Jamie found the tour as he scrolled on his phone and smoked a spliff behind his dad’s shed. Weed identification and sampling with ecologist, Verity Piper. Come on this walking tour to explore the hidden gems growing in London’s infrastructure! There were a lot of big words that followed, like culminating and ecological that Jamie didn’t understand, and his head was foggy, so he hadn’t read much more. The tour was free, with no mention of a charge for the weed. He supposed if it was growing wild for anyone to take, then of course it was free. His mates would hail him a hero if he could show them places to find bud. Jamie also needed to get out of the house, away from his dad. God, he hated him. He’d had enough of what his dad had to say.
Now, at 11 am, Jamie stands on a lawn beside the Tate Modern with Keith, the only other man on the tour. Keith wears a camera on a neck strap and says he’s come on the train from Brighton for this. The four women on the tour are all over fifty, chatting together in sing-song voices. There are no other teenagers. Jamie’s disappointed; he hadn’t anticipated a Woodstock gang. But then what did he expect at something that starts so early? He’d had to set his alarm.
It’s misty, vapour floating like icing sugar, and Jamie wishes he’d brought a jacket. Droplets settle on his hoodie. Looking over his shoulder at the Thames, the city skyline, and the dense cloud ceiling, he thinks about the posters he’s seen on the Underground advertising sunny day trips to Brighton seaside, and he wonders why the hell Keith has bothered travelling to this dank shithole to get high.
Tour leader Verity introduces herself as a weed warrior, and Jamie makes a mental note to refer to himself as one when he next smokes with his mates. Verity’s floral headscarf billows in the breeze, like something is scurrying underneath the material. She’s like the other women on the tour but scrawnier.
‘The term weed is completely subjective. It’s a plant growing where it is not wanted. But who’s to say it’s not wanted?’ She pats her backpack. ‘I’ve got some samples with me, so we won’t have to pick what I show you. Often, weeds are used in soups and stews, but today, we’ll taste them raw. I’ll show you the beauty of these wildlings making their mark on our capital city, and you can tell me if they’re weeds to you.’
Jamie swears under his breath, fingers his rolling papers in his pocket, and plans his online review: False advertising! It is literally learning about weeds. 0 stars. The group follow Verity towards the imposing art gallery. Jamie is about to slip away, but Keith asks him whether he’s still in education, and the question snags Jamie along with the tour.
‘No, I work in retail.’
‘Ah, a gap year. My son Owen is doing the same. He’s ushering at Theatre Royal to save up for UCL. Where are you going to study?’
Jamie knows his dad would like Keith, so he can’t help hating Keith, too. Before Jamie left school, his English teacher once told the class as they went through Lord of the Flies that all teenagers hate their parents, but Jamie doesn’t hate his mum, although he resents that she never intervenes during his dad’s putdowns.
Working in Sports Direct fetching studs from the stockroom isn’t Jamie’s goal, but he doesn’t have a goal, so it’ll do for now. University is out of the question.
Jamie answers Keith, and his own honesty surprises him. ‘I’m not sure what my next move is.’ Verity stops at the side of the art gallery. Jamie hopes they’ll walk around to the door and go inside out of the damp, but she points at eye level to some leaves poking out of the crisscrossed cement in the brickwork. They’re broad and thick like the sage his mum puts on their roast chicken, except with a purplish tinge. Keith holds his camera. Verity’s expression is identical to Jamie’s mum’s when he told her he’d passed his maths GCSE. He hadn’t. God, he needed a smoke.
‘This is fat hen. It typically grows in fertile soil, so it’s a treat to find it here. Fat hen’s seeds can lie dormant for almost twenty years, growing years later.’ Something about what she says takes Jamie to the backseat of their old family car. He’s clutching a toy truck, his eyes closed against the streetlights.
‘He’s only five,’ Mum says. ‘Most little boys can’t concentrate at that age, which is why they’re disruptive. I’m sure other parents had a similar parents’ evening.’
Dad slows the car and cuts the engine. Jamie peeks and sees they’re in the driveway before closing his eyes again.
Dad says, ‘Boys I grew up with like that never changed.’
