seventeen

Eighteen

A warm, golden summer’s afternoon. Belvoir Avenue shimmered in the hot air that rose in great swirling currents from the tarmac made soft by the unendurable heat. Henri took in the street, wide and tree lined and well kept, the epitome of middle class suburbia, from the well trimmed hedges to the blooming rose bushes which filled the air with a heady scent. Isla saw different things, this was her home, and she saw the changes. New windows in the Smythes, the council had cut down the old tree opposite the mad woman’s house, and whoever had moved into to her friend Charlotte’s old home had put up stone gates topped with lions that screamed of bad taste.

“Ouch” complained Isla as a ball hit here ankle. She turned to face two small boys

“Sorry” said the younger of the pair.

“I’ve seen you tits” the elder told her, “my dad’s got a picture of you with no clothes on”

‘I bet your mother doesn’t know that’ thought Isla.

“And did you like what you saw Arty?” she asked him. Arty screwed hid face into a scowl.

“Leave Isla alone” pleaded the other boy. Arty kicked him in the shin.

“Shut up Timmy, we shouldn’t even be talking to her; my mum says you’re a slut”

Henri, who had played Lancelot to Isla’s Guinevere with burly security guards and testosterone charged teenagers, was not prepared to let this go any further. Arty had been indulged by his parents and had assumed in his usual arrogance that nobody would dare touch him. He was suddenly surprised to find his feet were no longer on the ground. Slowly Henri pulled him up to his eye level. He then explained very carefully that he was Isla’s boyfriend and should he bother her again he would tell his mother exactly what Arty had said to her. And then he told the terrified boy he’d tell her that her son had a collection of photographs of naked women on their computer. Small bullies always recognise large bullies, and Arty realised he was in the presence of a master. He gave a small gulp followed by a gasp as Henri released him and let Isaac Newton finish the job. Picking himself off the hot soft tarmac he ran home, barely managing to hide his tears.

Despite the loss of his leader the small boy held his ground “My Mum says you’re a hero!” he told Isla

“Why thank you Timmy.” She smiled graciously “How have you been? Come and meet Henri, he won’t bite”

Henri bent down and solemnly shook the small boy’s hand “Pleased to meet you Tim, where do you live”

“We live next door to Isla and my Mum thinks she’s great”

“She supports the cause too, has she been writing to the council?”

“Dunno about that, but she walks around with no clothes on”

“What!”

Timmy looked desperately at Isla, “Really. I’ve seen her” he said trying to convince her, “when she thinks nobody is looking she walks around the house and round the garden, and” he dropped his voice to a whisper “even down the lane”

Henri was astonished, this looked so much like an ordinary street, the sort of place you found everywhere with normal people doing all the same normal boring things; shopping, visiting the cinema, watching the same detective stories. Cereal for breakfast, salad for lunch, the occasional curry for a taste of the exotic. Not the place where women ran around naked in public.

Isla, who knew Linda well, was wondering if her mother had got to her.

“You won’t tell anybody, will you?” pleaded Timmy. Isla promised him his secret was safe with her. “Thanks” he called as he ran up the path, the front door closed with a bang. Henri stared at the house with its flowered garden and well trimmed hedges and a line form a half forgotten song came drifted into his head.

‘There’s an ol’ piano, and they play it hot. Behind the green door. Wish they'd let me in. So I could find out what's behind the green door’