Lessons for a Stranger

Lesson One

You Are Not Owed Forgiveness

Scent is a form of time travel. Strange, how a certain smell can send a person reeling back a decade or more to a time and place they’d forgotten. Or tried to forget. Dana stirs in her chair before she realises why. The sun’s on her face. The kids play at the edge of the gardens. Logan’s found some sort of bug (he loves bugs, that boy) and he’s puffed up and proud as he presents it to Nina on his outstretched palm. Fi and Amari, a few years older, wander over to have a look. Somewhere under the chatter of birdsong lies the comforting hum of generators. Sunlight glints off the silver frames of solar panels atop the gen-house, and the rhythmic whisper of the wind turbines lends an undercurrent to the lazy drone of insects. There’s no shouting. The kids are safe. Why does Dana suddenly feel unsettled?

Petrol.

The word comes to her from nowhere. She hasn’t smelled it in years. But that’s what it is. This cloying, oily scent that makes her throat feel dry. Her stomach tightens. She’s twelve years old again, in the back of a hot car, no way to escape that awful stench. It presses on her temples. Makes her eyes hurt.

She pushes out of her chair, turns into the wind, sniffs like an animal.

“Kids,” she says. “Stay here. Fi, can you watch them?”

Fi, the oldest at eleven, straightens up with a smile. “Yep!’

Dana steps out from behind the gen-house, shields her eyes, glances up the road. Damselflies hang softly in the air, their jewel-bodies catching the sun. Just beyond the line of birches opposite, there comes the gentle croaking of frogs from the community’s sizeable pond. Solar-trucks are parked along the pavement, their panels open and glinting in the high sun, drinking energy. Further down the road is the bay for the recycled electric cars. All but one of the community’s fleet of six is parked, plugged in, and charging. Nothing seems out of place. Where’s that smell coming from?

A little way up the path, Maggie’s out in her front garden, checking for whitefly in her tomato plants. She looks up when she sees Dana, waves. Dana waves back. But Maggie doesn’t stop waving. Now she’s pointing, mouthing something that Dana’s too far away to catch. She follows the line of Maggie’s gesturing. And sees it.

A dark flash of chrome. Polished hubcabs, the growl of a combustion engine. It’s the kind of car once used for cruising motorways, belching poison into the atmosphere. The kind of absolutely no use to most people now that solar trucks and recycled electrics are so available, so reliable. And so comparatively cheap.

And that’s where the smell’s coming from. That sharp tang at the back of her throat. Dana stares past Maggie’s frantic theatrics, watching the shiny door to the shiny car swing open. Someone steps out.

Oh hell.

Maggie rushes to Dana’s side. The woman is such a busybody but her tomato passata is some of the best Dana has ever tasted, so she keeps her composure as Maggie grabs her arm.

“Did you hear?”

“Hear what?”

Maggie huffs an impatient sigh. Dana finally drags her eyes away from the shiny car and its shiny owner. Maggie’s flushed with excitement. Those hazel eyes are bright with gossip-sparkle. Her greying hair escapes its braid and floats around her face. Maggie pushes it off her forehead. She’s still wearing her gardening gloves. She leaves a smear of soil above one eyebrow.

“New guy,” she says. “Moving into number twenty-six. He’s an ex-con of some sort. Settled here for rehabilitation, like we’ve got the resources for that!”

Dana’s insides do something unpleasant. “I didn’t know about this. Did I miss it at the last trustee meeting?”

“Nope,” Maggie sniffs. “We weren’t consulted.”

Dana frowns. “That’s not how it works. We’re supposed to get notice so we can approve—”

“He’s a forced relocation,” Maggie interrupts.

Dana’s eyebrows shoot up. “Climate criminal?”

Maggie nods excitedly. “Ex banker. CEO. One of those big polluters, y’know? Invested in all sorts of dirty industry. Oil. Coal. Gas. Funded the takeover of indigenous land and mining lithium in Cuba where all those kids died of poisoning. The lot. Probably involved in arms dealing, too. They all were, weren’t they?”

