Under the Weather Page 5

  “Bring it here, that’s a dear,” sang out the old woman and she wrapped a grubby cloth round the handle of the kettle and slowly poured water into a huge brown teapot.

  “I’m Granny Marble, lived here sixty-five year. Ain’t that marvellous, dear?”

  Tommo didn’t answer. He couldn’t think of anything marvellous about Frigging Biggin.

  “We had floods, 1953, from the North Sea,” Granny Marble went on.

  “Floods?” Tommo’s ears pricked up. Like Bangladesh? he thought mystified.

  “Lost the lot, all gone to pot,” went on Granny Marble. “Next Friday, in time for tea, storm surge in the North Sea. Like in ’53. Ain’t going nowhere this time,” and she shook a teaspoon at Tommo’s nose. Her blue eyes glittered. “Past my prime.”

  Tommo looked round the shabby room. What a dump, he thought, wouldn’t matter if it was washed out to sea. Anyway, what does she know about floods, sitting here all day talking to herself in crazy rhymes.

  Then he had a horrible thought.

  “What about snakes?” he said.

  “Want one of these cakes?” she rhymed, and gave him a sneaky grin.

  “No,” muttered Tommo irritably. “Were there any snakes in the floods?”

  “Snakes in Biggin, what you thinkin’?” and Granny Marble gave a shrill laugh. “When the water comes it covers the beach, right out of reach, covers the huts, covers the road. Float out the door, all gone, no more.”

  Her voice sank softly and there was the sound of rain, smacking as if in a bad temper, against the windows. Tommo stared into Granny Marble’s eyes, shining in the firelight. How deep was the water if everything floated out the door? Three metres, four? Where would all the animals go, the foxes and the rabbits in their deep dark holes?

  And the snakes in the long grass by the roadside, whispered a voice in Tommo’s head.

  That night Tommo sat up with his parents watching the news.

  “Not like you, love. Doing something in school?” said his mum, as she put biscuits out on a plate.

  “Climate change,” muttered Tommo, yawning as the Prime Minister droned on about terrorists. Then the weatherman came on and suddenly there was a close up of the east coast of England.

  “There’s Suffolk,” said Dad frowning. “Right where we are.”

  The weatherman said that a storm surge was due down the North Sea at the end of the week. Granny Marble was right, thought Tommo, amazed. Maybe she is a witch.

  “The sea level could rise by three metres,” said the weatherman.

  “Just like in 1953,” said Dad. “Hundreds died on these coasts.”

  “And is it all because of global warming?” asked Tommo.

  “Well, if the sea levels rise things will only get worse round here,” nodded Dad.

  “I’ll get in some extra tins,” said Mum anxiously.

  “Granny Marble’s cottage was flooded last time,” said Tommo. Should I warn Dad about the snakes? he thought with a shiver. We could get a gun or a knife.

  Picturing weapons in sleepy Biggin made him laugh out loud.

  “What’s funny, love?” asked Mum.

  “You thought it would be safer here. I don’t think Deep’s gonna drown in Camden!”

  But it wasn’t funny really. In assembly on Thursday morning the Head said, “School’s closed for the rest of the week. We could all be flooded and many of you will have to leave your homes.”

  “We’ll have to cancel the match on Saturday,” whispered Jeremy in a worried voice.

  That’s all they care about, thought Tommo, playing football and keeping their iPods dry.

  But what about the snakes?

  “We’ll be an evacuation centre,” said the Head, “so some of you will be sleeping here. Go home and do everything your parents tell you. Biggin could be under water tomorrow night.”

  By Friday morning it was raining hard. Tommo pulled back his bedroom curtains and looked out at the sea. Was he imagining it or was it already halfway up the beach? His parents had decided to evacuate the cottage after lunch and they spent the morning loading the car and fixing locks to the doors and windows.

  “You get looters in floods,” said Dad grimly.

  Tommo added looting to his list of flood dangers.