Mum tuts at him, and they get out of the car. Dad opens Jamie’s door.
‘Out you get, Jamie.’
‘I wasn’t asleep, Dad.’
‘I know.’
Keith stops clicking his camera, and Jamie catches Verity’s last few words on fat hen. ‘Appropriate it should grow on the side of a building where art is displayed, don’t you think? It’s just beautiful; art in itself.’ The women nod, their murmurs of agreement covering Jamie’s snort-laugh. Verity digs inside her backpack and produces a stiff square of cloth folded into a pocket. She opens it and offers the contents to the group. ‘Like I said, the leaves can be eaten raw.’ One of the women takes a leaf from the pocket and chews it like a squirrel. ‘Like cabbage!’ She sounds pleased. The rest of the group munch on the leaves, and Jamie takes one when it’s offered, nibbling the furry end with a sneer, praying no one he knows passes and sees him. Keith leans towards Jamie.
‘My Owen isn’t keen on his greens either. Blends them into fruit juice so he gets the nutrients without the taste. Good for the brain. Jolly clever idea.’
Keith takes one more photo of the plant in the wall before Verity instructs them to follow her along the Bankside. Jamie drops his leaf and trails behind as the mist morphs into spotting. A group of Korean students with identical backpacks pass in the opposite direction, and Jamie moves to latch onto the gaggle and be swept away with them, but Verity turns to him.
‘This way, young man.’ She smiles and beckons with her ringed fingers, and he catches up to her, amazed that she can’t read the boredom on his face. They travel alongside the Thames and up onto the Millennium Bridge. It rumbles and bounces with their steps. His cheeks burn with the embarrassment of walking with such a bunch of old farts. He keeps his gaze on the dimpled, grey river and decides that once they’ve crossed, he’ll dodge left to Blackfriars tube station. If they call after him, he’ll ignore them. He owes this woman and her band of weirdos nothing.
Once they’re off the bridge and arrive at a pedestrian crossing, Verity puts a hand on Jamie’s arm before he can veer off. ‘It’s so lovely to have some young energy on my tour for a change. Not enough people love botany.’ Again, her gleeful expression reminds him of his mum, so he can’t leave yet. He nods and goes to say thanks, but the green man flashes, and the stream of tourists pulls them towards the white dome of St Paul’s Cathedral. His phone is an angry insect buzzing in his pocket with messages from his mates. If he replies, they might get a sense of what he’s doing, and he’s not ready to admit his mistake. Maybe he’ll laugh about it one day. Keith pulls up alongside him, looking up at St Paul’s.
‘Fabulous, isn’t it? Lucky Owen! He’ll be able to pop down here between lectures.’ Keith takes a photo on his phone this time. ‘Promised I’d message him a pic.’ He taps his phone, struggling to walk simultaneously without nudging other pedestrians.
The cathedral doors are open, but Verity stoops on the concrete steps outside. As the group crouch with her, tourists behind them shake their heads and mutter expletives before stepping around them and going inside the holy place. Jamie looks to leave when one of the tour women taps Jamie’s elbow and points. ‘Can you see it, sonny?’ There’s a speck of fat hen between her front teeth. Green stems dotted with little white flowers reach up in the corner of a step. The petals are simple, like something a child would draw. Keith’s camera is in his hands again as Verity begins.
‘Hairy bittercress. No doubt you’ve struggled with this in your own gardens and allotments. It likes to grow where it can hide under something large. This little plant has certainly done that!’ The group titter at this, and Jamie rubs his smirk away with the back of his hand. It isn’t funny, but their laughter feels contagious. Verity continues, ‘If you cook this one, it loses all its flavour.’ She gets out a cloth pocket again and offers it to Jamie first. She asks for his thoughts, so he bites the end of the stem, avoiding the flowers.
‘Like spinach?’
She nods. As the sampling continues, Verity says, ‘The reason hairy bittercress gets everywhere is because if you knock it, it launches its seeds. Soon, it will be growing in every part of your garden.’ At this, Mr Neves pops into Jamie’s head, though he’s unsure why. For a teacher, Mr Neves was alright. He supports Spurs, and he also thinks the headteacher is a dick because he frequently rolls his eyes behind her back. Jamie remembers once keeping his head down for the whole of Mr Neves’s lesson, so when he’s asked to stay behind for a chat, Jamie launches first.
