Sylvie is in the kitchen, chopping spring onions. Jak squeezes past her to get a glass of water.
“Babe, you’re not a teenager anymore,” Sylvie drains a saucepan and applies a little mustard dressing to warm salad potatoes, “you can’t just mope around the house all day.”
“Mum, I’m not moping. I’m worried about dad. Also it’s Saturday, I don’t have to do anything.”
“Come to the picnic, you’ll enjoy it. Look,” she opens the oven and pulls out a tray of cheese scones, “maybe a couple of minutes longer but they’re looking good. Would you get the cooling rack out, I think it’s in the top cupboard somewhere and I don’t really want to stretch in this dress, it’s a bit tight round the old boobs.”
Jak reaches up to a drawer sized cupboard above the grill, “I don’t really want to mum.”
“But you love my cheese scones.”
“Yeah, sure, they’re great,” she puts the rack on the surface next to the oven, “it’s more the people.”
“What Aunty Polly and Ruthy, they’re my oldest and besties!”
“Yeah, but they’re not my friends are they. Especially Polly, she really disapproves of me.”
Sylvie gets a packet of mackerel and a pot of cream cheese out of the fridge, “pass us that bowl and spoon will you babe? Ta. Oh that’s just Polly mouthing off. She doesn’t think all that, not really, just likes getting a rise out of people. She’s like that with everyone, kinda critical for no reason. She’s a bit insecure I think, since Jezza left her.”
“She hates Carly. You can see it in her eyes. And I don’t think she likes me. And I don’t like her neither, so…”
“So, you can talk to someone else. There’s others coming. This American girl from work, you’ll like her I think.”
Jak shrugs, “maybe, maybe not. But your friends don’t need to be my friends.”
“Well, in that case, maybe you need to get more friends of your own. What happened to that guy you were going birdwatching with?”
“I postponed it. Wanna be around in case there’s news with dad.”
“I told you not to worry about him. You know, Ali, whom I have had my disagreements with in the past but is a realistic sort of man, Ali said not to worry as well,” Sylvie gets the cheese scones out of the oven, pokes one with a fork and, satisfied, lays them on the cooling rack, “so don’t worry, have a scone!”
“Okay, okay, I’ll come out for a bit.”
“Great, now, what’re you going to wear?”
“Er… what I am wearing?”
“A black vest and leggings? It’s not very summery.”
“The leggings are dark green not black.”
“Still dark though, babe. On a day like this, you’ll get too hot in the sun.”
“Mum,” laughs Jak, “a vest top and thin leggings, I won’t be too hot!”
“Well, make sure you put on some sunscreen. And bring extra with you for top ups.”
“Yes mum.”
—
“Hey Sylvie, good to see you’ve made it. What have you brought then?” Polly gets up from her deck chair to inspect the contents of Sylvie’s hamper, “apart from your daughter.”
“I assumed Jak was invited,” replies Sylvie sharply.
“Yes, yes, of course. Always, you know that. I wasn’t making a point,” Polly hurriedly mollifies her friend, “just an observation. I wasn’t expecting you both but it’s lovely to see you both.”
“Hey Jakky hun,” Ruth springs to her feet and gives Jak a bear hug, which Jak returns tentatively, slightly embarrassed, “so sorry to hear about your partner, I hope she gets out soon.”
“Good,” says Sylvie to Polly before acknowledging Ruth and Andy Simkins, “glad to be here.”
“So what have you brought?” Polly returns to her question, the same question she asks everyone.
“There’s always some gorgeous goodies from 2027’s Oxford Bake Off champion, Sylvie Churchwell,” exults Ruth.
“Sylvie! Sylvie! Sylvie!” chants Andy, waving his sunhat in the air.
“Oh shut up, I wasn’t on Bake Off!” protests Sylvie, takes a breath to recover her composure, and continues more calmly, “it was a sponsored bake-off for cancer at the Gladiator Club on the Iffley Road, anyway… well, there’s cheese scones, which are Jak’s faves. Also, using nanna Churchwell’s family recipe, ta da, super-nice, I hope, potato salad. And some mackerel pate and a few baguettes. Tuck in everyone.”
