Some Sunny Day Read online

  It was just stuff.

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Can you make some pancakes now?’

  ‘I told you, we’ve no flour.’

  ‘Make them without, then.’

  ‘Not possible.’

  ‘Well, can’t you go and buy some more?’

  ‘I’ve told you, the shops have run out. Anyway, we’re not finished.’

  ‘Aren’t we?’ I frowned. ‘What else is there to do?’

  ‘Well.’ Mum narrowed her eyes. ‘I thought …’

  ‘You thought what?’

  ‘That we might just have a teensy, weensy go at …

  ‘Your bedroom?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then …?’

  ‘Not my bedroom …’

  ‘WHAT?!’

  I was back inside and up the stairs like a SHOT. I shoved my door shut behind me and barricaded it with a chair.

  ‘Cym?’ She was right behind the door. The Yellow-Handed Clear-Out Fiend.

  ‘You’re not coming in!’ I screamed.

  ‘But Cym …’

  ‘ENTRY REFUSED!’

  ‘Cymbeline! You don’t even know what I’m …’

  ‘You’re NOT having my Subbuteo!’

  ‘I don’t want it.’

  ‘OR my Match Attax.’

  ‘Those card things? That get everywhere? If you insist. But what about all those plastic medals you get just for going to birthday parties at that football place? And those cardboard trains? You made them in Reception. They’re lovely and everything but …’

  ‘They’re staying!’

  ‘But …’

  ‘EAR MALFUNCTION! EAR MALFUNCTION!’

  ‘Okay. Okay! You’ll take it all to university with you, I get it. But how about …?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Clothes?’ Mum said.

  I hesitated, and Mum sensed it.

  ‘Your drawers are stuffed, Cym. You’ve really grown in the last six months. And Mabel’s not going to want any of your old pants, is she?’

  I wasn’t sure about that, because Mabel REALLY likes me. But what did I care about clothes? This clear-out thing was obviously making Mum happy. It was so much better for her than staring at the news and getting anxious. So I pulled the chair back from the door and opened it a bit.

  ‘ONLY clothes?’

  I peered through the crack, and saw Mum nod. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Say it, then.’

  Mum frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘Oh. Okay. I, Janice Igloo, do solemnly swear …’

  ‘Wait!’ I said. ‘Get your phone out so we can record it.’

  Mum raised her eyes, but did, hereby promising not to take anything other than clothes out of my bedroom, so help her God.

  ‘Don’t you want to do it with me?’ she asked, after I’d let her in.

  ‘Pants-sorting? Nah,’ I said. ‘Have all the fun you want. GO for it.’

  And I left her there, figuring that yes, all this extreme cleaning and clearing out must be her way of coping with being stuck at home all the time, and the worry about catching Covid-19. I went downstairs to FINALLY hit the Seated Optimal Flop-out Activator (S.O.F.A.) for some well-deserved TV-ME time.

  Which, as I found out THE VERY NEXT MORNING, was a

  ‘Cym?’ Mum said (THE NEXT MORNING).

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘Cym?’ she repeated, and again I stayed silent, which you probably think is a bit rude. I wasn’t being rude, though, I promise. What I was being, was asleep. And not a little bit asleep, like I am when she normally wakes me up. I was A LOT asleep. I had no idea what the time actually was, but I knew that it was nowhere near getting-up time. Mum, however, refused to be ignored.

  ‘Cym,’ she insisted. ‘I’ve had the most wonderful idea!’

  With that, Mum joggled my shoulder. When that had no effect on me, she DELIBERATELY committed one of the most serious of Parental Sins: she yanked my duvet off! Then she pulled me to my feet. She led me into the bathroom, where I finally opened my eyes properly. I happened to be staring at the wall clock which, I assumed, must have stopped.

  Because it said 5.15 a.m.!

  But it hadn’t stopped.

  ‘We’ll have the park to ourselves!’ Mum explained. ‘We won’t have to worry about other people! Why didn’t I think of this before?’

