As soon as he saw the world turn from brick and concrete into a whole load of green, Frederick knew he was going to hate it. That was almost two hours ago and that hate hadn't diminished in the slightest. He saw the occasional built-up area, places that could almost pass for London, but only almost, and always a distance away from the motorway that drew them further and further away from the only place he had known as home.
He had had no say in the matter. Just like he had had no say in his parent's divorce. They had simply said it, one night, over dinner. As though it were just a normal conversation. Something to add after Dad had mentioned how good the game was last night and Mum had talked about how good work was that day. Oh, and, by the way, we're getting a divorce. Pass the peas.
There it was. Matter of fact. They both loved each other very much, but marriage wasn't the right fit for them, right now. But they both loved and adored Frederick so very much and it absolutely was not his fault. Loved and not at fault. That was the sum total of Frederick's input into the whole matter. If they loved him so much, why did he feel like he didn't have a voice? If it wasn't his fault, why didn't his thoughts matter?
That was bad enough, but when Mum had told him she had a job waiting for her in The North, that almost made Frederick want to run away. The North! And not 'north', meaning Watford, but the North-north. Where whippets and pigeons were man's best friends and everybody wore flat caps, even the women. Probably especially the women.
And something else The North didn't have was his bruvs. Actually, though he'd never admit it, he hated that word. 'Bruvs'. They were mates, but no-one called each other mates. So Frederick had joined in. His bruvs. They were all in London. In The North, he'd have nothing. And what they'd think about having a black kid as a neighbour ... Well, Frederick had had more than his fair share of stop and searches. A few more wasn't going to make him think less of five-oh.
He hadn't said a word to his mum the entire journey beyond saying 'yes' or 'no' to her questions. It was a bit late to consult him now. Instead, he pressed his forehead against the glass of the window, allowing it to cool his skin and the vibrations to rattle his teeth. He had never even known his mum could drive a van. They'd lived in London! They'd never needed a van. Everything they owned, packed up and stuffed into the back. What had once filled their flat now fit into a van and there was still room to spare.
He missed looking up and seeing buildings. Missed the noise. The shouting and the impatient horns that began to sound the very second lights changed. He missed people twisting themselves sideways to avoid touching anyone else as they weaved in and out of the other pedestrians, a complicated, ever-evolving dance of self-isolation, where a look up could have someone following you for streets, trying to sell you something, trying to get a pound from you for a coffee, trying to convert you to whichever religion they had become indoctrinated in this week.
London had a life to it, a distinct heart beat unlike anything anywhere else. Not that Frederick had ever been anywhere else, but he had heard people say so and they should know. Soon, he would find himself dumped out into a place on life-support. Somewhere where people just didn't, couldn't, have the same sense of identity. Frederick would always be a Londoner and nothing his mum could do, or say, would ever change that.
"We're almost there, Frederick." Mum tried to catch his eye, even as she watched the road. "A few more miles and you'll see the turn off, then a few more miles. It's set in a lovely valley, with trees everywhere. Fields beyond the trees. Farms. You'll see, you'll love it."
No he won't. He won't ever love it. Trees and fields and farms. As if they were something he'd ever be interested in. He adjusted the seat belt as he turned even more away from his mum. His breath fogged on the window and he passed his finger over it, making the 'u' of a sad mouth. Then he added fangs and horns before the breath faded away completely. He'd be doing jigsaw puzzles next.
Sitting in a single room with a small log-fired stove. A tin bath filled with dirty water, half-washed socks dangling over the edge as his mum knitted on a rocking chair while a candle flickered behind her. A true northern way of life, with nothing to do and nowhere to go. No skate parks, not that he could skateboard anyway. No arcades of slot machines. No markets taking over roads once or twice a week. Only a deathly silence decided for him.
The slip-road curled back on itself and Frederick could already see the signs of neglect. Of inbreds wrecking things because they had nothing else in their lives and didn't have the intelligence to find something to do. A burned-out wreck of a car, the flames scouring the paint from the vehicle and the sign beside it, most of the letters burned away, leaving only the word 'shire' untouched. They'll be blaming that on the black boy before long.