Dana says nothing. Those days are such a blur, and Maggie is a master of hyperbole. But it could be true. Some banks did far worse.

“Can’t remember which bank he headed up,” Maggie witters on. “But it was one of the ones that held out longest, apparently. Oh, what was its name? Began with an ‘H’. And he was in charge when it went bust. Remember? When the co-ops started pooling resources and communities took charge of their own economies. And he was on TV loads going on about how stupid we all were and how we’d come crawling back when we realised, and he had that smarmy look on his face. You said you wanted to punch him. Don’t you remember?”

Dana’s stopped listening.

She absolutely remembers.

His name is branded in her memory, will be for the rest of her life.

Caspian Filmore.

And yes, she had really wanted to punch him. She still does. Her fists clench without her permission, knuckles tingling, anticipating contact with his nose. She’s never punched anyone in her life. She’s a pacificist. Always has been. At least, she thought she was.

“We should send him packing,” Maggie hisses like some demon in Dana’s ear. “Call the town council, tell them our community can’t support someone like him.”

“But that’s not true,” Dana says automatically. They’re almost entirely self-sufficient and what they aren’t able to produce here, they trade for with neighbouring co-ops and the town at large. There’s two good forest schools and three seats on the college board to fill. And extra pairs of hands are always helpful.

Depending on the person they belong to.

“Not the point,” Maggie sniffs. Dana doesn’t answer.

Because no, that isn’t the point.

All she can think about is Logan. Her six-year-old son, sweet and kind and who wants to be a wildlife ranger. Her son whose future was almost ripped from him by men like this.

Oh Lord, he’s seen them.

He waves. Holy hell, he’s coming over. God, he walks like a peacock. Look at him! Swinging his arms, shoulders pulled back, chest thrust out, ready for him to beat. He’s wearing a suit. Nobody here wears a suit. Even Jemmie attends surgery in sensible shoes and jeans. Dana can’t even remember the last time she saw anyone in a suit. It’s like watching a relic.

And then he’s in front of her and he’s speaking and he’s offered her his hand and she stares at it with her mouth open, no idea what to do.

“Filmore,” he says. “Caspian? You might have heard of me.”

Dana remains staring at his outstretched hand.

Maggie recovers first. She squares her shoulders. “We’ve heard of you,” she says.

Dana manages to drag her gaze away from Filmore’s hand up to his face. He grins at her. She’s seen that face on screens and under news headlines. Tanned. Buffed. There’s a few more lines in his face than she remembers. Twenty years facing his crimes against the planet would do that to a person. He must be well into his fifties by now, or older. Still, he’s got one of those smiles like they all used to have: bright and white and far too wide. A smile that tries to blind you to what his eyes are doing. Immediately, she distrusts him. Smiles like that have to be bought. He clearly paid well for his, back when the world was divided unevenly enough that he had such money.

“Dana,” she manages.

“Dana,” he repeats, like he’s having to work very hard to commit it to memory. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Neither Maggie, nor Dana, responds in kind. Filmore’s smile falters for a moment. He hoists it back onto his face.

“So, what do you ladies do around here?”

Maggie bristles, but Dana’s recovered enough to put a gentle hand on the other woman’s arm.

“I’m one of the co-op’s trustees,” Dana says. “I also help manage our shop when I can and I teach storytelling at the college.”

She says that last bit a little loudly on purpose, because she knows how he’ll react. And, yes, there it is. The slight curl of the lip. His too-perfect smile becomes a sneer.

“And you?” he addresses Maggie.

Maggie folds her arms. “None of your—”

“Maggie’s also a trustee,” Dana cuts in. “She’s in charge of our gardens, an important member of our community. She’s got a lot of knowledge. Helps everyone with their crops throughout the year.”