  Once my incredibly sleepy brain had processed this information, I yawned at her. ‘Because it’s the middle of the night?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Cym. Look, we’re allowed out once a day. Everyone else is going to be out later. Why do the same as them?’

  The answer to that was that everyone else was SENSIBLE. I didn’t say it, though. There was no point. Mum was set on it, and all I could do was let her grab my arms and legs and shove some clothes on me. Then she led me downstairs.

  ‘Breakfast now?’ she asked. ‘Or later?’

  ‘Later.’ I rubbed my eyes. Now isn’t even today. We should be having supper, if anything. It’s still yesterday.’

  But Mum wouldn’t listen. She jammed some trainers onto my feet and a football into my arms, before picking up her bag. Then she unlocked the front door.

  And it was WEIRD.

  I was still half asleep and, for a second, I thought I’d walked out of a different house. I mean, I know my street – I see it every day – but it was different. The light was very new, covering everything like fresh paint. It made things stand out – the parked cars, for instance, which all seemed very separate from each other. And heavy. The curbs, the black windows of the flats opposite. And the street smelled different – all fresh and clean – and it sounded different too. There were no voices or car horns, just the sparrows who were being really noisy in the trees across the road. There was a rumble in the distance – a train coming into Lewisham, which we don’t normally hear because of the traffic.

  Then I noticed the shadows.

  Our house was casting a big shadow onto the pavement that was as black and solid-looking as the bricks themselves. Other shadows – all the way down the road – were so long and thin that they looked like prison bars, until I realised that they came from the iron railings by the side of the road. They stretched down to the corner – where something was moving.

  It was a fox, nosing at a wheelie bin on the pavement. You see foxes quite a lot in London but I’d never seen one like this. Maybe it was just because the street was empty but it looked MASSIVE, and totally wild, with a big scar across its black muzzle. I realised that I normally thought of London foxes as living in our world, but this was definitely its world. Mum and I didn’t really belong there and I had this sense of there being nothing at all between its teeth and me. When it turned its head and stared at us, I froze.

  ‘Wow,’ Mum whispered, and I just nodded, my eyes wide, until the fox disappeared up the alleyway towards the main road.

  I stood for a minute and blinked. It was amazing – as if the world I knew, and was comfortable in, had another world that lived just beneath it.

  But the street was nothing compared to the park.

  I thought Mum would take me to Greenwich Park. She told me it wouldn’t be open yet, though, so we turned the corner towards Lewisham instead. A huge yawn seemed to crack me open, my body waking up now in spite of itself. I blinked at the wheelie bins, standing on the empty pavement like guards on sentry. Then I noticed the cats. There were loads of them, eyeing us from windowsills as we walked past, or from the tops of the garden walls. I turned from them to the windows of the houses and flats, a bit freaked out to think of all the people just behind them, sleeping. They were actually really close to us, and we crept past them like burglars – until a soft whirring sounded from up ahead. It was a milk float. Mum waved her arms until the float stopped, which I thought was odd because she really did want to avoid people. From a very safe distance, though, she spoke to the driver about getting some milk delivered to ou
r house. He smiled at me from behind his face mask.

  ‘You’re supposed to book it online,’ he said. ‘Though I know that’s tricky at the mo.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Mum said, stepping back behind me. ‘I understand.’

  The man laughed quietly, though, and said he’d sort us out. Mum said thanks SO much and gave him our address, and then we watched the float go on again, the whirring accompanied by the gentle tinkling of milk bottles, like sleigh bells.

  ‘Come on,’ Mum said, and she took my hand as we crossed over the road, which seemed much longer than it normally did, probably because there were no cars coming and I could see further down it.

  Then we got to the DLR station (Docklands Light Railway).

  Mulberry Park is on the other side of it. It’s not a big park but it’s got a pond, lots of trees, a little playground, and something that – quite literally – took our breath away.