‘I ain’t done anything.’
‘I know.’
Jamie starts telling Mr Neves how unfair this is, and Mr Neves waits in the seat next to him until, eventually, Jamie stops.
‘Jamie, who told you that you couldn’t do it?’
Jamie shrugs. ‘Do what?’
‘Anything. Whenever I see you, there’s more than a hesitancy. You’re almost afraid. It’s not your standard pubescent lack of confidence. It’s in everything you do.’
Jamie can’t tell Mr Neves why because it wasn’t one isolated, traumatic event. It was the “bloody useless boy”, the sighs, the “you wouldn’t get into university,” the constant doubt. His interactions with his father were rooted everywhere in him. But that’s too complicated and painful to express to Mr Neves.
‘Stop watching me, paedo,’ Jamie says to Mr Neves, grabbing his bag and leaving.
The group move off from the cathedral down the main road, and Jamie follows, not wanting to be alone with his thoughts, even if it means being in the vicinity of Keith. Traffic rumbles past. Anoraked tourists on an open-top bus stare at the wandering group. As Jamie fights the instinct to give them the finger, he’s reminded of a YouTube video he once saw of a mirror hanging on a tree in a forest and a bear attacking it, thinking it’s another predatory bear, not recognising its own reflection.
‘If you’re still doing your UCAS application, Owen would be more than happy to help you. He’s great at that kind of thing.’ Keith takes out his phone. ‘I’ll give you his number.’ As he scrolls, he knocks into a woman’s umbrella, the drenched canopy soaking his face. He yelps, then looks embarrassed as the woman tells him to “watch it.”
‘I’ll give you Owen’s number when we next stop.’ Keith puts his phone back in his pocket.
They stop outside a pub called Ye Olde London. Hanging baskets of pink and orange flowers drip rapidly as the rain picks up.
‘Thankfully, our next stop has some shelter!’ Verity leads them through the pub, past a warm fire and snug sofas and back into the chill of a courtyard with a makeshift roof of transparent corrugated plastic speckled with bird mess. The paving slabs are cracked and uneven. There are no patrons here. ‘We’ll go back inside in a moment if anyone wants to purchase refreshments. I just wanted to show you this first.’
Jamie recognises the plants this time. Stickyweed and yellow and white dandelions sprout from a gap between the slabs and the wall lining the right-hand side of the courtyard. He remembers sticking the weed to his friends’ backs and peeling it off his own. He remembers plucking a dandelion from the football pitch, mud crusting on his thighs, and picking the tiny petals off one by one as his dad yells, “Stop being so bloody useless!” from the sidelines.
Jamie tunes back into Verity.
‘Of course, I wouldn’t recommend eating Stickyweed uncooked. Those little hooks are tough on the tongue! But dandelions are fantastic raw.’ Out comes another cloth square, and the group bite off the yellow heads whole. Jamie stares at his flower. Verity says something else, but he’s not listening. He’s too angry. With her, and with Keith. And Owen.
The tour women go inside, talking about shandies and scratchings, leaving Jamie alone with Keith and Verity.
‘Oh, I must give you Owen’s number,’ Keith says to Jamie before turning to Verity. ‘This young man is preparing his UCAS application. My son, Owen, is going to UCL in September, so I’m sure he can help.’
‘I’m not on a bloody gap year. I’m not good enough for university like Owen. I’m not good enough for anything!’
It happens fast, like a car accident. He’s crying, Keith’s holding him, telling him of course he’s good enough, which makes Jamie sob harder, the camera pressed between their chests. Verity rubs Jamie’s back and tells him he has a purpose, that he’s beautiful inside and out, and he must believe it. Eventually, Jamie pulls away, wiping his face with his sodden sleeves. Verity holds out a dandelion covered in white pappus, seeds ready to be launched.
‘Take it. Blow those bad words away.’
DoubleSpeak 