The Last Summer of the Water Strider (10 page)

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

I shrugged as if it didn’t matter. ‘My dad thought it would be good for me to get away for a while.’

Blue Boiler Suit nodded. White Boiler Suit picked her nose. It appeared she had already lost interest. She spotted someone across the street and waved. Blue Boiler Suit, however, took a step
closer to me.

‘Actually, that’s not quite true,’ I heard myself saying. ‘He couldn’t cope with me. I stole a car, see. Ran it into a wall. Got arrested. It was pretty bad.
Yeah.’

Blue Boiler Suit regarded me steadily. It was as if she had aged years in a moment, or changed emotional gear somehow. Instead of being a silly adolescent, she seemed suddenly adult, and
genuinely concerned. Meanwhile, White Boiler Suit had started to drift off in the direction of the person she had spotted, leaving the two of us alone.

‘Arrested?’ said the remaining girl.

‘It’s all right,’ I muttered. ‘They let me off. Said I was grieving or some such rubbish.’

‘Well, weren’t you?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. I had presumed until that moment that it was just a convenient excuse. Now it occurred to me that of course I
had
been grieving, and that it
actually did somewhat explain my behaviour, even mitigate it to a degree. The thought came as a relief, although the relief was from the chill of a light shadow that stood at the edges of a much
deeper, darker umbra.

‘My name’s Ash,’ said the girl, toying with the buckles on the straps that kept the front panel of her suit attached to the back.

‘Adam Templeton.’

‘OK. Well, Adam Templeton, I might see you around. It’s a pretty small world around here. Lilliput.’

‘Sure.’

She turned and followed her friend in the direction of the post office, pausing once to glance back and give me a small wave, which I half-heartedly returned, before she rejoined her friend and
a third girl roughly the same age.

It was yet another scrap of narrative without meaning or consequence. Since my mother had died, I had mentally categorized all events in this fashion – disconnected, purposeless, isolated
and leading to nothing in particular.

I bought another bottle of cider from the man in the flat cap, who seemed to have sobered up slightly, because this time he asked my age. However, he accepted my lie without demur and handed
over the bottle. I briskly necked the contents and fell asleep again. When I woke, I had a headache. The town centre was deserted and the sun was setting. There were no lights on the bike. I
started to worry that I would run out of daylight. Shakily – the cider had made me feel drowsy and somewhat nauseous – I took a last swig of water from the fountain, mounted the bike
and headed back towards the boat.

I cycled as hard as I could, but by the time I got to the track through the trees, the light had gone. From what little there was, I could see cracks in the dry ground, like veins and roots
pushing out, like scattered bones. I started to make my way towards the mooring as a complete darkness descended with a discomfiting rapidity. I began to feel slightly anxious, although rationally
I was in no danger. I could just about feel the relative smoothness of the dirt track under the wheels, but there was little else to guide me. There were no stars, no moon.

I was not used to such blackness and was beginning to panic. Apart from the not very realistic possibility that I would get lost, my imagination started to play up. What kind of animals were
there in these woods? What kind of people? The darkness made me feel naked, and vulnerable.

I dismounted the bike – the going was getting too heavy, and I was scared of colliding with something I couldn’t see. I dropped it and started to run – at a jog at first, then
faster. I could hear creaking noises – presumably branches in the wind. Animals moved in the undergrowth. In the distance I heard a cry like a baby being throttled. I imagined it was a mating
fox, but still, it was an uncanny sound.

I felt something strike me in the face, and I fell back, clutching at my cheeks. It was clear from the sticky wetness there that I had been cut. Even as it dawned on me that I had simply walked
into a sharp branch, I felt a nausea of terror rise up in me. I could hear the screeching of a bird that I didn’t recognize, and sudden movements in the undergrowth. Almost crying now, I
started walking again in what I hoped was the right direction. But I was lost, somehow, lost and blind in the dark. The howling of the fox continued, and I could feel my hand wet with blood. I had
no idea how badly I might have cut myself.

I hit what appeared to be a hedge of some sort, which proved to be impenetrable. I turned and started back the way I’d come, where I thought I had left the bike, but I couldn’t see
it.

I saw a light coming towards me. Instead of reassuring me, it frightened me further. Why was there a light in the middle of this darkness? Who or what was behind it? The fox wailed again. I
pressed myself against a tree, as if it might make me safer from whatever was out there.

I could hear footfall across dry leaves now. I felt like running, but I had no idea where to run. I held my breath. Then I heard a voice.

‘Adam?’

I jumped from behind the tree into the beam of a torch. It was Henry.

I was panting, my chest heaving with relief, mixed almost immediately with shame. I had been scared – of nothing, I now realized.

‘The dark in the countryside takes a little getting used to. I should have given you a flashlight,’ Henry said mildly. ‘The boat’s over here. Only a few hundred
yards.’

There was no hint of mockery in his voice. He just seemed pleased to see me. I followed him silently back to the boat. It was, sure enough, no more than a two-minute walk, albeit through the
blackness of the wood. The
Ho Koji
glowed welcomingly in the darkness. As I got closer, I could smell the scent of cooking – herbs and meat and wine. I was immensely grateful that he
wasn’t making a fuss.