“It takes up almost all my time,” Maggie says, though Dana can tell the important-member-of-our-community line has softened her a little. “What do you grow?”

Filmore blinks. “Grow?”

Maggie’s wicked mood returns. “Everyone in the community grows something. My garden provides tomatoes, sugarsnap peas, cucumbers and beans. Dana grows potatoes and herbs. And then we have the community garden where everyone chips in.”

Filmore stares at them blankly. Dana sighs. Maybe Maggie is right. And this is her role as co-op trustee, after all. Welcome newcomers. Help with integration. Establish each person’s skill set and how they might best thrive in a place like this.

“Mr. Filmore," Dana says. "I know the way we live might seem unusual to you. Perhaps you didn’t live in a co-op like this before, but you will have accepted this relocation as part of your rehabilitation, and so there are rules. Everyone here is an individual and we encourage people to pursue things that bring them joy, to develop new skills, and to be happy. But with that freedom, there is responsibility. Everyone contributes to the community in some way. Most people who have a garden grow something, and we also have a community garden and a pond that needs maintenance. Olivia and Dmitri keep goats. The Chopra family keep chickens, and there are six beehives out by the pond that Jamilla cares for. We have generators that need maintaining and solar trucks that need servicing. We share a wind farm facility with three other co-operatives and that needs upkeep. We have a surgery that needs receptionists and administrators, and we also help run the hospital that serves the whole town. We have a bank that needs accountants and service people, and the shop can always do with more volunteers. We have a college that takes a lot to run, and two schools. We share a sports centre with other nearby co-ops and help in the maintenance of that. We also have a library that supplies books as well as extra clothes and some electronics, and Iqra and Olivia run a repair service for anyone who needs their personal electronics fixed. Arif can help patch old clothes if you need. Our community is all about recycling, repairing, and sharing. Yes, many of us have part-time jobs in the main town as well, but everyone chips in. Everyone helps. If you help take care of the co-op, the co-op will take care of you, understand?”

He continues to stare at her for long enough that Dana wonders if he’s malfunctioned.

“Mr.—”

“I heard you,” he says at last. The smile is gone now. Figures. “Sounds like communism if you ask me.”

Maggie mutters something unpleasant. Dana can feel her fingernails biting into her palms but she’s determined to keep her cool.

“We are a co-operative, Mr. Filmore. It’s different. And it works for us.” She stops short of pointing out the capitalism of his day is what nearly ended the world in the first place. “Everyone here is free to pursue their own ambitions, but we work together to help each other. If you want that UMI from the bank you need to—”

“UMI?”

“Universal Maintenance Income,” Maggie snaps. It’s why so many people want to relocate to co-op communities like this. The promise of a regular income from the community. Healthcare. Food packages.

And, yes, Filmore’s eyes have lit up. Of course that’s what would interest a man like him. Money.

Reformed, indeed.

Dana catches sight of the kids in her periphery. Fi either hasn’t managed to distract the others or was too curious herself to try. They peek round the corner of the gen-house, eyes glistening. She casts them a stern glance. Fi shrugs helplessly. Logan, though, breaks cover and rushes to his mother’s side. He clings to her leg, peering up at the stranger.

“Who’re you?”

“Logan!” Dana hisses. “Don’t be rude!”

Filmore smiles his expensive smile. He crouches. Dana doesn’t like how close he is to her son.

“Hey, kid,” he says brightly. “My name’s Caspian. What’s yours?”

“Logan,” the boy replies quietly. Then, “Mum, I’m hungry.”

Dana smiles. Trust Logan to rescue her from this ridiculous conversation. “Ok, love, we’ve got some fresh apples, haven’t we? Want one of those?”

Logan nods slowly, not taking his eyes off Filmore.

“I’d better go,” Dana says, backing away.

Filmore nods wordlessly. Maggie stares between them, casting Dana a dark look that clearly demands she deal with this situation immediately. Dana steadfastly avoids the other woman’s gaze.

