The Transition. Luke Kennard

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       6

      JANNA AND STU’S house was the second in a row of four Georgian terraces, elegant sandstone buildings with high ceilings and multi-pane windows. The cherry tree in the front garden was in early full blossom. Karl was used to seeing such houses occupied by the offices of accountants or solicitors. It was a secluded street culminating in a Gothic Anglican church, apparently deconsecrated – there were no noticeboards or signs – but well maintained. Even the paving slabs felt antique, broad as tombstones, a ‘superior sole-feel’. Karl and Genevieve stood in the shade with their rucksacks and looked up.

      ‘I could just sit at the window writing long letters to my detractors all day,’ said Karl.

      ‘Why did they choose us?’ said Genevieve. ‘I mean really, of all the couples we saw yesterday …’

      After Stu’s overture they had been separated into breakaway groups and had to share their origin story – how they became Bankrupt Man, Fraud Girl – and then their aspirations. Karl said he wanted to write video games. Genevieve said she’d only ever wanted to teach, but that she’d like to be solvent enough to have children. Although Stu had warned the groups that all the disclosure might feel a bit American, Karl had found it strangely cathartic to hear from other bright young things who’d used loan sharks to pay off loan sharks, or shoplifted cheese, or owed tens of thousands in council tax, or got busted for growing hydroponic weed in their attics. There was a free buffet lunch: big dressed salads, grilled fish, roasted vegetables and complicated breads. Janna gave a final speech, practical stuff. They learned there were to be six meetings in the Transition HQ, one per month of the scheme. The rest of the time the young couples would live with and learn from their mentors without formal intervention.

      A single petal fell from the cherry tree now and landed at his feet.

      ‘I don’t know that we’re any worse than the rest,’ said Karl. ‘Maybe they liked my face.’

      ‘Your face,’ said Genevieve.

      ‘I have a very symmetrical face.’

      ‘Are you two just going to stand there?’ Janna leaned out of the first-floor window. ‘The door’s open – Stu’s made drinks.’

      ‘Stuart,’ said Genevieve.

      ‘Stu,’ said Stu.

      They were sitting in the first-floor living room with gin and tonics. The upper branches of the cherry tree touched the windowpanes. It was beautiful.

      ‘Stu. Are you and Janna in charge of The Transition?’

      ‘Oh no, no, no,’ said Stu.

      ‘Ha!’ said Janna.

      ‘We’re lieutenants, at most,’ said Stu. ‘Department heads. All of the mentors have a managerial role within the institution – keeps things democratic. We take turns doing the talks. I just like the sound of my own voice, so …’ he shrugged.

      ‘So is there, like, a CEO?’ said Genevieve. ‘Who’s in charge?’

      ‘There’s a committee,’ said Stu. ‘If you mean who thought up the whole concept it came out of a think tank called Bury the Lead. That was twelve years ago. It started very small. There’s a chapter in the book about it. It’s on your tablet.’

      ‘I’ll read it,’ said Genevieve.

      ‘It’s an interesting history,’ said Stu. ‘Not without a few skeletons in the closet, but we’re in a good place now. We’ve managed to avoid attention, thanks to the whole confidentiality thing – we don’t allow our graduates to acknowledge the scheme in interviews. Why should they? You earned it – The Transition is just a leg-up. Most of them end up successful enough to be interviewed, which is the important thing. Generally they’re only too happy to move on – they’ve earned their right to a fulfilling life, we just gave them the means to start the journey. All we ask is you keep in touch, maybe come back to talk to a future year group.’ He got up. ‘Come on, you must want to see your quarters.’

      Karl and Genevieve’s attic was not completely self-contained – cohabitation was stipulated in The Transition’s terms and conditions – but Stu had installed a small but luxurious bathroom with grey granite fittings. The shower head was the size of a frying pan.

      ‘Ooh, it’s like a hotel!’ said Genevieve. She tried the taps. The bevel was gentle and heavy like a volume knob and the water poured out with calm insistence.

      They weren’t labelled.

      ‘Are you just supposed to know which is hot and which is cold?’ said Karl. ‘I can’t live like this. I have no memory for things like that.’

      The rest of the attic had been divided into three rooms, one with a double bed СКАЧАТЬ