Branches slapped against the windscreen as Mum navigated the twisting, turning roads that led ever deeper into the wilds of the countryside, further and further away from civilisation. Further and further away from anything that resembled normal. He doubted they even had normal tv here, let alone broadband good enough for streaming his favourite shows. Not even good enough to play his games, one of the few ways he could stay in touch with his bruvs.
A river curled in close to the thin road, almost touching it, following the same direction for a while before sweeping away once more. He turned his head, watching it pass into the trees, certain he had seen a duck, or something, swimming along on the surface. Then, without warning, the trees broke and he saw his first glimpse of the town where his mum had said they would start a new life.
A supermarket. All corrugated, white metal and windows. The big sign on the side stating they opened twenty-four hours for shopping. At least that was one normal thing. A car park stretching out beside the building held dozens of cars and not a tractor among them. A petrol station appeared tagged on as an afterthought and a fast food burger place followed on from there. More big shops, some with names he knew from back home, but not making him feel at home.
More driving. Weaving around streets that ranged from familiar red brick terraces to grey stoned cottages, as though they didn't know what kind of houses they wanted to live in. Houses that crept almost to the kerbs. Houses with small front gardens. Tv aerials and solar panels on roofs showed that they weren't completely stuck in the last century, but he still didn't hold out hope.
Kids raced around on bikes, or hung about at bus stops, all watching the van as it passed and not a one of them looked like him. Happy families of muslims walked together, showing the place had at least some diversity, down the high street that had more shops closed than open, metal shutters that hadn't moved in years in front of dirty windows that hid the insides of premises that crumbled and rotted from neglect and deprivation.
They had that back in London, of course, but it felt different here. In London there was always the promise that someone would open up that little shop on the corner, that the local high street would have a burst of activity sooner rather than later. Here, it looked as though the whole town had come to accept that it was dying and no-one cared.
The van bumped up onto the kerb as his mum took the turn too tightly and Frederick heard their precious belongings tumble about in the back as they now headed up a steep hill, away from the town centre. Of course they wouldn't live anywhere near the only piece of something even close to civilisation. Up and around, into a range of streets that weren't packed as tight as those in the town. Trees lined the roads. Old trees sat in green, grass verges, the houses set far back, hedges and walls marking the individual territories of the people inside.
Before reaching a line of shops, set upon a triangular parcel of empty land, the van veered off, down yet another road and, after only passing one house on either side, the van came to a halt. Frederick could tell which house they were moving into, seeing no curtains or blinds in the windows. His mum had said they were going to live in a house, but he hadn't expected it to have gardens at the front and the back.
They had lived in a flat, back home. Two bedrooms, a living room, kitchen off the living room, bathroom and toilet next to the front door. That was all they needed. Now they had a house, but without Dad, it would feel even more empty. But Dad had already moved out months before. This place was only for Frederick and Mum. Unbuckling the seat belt, he let it roll back and leaned down between his feet, picking up the ball he used to kick against walls back home.
"I'm going to look at the garden." He'd opened the van door already, dropping two-footed to the pavement and bouncing the ball.
"Be quick. I need a hand unloading." His mum had to shout to catch his attention. "And don't be annoying ..."
He missed the last part, but it probably wasn't important. The gate had squeaked as he opened it and it crashed back against the post as he let it go. A path, running down the side of house, led to the back garden and Frederick couldn't believe how big it was. It stretched away to end in yet more trees, as though the area didn't have enough trees as it was, and it was too green. Everywhere was too green.
A fence separated this garden from the one next door and, over the top of the fence, he could see the roof of a shed that even had solar panels on top. Maybe not so uncivilised after all. He bounced the ball on the grass, catching it on his foot and sending it looping away. Not a skateboarder, or much of a footballer, either. But, then again, it was only a light, plastic ball. Not the best to play keepy-ups.
Still, only here for seconds and he'd already invaded the neighbour's garden. Popping his head above the fence, he saw a filthy old man reaching down for the ball, picking it up with fat, weird fingers. Here it came. Northerners meeting black people for the first time. He got it all the time, back home and, up here in The North, he expected worse.
"Here, pal!" Frederick had no idea why he said that. He'd never called anyone 'pal' in his life, let alone a grubby, likely smelly old Northern bloke. "Give me my ball back, eh?"
He'd probably given the old fella the shock of his life. Now he'd say something about the colour of Frederick's skin. Any minute ...