  There’s a footbridge over the DLR track, just next to some allotments (I’ll talk about them later). We climbed up to the bridge, and I hesitated. Mum normally pretends to be a troll while I run past, but we both had the sense that it was too quiet for that. Instead, we held hands, Mum wincing when our footsteps clanged on the metal stairs going down. They echoed a bit at the bottom, but no one seemed to hear, so we walked on again. I was about to drop the football so we could play but – suddenly – Mum’s hand tightened.

  And I saw the river.

  The river is called the Ravensbourne. It flows alongside the edge of Mulberry Park into the Thames. I’ve seen it loads of times. It’s got bushes and trees on the high banks that go down to it, some of which go underwater when the tide from the Thames is high. Sometimes it’s got old footballs in the water, or shopping trolleys, and there are usually a few plastic bags stuck in the reeds along the banks. It’s a really normal city river, though it was anything but normal today.

  Because of the mist.

  The whole top of the river was white. The mist was about five feet tall, completely covering the water as it wound through the park. And the mist was moving! It was like a giant white snake, slithering through the city while all the people were sleeping. I was mesmerised, first by this magical thing, happening in our normal park, so close to where I live. Then I thought back to the sleeping people. I was stunned to think that all around us were thousands of them, millions even, but only Mum and I, out of all of them, were here.

  Though I was wrong.

  Mum dropped my hand and moved forward. There’s a low wall at the top of the steep riverbank and she sat on it, even though it looked a bit damp. Keeping her eyes on the mist-creature, she used her right hand to search in her bag. It came out with an ink pen and a sketch pad, which she flipped open while pulling the lid off the pen with her teeth. Mum’s an artist (and an art teacher) and she gets like this – totally absorbed, caught by something that just has to be sketched. I watched as the mist appeared again, this time on her pad, though there’s only so much sketch-watching that you can do. I didn’t want to disturb Mum, though, so I didn’t ask her to come and have a kickaround with me. Instead I told her where I’d be – on the flat bit further on, near the little playground.

  Mum said that was fine and she wouldn’t be long, though I didn’t mind if she was. Lockdown was being hard on her. I knew how much she missed Stephan – and how much she worried about me. It was great to see her doing something she really wanted to, even if it was before the day had actually begun.

  And she’s rubbish at football anyway.

  I mean, SOOOOOO rubbish.

  I left Mum and wandered on, with the river on my right. The mist seemed to be speeding up a bit and I put the ball on the floor and started to dribble it, trying to keep up. I did a few stepovers, and a 360 that didn’t quite work, and I got to the flat place in no time. And it was as weird as my street. Most of the flat bit was in shadow – because of the trees. Fingers of light were pushing through them, though, like Mum’s fingers sometimes do in my hair. They lit up small patches of the grass, each blade shining with dewdrops. I turned from them to the little playground, which was taped shut because of the virus. The swings and seesaw were dead still, as if the White Witch in Narnia had got to them first. It was a bit eerie and I looked away, concentrating on my football instead. I did a few kick-ups, the thump of the ball sounding really loud when I messed up and it landed on the grass.

  It was odd, then.

  Perhaps it was because it was so quiet. And still. But I started to do kick-ups REALLY well! I even drew with my Personal Best – which made me think of Mr Ashe’s lockdown challenge. It’s called the Super Seven and it’s IMPOSSIBLE. First you have to do two normal kick-ups, using both feet (hard enough on its own). These are then followed by two knee-ups, followed by two shoulder-ups, and then a header!

  All without the ball hitting the ground!

  Three goes in our garden had told me that I would never do it in a million years – but that was in the normal world. What about in this strange morning-world? I kicked the ball up with my right foot, then had a go with my left. I normally avoid my left foot – but the ball went up again. It went up onto my left knee, and then onto my right. From there it went up again – almost on its own – to my shoulders. I’d never even tried ONE shoulder-up before, let alone TWO, but I did both, with these lopsided shrugs.

  And they worked!

  The ball went straight as a pencil until, with a very loud BONK, it came back down.

  On my head!

  SEVEN!