  But secretly he had already decided that the cottage would get completely washed away, the school would collapse and Mum and Dad would move back to London. No snakes there, except in the zoo and he’d be back in the football team before Christmas. Bring on the floods!

  By two o’clock the car was loaded to the brim and they set off down the lane. Tommo craned his neck to see if he could spot Granny Marble.

  “Did they come and get her?” he asked Mum.

  “Oh yes,” said Mum, looking anxiously at the heavy rain lashing the windscreen. “They’d get the old people first.”

  But Tommo wasn’t so sure. “Did you actually see her go?” he cried out, above the screaming of the wind. There was a quick movement on the road and he jumped in his seat. A snake? he wondered.

  “I’m sure she’s gone, love. We’ll see her at the school.”

  The car crunched over something solid in the road and Dad slammed on the brakes.

  “Damn!” he yelled. “Blown a tyre. I’ll have to change it.”

  As Dad went round to the back of the car, Tommo made up his mind.

  Wrenching open the door against the gale, he cried out, “Won’t be a minute.”

  Before Mum could stop him, he was running down the road, parka hood blown back, freezing rain drenching his head. His trainers were soaked as he reached the garden gate. Tommo hesitated and glanced towards the beach. What if the sea came roaring in now and washed them away? It felt like a wild beast, lurking untamed beyond the flimsy cottages. Should he make a run for it while he could?

  I have to be sure, Tommo decided, even if there are snakes!

  He ran up to the front door. It was ajar and no light showed in the room beyond.

  “Granny Marble, are you there?”

  No sound, not even the mewing of the cat. He reached for a light switch, found one by the door and pressed it. Nothing.

  The power must be down, he thought, but he could see a small shape humped in the armchair in front of the dying embers of the fire. Run, now! he told himself, but his feet were glued to the spot.

  Then his phone rang. It was Deep. “Mate, hope you’re somewhere nice and dry.”

  “Deep, she’s not moving,” cried out Tommo in a panic. “I don’t know what to do!”

  “What?” said Deep. “Who’s not moving? Where are you?”

  “Granny Marble, she’s sort of lying in her chair and her hand’s freezing cold. I’m in her cottage.”

  “You’re insane! Tommo, mate, you gotta get out of there, you gotta run, the floods are coming and Auntie Mina says you can’t out-run the water. She was in the floods with Granny in Bangladesh, she had her baby in her arms and Granny couldn’t run to the boats. She got left behind. Auntie Mina cries all the time. You got to go!

  NOW Tommo, RUN! –”

  The phone went dead and then a voice shouted his name. It was Dad. Grabbing him round the shoulders, as Tommo sobbed and sobbed, Dad dragged him back to the car and drove as fast as he could to the school.

  You can’t out-run the water, swept round and round Tommo’s head. He had left Granny Marble and now the snakes would eat her dead body.

  At the school, Tommo zipped himself into his sleeping bag and pulled his hood over his head. He didn’t want to speak to anyone. Mum offered him a jam sandwich but he just burrowed deeper into his parka.

  Jeremy came over and prodded him. “The sea’s right over the beach huts. Wanna play Scrabble?”

  Tommo, already drifting into sleep, didn’t answer. As he dozed fitfully, on and off, all he could think about was, Frigging climate change.

  Dad had said Granny Marble probably had a heart attack, but what about all the other grannies in England and Bangladesh and all around
the world?

  The earth was getting hotter and the sea levels were rising.

  Grannies can’t out-run the floods!

  They’re all going to die, he thought desperately, from drowning, poisoning in dirty water and snake bites.

  Millions of grannies were doomed unless they did something quickly!

  It took all night for the room to finally quieten down and then, just before dawn, when the only sound was snoring, his brilliant plan came to him. All he needed to do was collect mobile numbers from all the kids before they went home.

  He persuaded Jeremy to help. “Can’t see what for,” he grumbled, packing away his Scrabble set.

  But Tommo insisted. “Trust me; I know what I’m doing. I’m from Camden.”

