LAWRENCE’S MISSION

Sylvia is texting Lawrence. She’s had enough of his moody teenage silences.

She snaps the phone wallet shut.

‘He’s sailing a bit close to the wind isn’t he?’ Geoff peers at the laminated sign on the telegraph pole outside the gates to Tregethlan Manor.

‘What, Lawrence?’

‘No, this Davenport fella.’

Sylvia calls to Henry who is sniffing something in the hedge. ‘Henry, come. Come.’ She pulls at his lead and the brown spaniel moves under protest.

‘Look at this,’ says Geoff.

‘What?’

‘It’s the Council application.’

They both stand on tip toes to read the sign which is pinned high on the gate post. Geoff strains to read: ‘’License to host… catering village… road closures… 11.00pm curfew…’ He’s got a lot on his hands.’

Just then, a Land Rover chugs up behind them. They stand aside to let it go past but the driver, John Greatwood, pauses. He nods to them through the open window.

‘Seen this?’ says Geoff, gesturing to the sign. John rolls his eyes.

‘Must be causing you a lot of extra work,’ says Sylvia.

‘You could say that,’ replies John.

‘Still, be worth it, eh?’ says Sylvia. ‘Money for the village, all those people coming.’

‘You could say that,’ says John again.

‘No time to waste eh?’ Geoff gives him a thumbs up.

‘You could say that,’ says John again, and then he’s gone, swinging the Land Rover left across the field that leads to the festival site.

‘Well,’ says Sylvia, ’he’s in a funny mood.’

They make their way home, down the hill into the village, Henry foraging ahead of them off lead until they reach the road. Once in the house Sylvia calls upstairs to Lawrence.

‘We’re back. How’s your homework?’ Silence. ‘Geoff, put the kettle on.’ She climbs the stairs and listens outside her son’s door. ‘Lawrence, are you in there?’

There is still no answer, so she turns the door handle.

‘Go AWAY!’

‘What are you doing?’ She keeps her hold on the handle.

‘NOTHING.’

‘You should be doing your homework.’

‘I’VE DONE IT.’

‘Don’t yell. Your dad’s making a cup of tea.’

Lawrence is silent.

‘I said – ‘

‘Yeah alRIGHT. He’s not my dad.’

‘Don’t be rude. Come and join us.’

‘I’m finishing something.’

‘When you’re ready then.’ Sylvia goes back downstairs. Geoff is at the kitchen table, leafing through the Portglas Herald.

‘It’s in here too,’ he says, holding up a headline: ‘GREENFEST BRINGS STARS TO TREVOW.’

‘What?’

‘The festival.’

‘But he’s only just applied for the licence.’

‘Seems he doesn’t hang about.’

Sylvia sits and sips the mug of tea Geoff has made for her. ‘I don’t know what to do about that boy.’

‘What boy?’

‘Him upstairs. I don’t know what he does up there all day.’

‘Leave him to it love. He’s 17. It’s what they do.’

‘But his exams. What if he doesn’t pass?’

‘He’s a bright lad. He’ll do alright. Leave him alone.’

‘I wish you’d talk to him.’

‘I’m not exactly flavour of the month.’

‘But you’re the only dad he’s got. He might listen to a man.’

‘We’ll see.’ Geoff returns to his reading. ‘Heat Merchants, Butterflies, Jim Glasgow. It’s quite a line up’.

Sylvia isn’t listening. All she can think about is her son. He has been like this for weeks now, spending hours in his room, his light on most of the night. At weekends he goes out on his bike, alone as far as she can tell. He won’t talk about school. His teacher says he needs to get to grips with his studies if he is to get into Exeter. He could have ‘a future in the natural sciences,’ but his social skills are ‘underdeveloped’. Is it her fault? Was he that badly affected by the divorce? Baffled by the mysteries of her adolescent son she turns to look at the paper which still has Geoff engrossed.

Up in his room Lawrence taps into @ecochamber. He likes talking to Hare. No one uses their real name in @ecochamber but Hare is the leader and calls him Lo, which Lawrence likes. It’s way cool.

He shuts the app and waits until his parents are asleep, then pulls on his hoody, slips downstairs and out of the back door, as quiet as a ninja. The gate squeaks as he pushes his bike through it and peddles away fast, up to the new estate on the edge of the village. As he turns the corner he meets a car with full headlamps. He breaks hard and a young vixen dashes across the road, just avoiding the car’s wheels. She disappears into undergrowth and Lawrence breaths deeply, calming himself. The car has gone. He was not seen.

He leans his bike against a lamppost and goes up and down the road, checking every house. As he moves in and out of gardens, he gathers pieces of plastic, flower pots, ornaments and small garden tools in his arms. He brings them to a point in the middle of the road where he piles them into a heap, shoving dry leaves and twigs in amongst them. 

When everything is gathered Lawrence takes a firelighter from his pocket and pushes it into the centre. With the touch of a single match it flares up and the kindling catches alight, making him jump back. The flames leap, making him cover his face with his hoody to avoid the stench of burning plastic. A light comes on in one of the nearby houses and a voice shouts ‘Hey!’

Lawrence leaps onto his bike. As he flies away, a figure in a wide brimmed hat emerges from the hedgerow. The figure stands still, the vixen close by, both watching the flames.

‘Eh girl, that’s a sight,’ says Jacob, softly, to the vixen. His years on the road have left him with a fondness for night-time strolls and encounters with wildlife which, like him, likes to explore their habitat under the stars.

The vixen withdraws into the undergrowth and Jacob retreats, not caring to be seen in case people think he has set the fire. The hiss of an extinguisher brings more people out of their houses, gasping at the sight of their melting hoses, plant holders and gnomes.  By the time the blaze is out Lawrence is at home, logging on again to tell Hare what he has done.

Chapter 13