The small picnic group sits on the grass, half in shade, half in sun, around a pink and yellow striped rug by a lone sycamore tree. Various containers of food and drink, paper plates and plastic glasses are arranged about them.
A stone wall lines one side of the park, keeping out the sight and noise of traffic going up and down Headington’s main road. By the entrance a small queue of children and parents waits impatiently for ice lollies and Mr Whippy at an ice cream van.
The early afternoon sun quickly melts the lollies and the children in the nearby playground have variously coloured faces, depending which lolly they had eaten.
A large dog trots over, panting, to the picnic party and sniffs around the food.
“Shoo, go away,” Polly stands up and waves her hands at the dog.
“He won’t bite,” shouts the owner, strolling across the grass.
“Get him away from our food,” complains Polly.
“Whatever,” the owner leads the dog away, feeding it small chewy treats as they walk.
Ruth smiles at Polly, who is still cross about the dog.
“Should be on a lead, dog that size.”
“Don’t you think Sylvie looks good in a summer dress,” Ruth changes the subject.
“Ooh, yeah. You are looking good Sylvie,” agrees Polly, her voice brightening up, “summery. Where did you get it?”
“Oh, online,” says Sylvie uncertainly, “can’t remember which site to be honest.”
“It fits you well though,” notes Polly, “I’m finding that increasingly difficult these days. Sizes don’t seem to mean a thing on some of these sites.”
“Well, to be honest,” laughs Sylvie, “it is a little tight around the boobs. If I tried it on in a shop then I wouldn’t take it.”
“Yeah, that’s what they’re relying on,” sighs Ruth.
“What big girls not sending stuff back?” chimes in Andy.
Ruth laughs, “everyone not sending stuff back. If we all did they’d probably go bust and real shops would start opening again.”
“Ah, I can feel a Ruthy campaign coming on,” says Andy in a conspiratorial voice, “everyone order clothes then send them back and get a refund. Close the internet! Open the shops!”
“Seems a bit unfair on the online retailers,” comments Polly.
“Yes but Pols,” argues Ruth, “do you never go to a shop to try something on or see how it feels, but not buy it. And then try to get it cheaper online? Is that fair on real shops?”
“Well, yeah, sometimes. But that’s just me trying to save money, not because I’m on my high horse complaining about something.”
Andy laughs loudly, “Polly, complaining about something? Never!”
“Well quite, Andy,” chuckles Ruth, “but whilst we’re complaining about, you know, the modern world and life and all that, I do wish people would dress up to go out more. In the old days, that was half the fun, spending ages in front of a mirror, comparing outfits. These days, it’s like a bunch of homeless lumberjacks.”
“People have lost their pride,” explains Polly, “got embarrassed about who they are and just dress down so no one can accuse them of, you know, of well, being a bit too much. Especially young people.”
“Yeah,” agrees Sylvie, “but also it’s expensive. Nice clothes. You see these quite nice looking dresses and blouses that aren’t too pricey and you order them, and they turn out to be a bit ropey, poor quality, not as bright as in the picture. And rather than wear something like that, which kinda makes you look cheap, you put on jeans and a t-shirt, even if it’s a bit baggy or whatever, and it looks not bad.
“Better to look like you don’t care, but don’t look too bad, than to look like you do care but all you could afford was a rubbishy dress.”
—
Fallen pink blossom attaches itself to Robbo’s unwanted tweed trousers, along with fragments of twigs and leaves, as he sits cross legged, eating biscuits, under the dappled shade of 28 Green Leys Road’s magnolia tree. He watches the cat as it seeks out a precisely cat-sized patch of sunlight, sniffs around it and curls up to sleep. Its dark, patterned fur rises and falls gently with each quiet breath. Wind whispers through the leaves above his head and gently, rhythmically, creaks the garden gate. He feels his eyelids start to droop.
The half-eaten packet of biscuits tumbles onto the grass.
—
Jak tears off a length of baguette and dips it in the fish pate, eats the dipped half, turns it round and dips from the other end.
‘Better try mum’s potato salad, she seemed very keen on us making it together. Mmm, it’s okay I suppose, maybe needs a little salt. Or maybe something spicy. Carly would definitely add some chilli powder or Tabasco to it. Something anyway. But it is nice.’