  School didn’t open again until the following Wednesday. In the end there hadn’t been much flooding but Tommo had decided there was no time to spare. His plan was to stop heating up the earth over Biggin-on-sea and make the other kids see that they could fight climate change. He sent out a text which began, Save Biggin grannies!

  At eight o’clock on Wednesday morning Tommo set off on his bike. At the top of the lane, Jeremy and two other kids from school were waiting for him.

  “All right, mate?” called Jeremy, cleaning his glasses on a grubby cloth. Tommo gave a big grin.

  “Let’s roll!” he said and the little procession set off along the road.

  At all the cottages, outlying farms and villages they collected more and more cyclists, until almost forty kids from Year 7 to the Sixth Form had joined them, laughing and chatting as they went.

  As they arrived at school they heard the Headmaster boom out in his Sergeant Major voice, “What’s all this?”

  “Tommo’s Bike Train,” cried the cyclists.

  “You what?” said the Head, arms folded.

  “Better than being driven to school, isn’t it sir? Less cars on the road,” said Jeremy. “Cycling helps stop climate change and it’s safer if we all bike together, like in a train.”

  “Hummph,” said the Head. “Whose idea was this?” and he glared around at the gathering crowd.

  “Mine,” said Tommo. He felt his cheeks flame brighter than Granny Marble’s fire. “Grannies can’t out-run floods,” he explained. “In Bangladesh they have to go on the roofs, but then the snakes find them and kill them. We want to stop worse floods happening.”

  “Yes, well,” boomed the Head. “Just this once then, but we can’t have all these bikes in school every day.”

  Tommo’s heart sank and a groan went up round the playground.

  But then the Head said, “I suppose we could discuss it at the next Governors’ meeting.”

  There’s still a chance, thought Tommo and he started to push his bike to the sheds. But his path was blocked by three sets of wheels. Puzzled, he looked up to see Jeremy and two other boys from his class.

  “Maybe we could use another striker on the football team,” grinned Jeremy. “All right to practice after school?”

  Tommo stared at them for a few seconds. Then he gave a brief nod.

  But inside a great big YEEESSSSS!! bubbled up.

  He couldn’t wait to text Deep.

  Climate [Short] Change

  by Lily Hyde

  Siberia is so vast, so wild, that it’s hard to believe anything we do could affect it. In fact, global warming is completely altering its landscapes, and therefore the way of life of its native people. Modern transport and communications – major contributors to climate change – have brought together communities from around the globe, like the Siberian villagers and West European scientists who meet in this story. But to make a positive difference to our world, we have to be willing to understand not only the abstract causes and effects of climate change, but also each other’s daily lives, hopes and dreams.

  Climate change is what is happening to the world today. It is turning our Siberian tundra into lakes and then the lakes dry up and in the end we will have no way to live any more. It is people with factories and technology who are causing climate change.

  In our village we got to know about climate change this summer when a scientific research expedition from Germany, France and Britain arrived. In Europe people really care about climate change. I will give you a funny example of how much they care: the scientists had an FSB escort driving out of Noyabrsk who wouldn’t let them stop near the oil and gas fields. They are State Secrets but Professor Helpmann wanted to collect soil samples so he told the scientists to say they needed to pee. Ben said “We kept drinking and stopping to pee and drinking and peeing, but then we ran out of water and those security service goons got suspicious so next time Dad wanted to stop he stuck his fingers down his throat and made himself puke. Three times.” Ben’s dad is Professor Helpmann. He is mad.

  Ben’s my age. He’s half-German-half-English but he speaks Russian because Professor Helpmann takes him on loads of expeditions to Siberia and at home they have a Russian housekeeper. I’m half-Nenets-half-Russian but my dad never takes me anywhere except into the tundra with the reindeer or the fishing nets, and our only housekeeper is my mum and sister. There’s not much of our house to keep anyway. Ben says this is good because it’s better for the planet if you live simply and don’t have freezers and washing machines and things. If everyone lived like us climate change would never have happened. Mum always complains because she wants a flat in town with running water and heating so I never thought there was anything good about our house. That’s why I like Ben. He makes me think things I never thought before.