  I squealed, pumping my fist like crazy. I’d hardly ever been so excited – until I thought of something. Mr Ashe had told us to film ourselves and put the videos up in the Chat Room. But how could I? There was no way I’d ever be able to do this again, let alone on film, and no one had been here to witness it. I was about to howl in frustration, but then I had a thought. Mum: had she finished her sketch? Had she seen me after all? I spun back towards the way I’d come, along the grey path that wound its way through the sparkly grass.

  But it was empty.

  Mum hadn’t come and I was crushed – but then I stopped. I was getting a feeling: a strange, twitchy sort of feeling. And it was growing. I even shivered. I didn’t understand why at first, but suddenly I did – and I froze. And then I turned my head round slowly, completely and utterly certain about what the feeling meant.

  S me ne was watching me.

  He was down by the edge of the riverbank.

  A kid.

  The reason I could see him was because the mist-snake had started to shed its skin – by which I mean that it was beginning to break up. The magic of this early-morning time was beginning to wear off.

  The kid was thin. He was about my age, with a baseball cap backwards on his head. I’d probably noticed him because of his shirt, though: it was bright red. I stared at it for a moment before turning away, hoping the kid hadn’t seen how scared I’d been. That made me feel a bit stupid and I was about to run off to find Mum, but I stopped and looked back at the kid, because of the shirt. It was a football shirt. The red colour meant it was probably Liverpool or Arsenal but the team didn’t matter; if someone had a football shirt on, then they almost definitely liked football.

  Which meant that they might want a quick kickaround.

  Before Mum came!

  Yes!

  The idea of booting a ball about with someone else was brilliant, so, forcing myself to get over my embarrassment, I took a couple of steps forward.

  ‘Hello!’ I hissed, so Mum wouldn’t hear.

  Before the kid could answer, though, the mist closed up – and the kid vanished. Hoping to see through it, I ran forward, up to the little wall at the top of the bank. I squinted at the running mist until another gap appeared. This gap was a bit further along but, yes, I could see the kid again. He was moving away, though, so I called out again. When he didn’t stop, I figured that he couldn’t have heard me. I followed, keeping on the path at the top of the bank, with him down below. He was sw
allowed again but then he reappeared, as another hole opened in the snake. This one was bigger than the last one, though it was still pretty grey and not quite as clear.

  ‘Hello!’ I called. ‘You down there!’

  And it was weird. The kid MUST have heard me. I’d been much louder this time – but he went faster, if anything, moving towards the far end of the park. It was almost like he was afraid of me, and I frowned, about to leave it. If he didn’t want to play, what could I do? But I thought of something. What if the kid had been there for a while?

  What if he’d seen me doing the Super Seven?!

  I could get him to write a witness statement! It would be proof! I could show it to Lance, and to Mr Ashe!

  I called out once more but again I got no response – the kid just picked his way through the bushes at the water’s edge. Then he climbed over a fallen branch – which is when I got a better look at him. And his shirt.

  No, it wasn’t Liverpool. Or Arsenal. The badge on the sleeve was wrong. Was it Man U, then? I thought maybe, but no, that’s got a devil on it, and this …? I squinted. This badge had a black and red circle with a hand in the middle, gripping a white sword.

  Blimey!

  The kid was wearing a Charlton shirt!

  Did he LOVE Jackie Chapman too?

  I simply couldn’t believe it. This gave me an even bigger reason to stop the kid. I shouted out yet again, wanting him to turn so that I could tell him that I SUPPORT CHARLTON AS WELL! Surely he’d want a kickaround now! And he’d write me a note. But the kid only glanced back at me before darting off again – showing me the back of his shirt properly.

  Now, when you buy a football shirt, you don’t HAVE to get a name put on the back of it. You can leave it blank. Most people do get a name, though, and the kid’s shirt had one. Was it Chapman? I squinted. No, it looked shorter. March, then? He plays for Charlton too and he’s a legend. But it wasn’t that, either; it was something I could just make out before the mist-snake closed up again, swallowing the kid for a final time as I came to a crunching halt.

  And a hand seemed to grab my throat.