“Jak?” Sylvie nudges her daughter’s shoulder, “Polly’s talking to you.”
“Oh, er, sorry.”
“I was just asking, how is work on Magdalen Gate progressing?”
Jak shrugs, “dunno really, it’s progressing. I’m getting paid. To be honest I don’t really think about it too much.”
“Quite right!” proclaims Andy, “it’s the weekend. No talking about work!”
A woman wearing a loose red and orange sari over pale linen trousers strolls over to the group.
“Hi there,” she greets them.
“Oh, this is, um, well she likes to be called New Girl…” starts Sylvie.
“Yes, just call me New Girl. I kinda like it.”
“Ooh can I be a new boy?” pipes up Andy.
“An old boy more like,” laughs Ruth, “a very old boy!”
“Talking of boys,” announces New Girl, “I’ve brought some with me.”
“Excuse me?” hoots Polly, unsure if this is a joke or not.
As is Sylvie, “sorry, what do you mean?”
“Polish Boys,” continues New Girl, “from my home town. Well, these ones aren’t, but that’s where they come from.”
“You’re from Poland?” Polly is still puzzled, “you don’t look very Polish. Or sound like them either.”
“No, no” laughs New Girl, “I’m an all American girl, can’t you tell? Ffrom Cleveland, Ohio!
“Polish Boys are like a kind of hot dog, made with Polish sausages. And fries and sauces. Look, there’s six of them I made. Wrapped in foil to keep the kielbasa warm. When I found out there was a Polski Sklep just round the corner from me I was so excited!”
New Girl hands out the foil wrapped food to a sceptical looking Polly, Andy who immediately starts eating it – hot dog and chips at the same time, Ruth, Sylvie and Jak. She doesn’t eat the remaining one but saves it for later.
Sylvie returns to talking about the Wall, “I’m glad Jak has a job but to be honest, I don’t see the point of the Wall or Gate or whatever we’re calling it. It’s so big, must be costing a fortune.”
“Maybe, Sylvie, that is the point of it.” suggests New Girl.
“What?”
“It costs the Authority a fortune but the company building it is raking it in. Also, pay’s good isn’t it? Keep enough of the Outers folk sweet with well paid jobs and nobody complains too much.”
“Well,” declares Polly, “I think it’s about showing strong leadership. Not letting the ill-informed rabble mess things up.”
Andy turns to New Girl and whispers loudly so everyone else can hear, “Polly has the hots for this guy called Doctor Messina.”
New Girl laughs, “yeah, he’s loaded. Kind of a good looking guy for his age, I suppose, and all his own hair. But a right Trumpy bitch though.”
“Tell you a secret,” Andy continues whispering very loudly, “so is Polly!”
“Oi Simples,” protests Polly, “enough of your nonsense. I never liked Trump. Dr Messina is nothing like him. He’s educated, cultured.”
“Well, I think the wall is a terrible idea, leadership or not,” argues Ruth, “it’s hard enough finding good clothes shops as it is, without making it even harder to go into town. And not just clothes, that’s my thing but why shouldn’t any of us just go into town if we want to?”
“Because it gets too busy,” counters Polly, “historic Oxford is an old city with narrow streets. You remember how busy it was, you couldn’t move. Now you just pay for a visitor pass and you can enjoy it again, less crowds, less hassle.”
“Oh don’t exaggerate, you’re always doing that,” snaps Ruth, “it wasn’t that bad. And these days you have to go all the way round to Water Eaton. The Plain is closed, Folly is working visas only, it’s rubbish. And when you get there, there’s tumbleweed blowing down Cornmarket!”
“Now you’re exaggerating Ruthy,” interrupts Sylvie, “but I do agree with you really. It has made it harder to find a decent job. Everywhere in the Outers is cutting back. I wouldn’t have stayed working for Mister Oarsaway-I’m-Okay if there was anything better.”
“Do you not like Mr Malling then, Sylvie?” asks New Girl in a surprised tone.
“No, I certainly do not,” insists Sylvie, “but my point is, there aren’t better jobs out there. So I’m stuck.”
