ages deciphering each one, walking carefully on the tarmac gaps between the letters, before I realise people have started spray painting on top.
COVID’s a hoax! Stop the 5G! There is no Planet B!
Beside this last, someone’s scrawled Fuck off hippy in red, right over a wobbly green five-pointed star.
I rub the swearword with my shoe, but it’s some kind of permanent paint pen, and doesn’t budge.
I step back, taking it all in, adults from the far right to the far left all piling in on the children’s game.
The prickling in my throat and eyes gets way worse, but I still couldn’t say why.
‘There’s something really wrong about this,’ I say to Mum.
She nods, but doesn’t respond, both of us just staring at the chaos of words on the ground. hopef—no planet—love—luv—hoax—missin—happy—stop—hope—love—fuck off hippy.
‘Still want to see the river?’ Mum asks, voice as tight as I feel.