  We brought Ben back to the village with us. We were in town selling fish and the FSB people had left the expedition there because there are no State Secrets further on, just lakes and reindeer and villages like ours. The scientists were waiting for transport but the Professor didn’t want to wait. So we took him and Ben. It is a nine-hour trip through bogs in our ancient UAZ jeep which broke down like it always does. And then they stayed in our house. Mum was embarrassed. Our house is so small Professor Helpmann fills up most of it.

  When the other scientists arrived Professor Helpmann held a meeting and everyone went. Most of us had never seen foreigners before. I’ve never seen many people at all really. In our village the reindeer outnumber the people by about ten to one. The meeting was supposed to tell us about climate change and why the scientists had come but it was hard to understand because the translator from Noyabrsk didn’t know half the technical words, and so Professor Helpmann started talking Russian himself but he made lots of mistakes. For example:

  Translator: Methane is, er, a gas from a conservatory or hothouse. If it is released from our Siberian bogs as the permafrost melts without, er, going rusty, the result will be a disastrous acceleration in, um, heating up the sphere.

  Us: ??????????

  Prof. Helpmann: No, no! Methane he GREENHOUSE gas! Now that permafrost she– she– she as ice-cream in sun, if methane he not OXIDISED then will go faster GLOBAL WARMING!

  Us: ?????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Ben (in my ear): I’ll explain after. Stop laughing.

  I wasn’t the only one laughing but a bit later everyone sat up because the translator and Prof. Helpmann said something much more interesting:

  Translator: We scientists will be here for only a few months. But we want to support you in Siberia to take responsibility for understanding the climate alteration that affects your lives every day. To that end we will give you small, er, gratuities, to set up, er, checking projects.

  Us: ???? Gratuities?????

  Prof. Helpmann: No, no! We give you GRANTS in THREE THOUSAND EUROS to MONITOR the CLIMATE CHANGE after we go, because climate change he HERE in your front door!

  Us: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!????? MONEY!!

  There is not much money in our village.

  “Tell us about the grants,” I said to Ben afterwards and so did Uncle Vasya and my cousins and most of the neighbours. But Ben was quite cross he wanted to explain climate change and gases like methane warming
up the atmosphere. This is especially important here in Siberia because it is causing the permafrost to melt and this releases lots more methane, in fact Siberian bogs contain a quarter of all the methane stored on land in the world. If it is released without being converted into carbon dioxide it will really speed up climate change.

  “So what?” said Dad. He is worried about fish and never thinks about anything else. “Tell us about the grants.”

  “But don’t you understand how important it is?” Ben said. “Look, you must have noticed how there are more lakes here than there used to be. That’s climate change. I told you global warming is causing the permafrost in the ground to melt. This forms lakes, and at first the lakes get bigger, but after a while they’ll disappear again because when the ground melts all through the water just drains away.” Ben looked round at us. “The lakes are the visible part of climate change. Now do you get it?”

  Yes we got it, and this is why: if I was going to start this all over again I would write not about foreign scientists or methane gas but about my dad. Dad used to be a reindeer herder. At first he worked for the government collective farm but then that collapsed so Dad started up on his own. Everyone laughed because he had just three reindeer to start with, then four, then seven, then he went into partnership with Uncle Vasya and together they had sixteen reindeer. I know this is still not very many but it was enough not just for us but to sell the meat and fur and antlers, so we got a TV and my sister Zhanna went to study at the school in town. And the reindeer had more calves and one summer we had twenty-two reindeer.

  But that was when the lakes started getting bigger. I mean they had been getting bigger for a while. Even whole new ones kept appearing. But that summer there was just too much lake and not enough grazing ground any more. People starting arguing over which ground belonged to what herd, and because our herd was the smallest we lost the arguments. Dad and Uncle Vasya had to go further than they’d ever been for pasture and they got to a place where there were wolves and lost eight reindeer.