Grass Green, by Vanessa Crannis

Night Feast, by Paul Klee (Switzerland) 1921

​Grass Green

In the dark of this path in the white of the night, I put down a foot, kick at loose gravel. Midges dust my cheek, the honeyed air storms my nose. It’s a tempting scene. 

I lean my bike against a tall yew hedge where the scamper of rabbits is so reassuring I don’t bother with the lock. It’s other-worldly here. One house is turreted, another could be a tree house on stilts. It’s so unlike Lester Street.

Our move didn’t explode my life as Dad promised. The guys on the rec. already had their 5-a-side and gave not so much as a nod when I slunk from the shadows and sweated fifty keepie-uppies. "Keep at it, mate," coaxed some bloke picking litter for the council. I appreciated that.

Since then, I’ve felt washed-out. Hopeless.

But here is a place where darkness crackles like old leather, wraps my skin in treacly-browns. I think of Grandad and the bronze coins he’d spill from his pocket, spit and buff with pride. His warm tobacco breath. 

Chewing hard on old gum, I eke out remnants of mint. "Yeah," I tell myself, "worth the bike ride."

To be fair, the new neighbours are cool about my wheelies. My incessant up-down, close swerve of car mirrors and the screech as I skid round the death-wish cat. Their only shout-out, "Wear a helmet, won’t you!’" by which I assume they’ve my safety in mind. 

Lester Street is a step-up for us but, still, the houses are piled like boxes. Featureless grey blocks. An occasional steel balcony the only relief from flat brick, flat cement. There’s outdoor hubs of recycled plastic benches where people sit and feed the pigeons, gladly fetch dropped toddler toys, pass weather notes. But there’s no soul. No art. 

I like art. Not saying I can paint or sketch, nor that I get any teacher’s praise beyond, "Nice lines, try shading." Not sure what lures me: colour? light? the blob my eye sees as a mountain, a yellow flick that becomes buttered toast. Yet I know style matters, boosts your happy. 

The path winds past a pretty house with a chilli-red roof . There’s splashes of pink light shimmying across the lawn, the soft plop of a frog in a pond. I carefully put down foot after foot, but can’t avoid the crunch of stones. Damned Nikes. If it wasn’t so dark, I’d lose them. I bet the residents here go barefoot, do outdoor Tai-Chi.

It’s way more inviting than Lester Street, though Dad would be wary. People like their privacy, he’d warn.

But how magical the stars. Twinkling above the rooftops in criss-cross silver, as if they’ve been crayoned in wax. I hope Dad’s clocked off his late shift and can see this incredible sky. 

And WOW! how the moon lights the perfectly-pruned trees: cones, spheres, upturned goblets. Half in Viridian Green, half in a wispy Paris Green. I know these names from my artist’s colour chart and – man! – here they are for real. Seriously, there could be pixies plucking the leaves, making dance notes. No throbbing beat boxers. And no dog shit, that’s for sure.

A dog is barking, though. 

I slip behind the trunk of a lollipop tree. Is this where the breadcrumb trail ends? Perhaps an Emerald Green chimney pot is not the mark of a happy destination. Perhaps the turreted house is really a decaying Gormenghast. Dad showed me a mechanical model once. At the press of a button, paper-engineered owls flew round and round the pointed tower. It’s likely owls live here. Perhaps they, too, are waiting to peck out the eyes of the dead.

A breeze gets up, amplifies the next bark. I hate the sound of it grinding back into the dog. Wince at its re-exit; jaw wide, announcing its big intention. I try not to picture the strain of a neck. I try not to suppose someone could unleash the dog. I crouch. Swallow all breath. 

Still not breathing, I stare down a strip of solar lights pushed into the soil. Moths tumble confusedly in the bright auras and I’m frightened for their pale, furry bodies. This tableau, this moonlit green. It’s made me greedy, audacious prick that I am. And I so wish I’d locked my bike as I’ve a hunch it’s already gone. 

My eyes dart. The creamy fluff of a rabbit’s backside would be welcome now. Nothing. No one. No face in any of the shut-tight windows. No one calling in their cat. No van pulling up with a late night delivery. No dad at the window, saying "It’s gone to Howard’s," (whoever Howard is) and, "Nice! He’s tipped the driver a tenner." 

I let go my breath. Laugh inside at the ways in which dad has tried to convince me Lester Street will work out, that the guys on the rec. will come round and even if it takes many more keepie-uppies, they’ll be wanting my muddy arse on the pitch soon. 

And it’s with this thought, I see the sign: Strictly Private. Another: Resident’s Only. I blink hard. When my pupils adjust, I see signs everywhere: No Admittance  – Keep Out – Ball Games Forbidden. I spit my gum and a gob of sour backs up into my throat. 

The barking continues.

Fuck! The pretension I’ve put on this place; this lime-lit tree, this shadowy gothic arch. Light is light and doesn’t the moon sculpt its beauty everywhere.

I’m suddenly sickened by this night feast. I want to be spreadeagled on the weedy rec. In the corner where the pitch dips and a puddle of moisture keeps a patch of green. Grass Green: No 4, best colour on my chart. 

Where, if I raise my chin, there’ll be a robin hopping round the bench and a trail of messy bramble. Where the bloke from the council will nab a blackberry on his litter round, give a matey holler.

Dad’s right, of course. The guys asked me to join them last week. "Hey! they offered up, ‘We need a midfielder. You in?"

I fist-thump my head. The spite, not letting dad know. Unable to bear his told you so.

The growl is rock-grind. The bark the loudest yet.

Light saturates: a roving torch?  a beam from a watchtower? a mob with flames? Whatever the source, it reveals the one sign I’d missed. It’s fixed with two fat screwheads, each a shiny glint in a post that’s tarred black and concreted in for the purpose.

My eyes are wet and needling but the words are buffed and clear.

GUARD DOG ON PATROL 

Vanessa Crannis

​Vanessa is from Essex in the UK. A latecomer to writing, she enjoys its exciting challenge and quiet interaction. She is thrilled to have pieces published in The Phare, The Ekphrastic Review and Writers’ Forum. Vanessa is happiest out-of-doors in nature and walks, runs or swims every day.