“Think about what community jobs you want to sign up for,” she says. “Let me know.”

Filmore lets out a dry laugh. “Right,” he says. “Yeah. About that. My business takes up a lot of my time, still—”

His business? Hasn’t he just got out of prison?

“—Not sure how much I’ll be able to dedicate to hobbies.”

Oh dear god. Dana sees Maggie’s shoulders rise a few inches. She can almost hear the steam shooting from the other woman’s ears. Maggie’s face takes on a colour she’d be proud of in her ripened tomatoes. She’s about to blow. Dana dares not imagine the vivid language she might expel. She draws Logan behind her, says the only thing she can think of that will shock Maggie into silence.

“Would you like to come to dinner this evening?”

Maggie’s face turns from beetroot to bloodless in half a second. “Pardon?”

Dana doesn’t look at her. “We all eat together on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. In the winter, we gather in the town hall, but the weather’s so good at the moment we eat outside under the gazebos. We have a brick stove and we’ll cook some vegetables. Tell some stories. It’s nice. A good way to meet the others. We’ve been doing it since the co-op was founded.” She’s rambling. Filmore and Maggie stare at her. “We start prepping at five, eat at six.”

Filmore manages a thoughtful nod. “I’ll think about it,” he says. He flashes his smile again, slips his hands into his pockets, saunters back towards his car, which is still running. Dana’s going to have to do something about that car. She’s pretty certain it’s not actually legal.

Right now, though, she has bigger problems.

Maggie turns on her.

“You invited that insufferable toad to dinner?” she hisses.

Logan fidgets. “Who did she call an insuffable toad?” he asks. Dana does her best to ignore him.

“He’s part of the community now, Maggie, if he’s going to learn to fit in, he should come to dinner.”

“Who said anything about him fitting in?” Maggie retorts.

“You shouldn’t call people names,” Logan pipes up.

“What am I supposed to do?” Dana demands. “He’s here, now.”

“He doesn’t have to stay,” Maggie grumbles.

“If you call people names,” Logan offers, “you should apologise.”

“Maggie!’ Dana says. “We can’t just drive him out! He deserves a chance. A probation, at least.” Why on Earth is she saying this? It’s not like she’d be sorry to see the back of him. “If the community wants him gone, then we’ll take it to a vote. A proper one.”

Maggie says nothing, just offers a quirked eyebrow in reply.

“You haven’t apologised yet!” Logan points out. Dana pulls him behind her, trying to distract him.

“I’m just saying,” Maggie says tartly. “That we don’t have to make that man part of our community if we don’t want to.”

She stalks off before Dana has a chance to reply. Dana watches her go. Watches the other children’s eyes, darting between Maggie’s retreating back and Dana’s flushed face. Great.

They’re supposed to be better than this.

She turns on her heel, pulling Logan along behind her.

“You didn’t make her say sorry!” Logan protests.

“For what?”

‘Calling that man a toad!’

Dana rolls her eyes. “He didn’t hear her, sweetie, it’s ok.”

“But we were by the pond!”

Dana frowns at him. “What?”

“Montague might have heard!”

Dana flounders for a response. Her son found that toad half-dead earlier this year. Insisted on trying to save it and, by some miracle, the poor thing didn’t die. He called it Montague. Dana has no idea where he’s heard the name. He regularly goes to visit Montague at the pond, regaling Dana with tales of his escapades. There are dozens of toads in that pond. Dana reckons Logan can’t actually tell Montague from the rest.

“You’re worried that Maggie calling Caspian a toad might have upset an actual toad?”

“Animals have feelings!” Logan protests, the wobble of a sob in his voice. “You’re always saying we should respect them!”

“I doubt Montague understood what Maggie was saying, love.”

Logan takes a very deep breath. “But you said—"

Dana closes her eyes and prays to a god she doesn’t believe in to save her from the irrefutable logic of six-year-olds.

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