Andy strokes his chin and asks, “what are the Borough of Outer Oxford Border Zone doing to help?”
“You mean the Outers Authority Executive?”
“My version’s got a better acronym. You can type it on a calculator.”
“What?” Polly is annoyed, “whatever! But we’ve got jobs. We’ve all got jobs. The best and most hard-working can find jobs in Oxford but the rest of us are still doing alright thank you very much. How can you complain?”
“House is worth half what it was before the gates went up,” complains Andy.
“Half?” Polly raises her eyebrows, “mine’s only lost twenty per cent.”
“Yeah, about thirty per cent loss across our properties in the last three years,” confirms Sylvie, “although residential is worse than commercial.”
“Well, I reckon mine’s gone down near enough by a half,” insists Andy, “so that’s gone down. And my pay’s gone down. Beer keeps going up though. Anything nice keeps going up. The good clobber that Ruthy was on about, you have to drive to Milton Keynes, all those bloody roundabouts, unless you spot something at Bicester Village, which can be pretty good, I’ll grant you, but is full of foreign tourists. More than Oxford ever was.”
After everyone has eaten all they want or feel able to, wine and beer starts to flow. A pile of cans accumulate next to Andy, Polly clutches a bottle of white wine and tops up her own plastic glass regularly. Jak swigs from a bottle of water that New Girl brought and then gave to her when she realised she was the only one not drinking alcohol.
“Where’s your weirdo mates Pols?” asks Andy, “thought you were bringing weirdo mates.”
“Oh, well, you know. Cathy had to take her girls to football practice. Chinese Andy is working, might swing by later if he gets off. Dunno about Ceri and Lucy, probably not bothering. To be honest they are both a bit weird, so not too bothered about them personally.”
“No Jez the Twat then?” teases Andy.
“Oh fuck off I hope not,” groans Polly, “anyway, Simples, where’s Roundabout Dave?”
“Gone off for a ride on his bike like some big kid, might stop by later,” Andy shrugs, “anyways, it’s quality not quantity that counts.”
“Exactly! That’s what I keep saying,” agrees Polly, her voice lighting up, “that’s the thing with social media sometimes, people are so bothered about how many so called ‘friends’ they’ve got when half of them wouldn’t piss on them if they were on fire.”
“Yeah,” chuckles Andy, “and I bet they would piss on you if you’re not on fire.”
“Probably, anyway, you can’t really believe it when people you’ve never met say they think you’re great or whatever,” reflects Polly, “need a proper convo with them before that kind of thing, see what you agree about and what you don’t, coz you know me and Ruthy here have disagreed about everything under the sun over the years but we’re still mates, you know.”
“It’s hard to believe anything that comes up on the socials, to be honest,” says Sylvie, “I mean Jak here basically stays off them, don’t you Babe?”
“Yeah, pretty much,” shrugs Jak, “would rather meet up with my friends. And all the news and that is mostly lies.”
“Have you tried an old-style YouTuber called The Oxford Outcast?” suggests New Girl.
“No, who are they?” Sylvie leans forward, interested.
“She’s this woman reporter, quite young I think but hard to tell because she wears a crash helmet all the time. But she’s got that thing that YouTubers used to have, knows how to hold an audience even without eye contact. And biker gear, pretty cool gear, kind of shows off her figure but it’s empowering…”
“Sounds right up your street, Simples,” laughs Polly.
Andy shakes his head in mock-innocence, “don’t know what you mean!”
“She covers local news,” continues New Girl, “just Oxford and stuff that affects Oxford. She’s worth checking out. A good counterpoint to Authority propaganda and all the nonsense that goes around.”
“Thanks New Girl,” says Sylvie, “I’ll have a look.”
“Yeah, I might too,” chuckles Andy, more to himself than any of the women present.
Jak pulls her phone out of her bag and checks it. One message.
Ali the Bottleman: Your dad ok!! Could do with proper feed. Gone for fone and keys.
“Mum, Dad’s okay.”
Sylvie reaches across to Jak and gives her a quick hug, “told you’d he be fine. Is that him getting in touch?”
“No, Ali. Sounds like Dad’s lost his phone.”
“Typical.”
“Yeah, we never understood that one, Sylvie,” Polly shakes her head scornfully, “he was never any good for you, couldn’t understand how you didn’t see it yourself.”
“Now, now Pols,” tuts Andy, “this is little Jak’s dad you’re talking about, show some thought.”
“Just saying,” Polly carries on defiantly, “coz it happens to be true. But I guess you lived and learnt, eh Sylvie?”
“Well, Paul wasn’t an ideal husband. But he tries to be a good father to Jak some of the time.”
Jak grabs her bag and stands up, “okay, if you want to talk about how good or not good my dad is, maybe wait til I’ve gone? I love my dad whatever. I’m going home.”
It’s a bit of a trek from Bury Knowle Park: through Headington and the Wood Farm housing estate, along the cycle path by the ring road to Cowley, which is busy with weekend shoppers, and then up through Blackbird Leys.
Jak strides along furiously, burning off her anger at the way people were talking about her dad. Is her dad an embarrassment to her? That she doesn’t want to be reminded of? Is that why she’s so angry at people just for having an opinion about him?
She does love him, doesn’t she?
An hour, and nearly four miles, later, Jak is a lot calmer as she walks down Green Leys Road.
“Dad dad dad, you okay yeah? Are you okay? You look terrible. What you doing here? What happened?”
The cat opens its eyes and yawns. And then miaows expectantly at Jak. Robbo remains asleep, curled up beneath the magnolia, surrounded by blossom and hobnob crumbs.
“Wake up dad, God’s sake, wake up!”
Jak shakes him by his shoulders. He mutters to himself and kicks out, catching his shin on the tree trunk, “ow!”
“God’s sake dad, wake up.”
“Awake. Yeah, awake.”
“Are you okay?”
“Okay. Yeah, okay.”
The cat glares at them both and miaows loudly.
“Brought you a present.”
“Er, okay,” hesitates Jak looking around at the cat, “thanks I guess. Have you been feeding her chocolate hobnobs?”
“No.”
“I hope not. Are you hungry? Is it hungry? Ali said you were hungry, didn’t mention a cat.”
“Always hungry. Had some biscuits somewhere but, yeah, sandwich?”
“Okay, come on, let’s get you up,” Jak kneels down and grips her father’s hand, “put your other hand on my shoulder and stand up, that’s it. Let’s get inside.”
Jak unlocks the front door and leads Robbo in, with the cat following close behind. Having sat him down on the settee, she goes through to the kitchen and fills a glass of water. The cat weaves around her legs, miaows and makes a ‘mrp, mrp, mrp’ sound.
“Okay, puss, I’ll just give Dad something and then I’ll find something for you.”
She makes a ham sandwich and takes it, with the water, through to Robbo. The cat miaows loudly again and follows her through, and then back again to the kitchen.
“Tuna, yeah?” Jak spoons half a tin of tuna onto a plate and puts it on the floor. The cat gobbles it down, purring. She also fills a cereal bowl with water and puts it next to the plate, spilling a little of the water as she places it down. The cat ignores it until it has licked, and relicked, the plate clean.
“So where you been?” Jak crouches down next to the settee, one hand on the arm, “I’ve been worried.”
“University Parks,” Robbo takes his trainers off, digs his toes into the thick, slightly spongy, carpet.
“What? How come?”
“Looking for Hank.”
“Did you find him?”
“No.”
“How long were you there? Where did you sleep?”
“Since Monday. Here and there.”
“Outside?”
“Mostly.”
“What happened? How did you get there? How did you get back?”
“Weird. Can’t remember stuff. People dancing. Smoke, purple smoke. And spliff smoke. Banging drums and wine. This guy…” his voice tails off.
“In the Parks?”
“Yeah.”
“At night?”
“Yeah.”
“What about the guy?” Jak senses her dad is clamming up. She reaches out her hand to hold his, “tell me, dad. You can tell me.”
“On a boat. Escaped. People just… crazy.”
“Crazy? How come?”
“Thought they were drinking wine.”
“Yeah,” Jak laughs nervously, “people do that. You do that. I do that. It’s not strange.”
“No, but,” Robbo looks to the ceiling and scrunches up his eyes, processing his memories, “confusing.”
“What was confusing?”
“Weird.”
Robbo stands up and starts to pace back and forth across the carpet, clenching and unclenching his fists, breathing shallower and shallower until he forces himself to hold his breath.
“Do you want more water? Dad?”
He shakes his head. And sits down, cross-legged, on the floor. Jak kneels down beside him, puts her hand on his shoulder, tries to look into his face but he turns away.
“Tell me dad, please.”
“Blood. Drinking blood. From a bowl. Dribbling down their faces. Sick with blood.”
“Oh God,” Jak shivers.
“They’re horrible, Jak, horrible people.”
“Did they make you drink blood, dad?”
But Robbo has said everything he wants to say.
Jak hugs her dad. He passively accepts the hug but doesn’t return it. After she lets him go, he lies down on his side on the thick warm carpet and curls up.
Jak shivers again and rubs the inside of her arms. The bruises have only recently faded. Feeling sightly sick, she goes upstairs and lies on her bed. She stares at the blue sky through her window. And wraps her arms around her shoulders, making herself small and secure.
—
“I’m back babe, got a bit tired of Polly droning on. Still, it was a good…”
The cat runs into the hall and miaows at Sylvie.
“Jak, babe, why’s there a cat…” and she walks into the living room, “oh for fuck’s sake Paul. I might’ve known. What are you doing here?”
Robbo snorts and mumbles in his sleep, a little dribble spilling from the corner of his mouth onto the carpet. The cat, who has followed Sylvie through, sniffs around the damp patch before miaowing again and clawing at the carpet.
Jak runs downstairs, “sorry mum. Dad brought a cat with him as a present.”
“He stole someone’s cat to give you as a present!” Sylvie is outraged, “wake up you useless sack, where did you get it from? Take it back.”
“No, no,” Jak protests, “he found it. Or it found him maybe. In University Parks, I think.”
“What in the name of God,” Sylvie bends down and shouts into Robbo’s upturned ear, “were you doing there?”
“What time is it? Late?” mumbles Robbo and opens one eye, “oh, hi Sylvs. Got a bit lost. Could do with putting some WD40 on that gate. What time is it?”
Sylvie stands in the middle of her living room and shakes her head, “I’m going to get a cold glass of wine. I’m not giving any to you. Now, get up and sit on the sofa like a grown up.”
Robbo obediently sits in one corner of the settee. Jak curls up, as she had been on her bed, against the opposite corner cushion, leaving a slight gap between them. Robbo tries to stay still. But his left leg keeps twitching, kicking out. He rubs his eyes. And folds his arms. The cat jumps up onto his lap, walks across it and jumps onto Jak’s legs, where, after turning round twice and sniffing, it settles down in the same curled up position as its human mattress of choice.
“Can we keep Carly, mum?”
“Carly?”
“Yeah, I want to call her Carly.”
“Are you sure she’s not a he. I’m sure that kind usually are. Or is that gingers?”
“Whatever, maybe they’re non-binary. Can still call them Carly.”
“Call him or they whatever you like. He’s a cat, he won’t care. And yes you can keep,” Sylvie pauses and smiles, “them. As long as you look after… them.”
“Maybe I’ll just call them, ‘Them’? Make it easier for you?”
“Thanks dear,” Sylvie smiles again before turning to Robbo, “are you staying?”
“No, going.”
“Coz if you’re staying, take a shower. You stink.”
“Going,” Robbo staggers to his feet, blinks several times and heads through to the hall, “cat’s a boy. Name is Itchycoo.”
“Stay Dad, you can stay,” protests Jak, “Mum don’t mind…”
“Mum doesn’t mind enough to kick you out right away,” Sylvie corrects her daughter.
“Going,” confirms Robbo, opening the front door, “feeling better now, thank you Jak.”
Jak stands up, tipping Itchycoo onto the floor. Both of them start to follow Robbo as he heads out into the street.
He waves one hand over his head back in their direction, “laters, my lovelies.”
Jak starts to wave back before realising that Itchycoo is already trotting down the path after him. She picks up the tabby cat, who seems happy just to be held, and cradles him like a baby in her arms, “you’re staying with me and Mum. You’ll like it here. Promise.”