When we entered, Henry turned to me. His stance was open, as if he expected me to hug him. I almost did, but somehow Ray’s words came back to me and acted as a brake.
Why are you
always grabbing people, Henry?
Instead, I slumped on to the bench under the porthole. Henry just smiled again, and asked me if I wanted some food. I nodded. He served me up something I had
never tasted before, which turned out to be boeuf bourgignon.

I stared at it, but this time without resentment. Then I picked up the spoon he had given me and wolfed it down hungrily, consuming it in great gulps. It tasted very good. Henry poured me a
glass of red wine and I drank that too, with gusto, despite the remnants of my hangover.

We sat in silence through the meal together, but it was a silence that, for the first time, contained an element of truce. Henry did nothing to force the point – neither stretching for
conversation nor remarking on my uncharacteristic acceptance of his meal. After a while, he simply rose and bade me goodnight. A few minutes later, I could hear the sound of his typewriter keys
once more, but this time, instead of irritating me, I found it comforting, like the introduction of punctuation into a sprawling, formless sentence.

T
he next day, I awoke late even by my standards – around 11 a.m. Henry’s office door was open, so I glanced in. He was sitting as usual
at the table, punching the keys on his Remington, wearing only a pair of underpants.
Clack, clack, ching.
He stopped typing and started fussing with the ribbon, cursing mildly in an
American vernacular – ‘Goshdarnit goddam helluva pieceashit.’ Sensing me at the door, he stopped, looked up, gave me a friendly nod and, having apparently fixed the problem,
resumed typing. It was clear he was focused on what he was doing and wanted no interruption.

I made myself a cup of coffee – Henry-style, thick and black with drumlins of sugar – and returned to my room. I resentfully eyeballed the pile of school textbooks, scribbled-in
notepads and dummy exam papers that reproached me from the plastic bag in the corner.

It was too overcast to sunbathe. I didn’t feel like going into town again. I had hardly lifted a finger to work on my retake since I had arrived at the boat, supposing that I would
eventually find myself ‘in the mood’. But I began to realize that such a mood was unlikely to manifest itself without my lowering the barricades of determined indolence. I picked up the
textbook that happened to be sticking out of the top of the bag, opened it and began to read. Negotiating each sentence was like ascending a steep hill with a heavy backpack and a painful stitch in
the abdomen.

The causes of the Great War were listed and annotated with numbers in a summary section at the end of the book. I decided to make a start by trying to memorize the list. I picked up a biro, took
out a blank notebook and began copying them, in the hope that it might give me some material to regurgitate when I reached the examination room.

Britain and Germany were involved in a naval competition. The scramble for Africa. The system of alliances. The ideology of nationalism among the great powers. Instability in the Balkans caused
by the collapse of the Ottoman Empire and the liberation movements of smaller proto-nations. The assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand. This latter, I dutifully read, was the spark that brought
on the whole conflagration.

Henry appeared at my open door, a cigarette burned down to the filter in his hand. He was now dressed in what appeared to be a Japanese kimono. The sleeves could easily have held half-a-dozen
arms.

‘Studying?’

‘Trying.’

‘What’s the topic?’

‘First World War.’

‘“Lions led by donkeys.” All that jazz.’

I put the book down, yawning. Henry squatted beside me, picked the book up and began flicking casually through it.

‘What do you make of it?’ he asked.

‘What does anyone make of it? It happened. There’s a list of why it happened. Now I have to learn it.’

‘Why do think you have to learn it?’ said Henry. ‘Other than to pass the exam.’

‘Is there another reason?’

‘Presumably.’

I paused for a moment, and took a sip of my coffee. It had cooled and now tasted vaguely medicinal.

‘So that it never happens again,’ I said.

‘That’s the theory. That’s the point of history. So they say.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Do you believe that?’

‘I suppose.’

Henry nodded, put down the book. Then he seemed to dismiss the subject.

‘I’m going into town in half an hour or so. Want a lift? We could get a cake at the tea shop. You might see your new friend.’

‘Which new friend is that?’

‘Ashley.’

‘Who’s Ashley?’

‘Ashley Toshack. Known around these parts as Ash.’

I tried and failed to look unsurprised.

‘I’m afraid this is a small place. I know her father rather well. The Very Reverend Wesley Toshack. Vicar of this parish. Also a property developer, councillor and all-round pillar
of the community. Upstanding man. Or so it’s said. We have some lively discussions. I bumped into him in Lexham yesterday, right before I set off home. He mentioned that his daughter had met
my nephew. I have no idea why he felt it was sufficiently interesting to warrant a mention, but doubtless there was some deeper motive behind it.’

‘Perhaps it’s because the council want you off the boat.’

Now it was Henry’s turn to be taken aback.

‘You know about that?’

‘I’m afraid this is a small place.’

‘
Touché
.’

‘Are they going to throw you off?’

‘They’ve started a petition. But I’ve heard nothing from the council. And actually, the main threat is not from the council but the church commissioners. They own the land, as
a matter of fact. The council are in cahoots. They’re biding their time. Anyway, I’m resourceful, I know my way around the law. Trouble is, all this wrangling is keeping me away from my
book. It’s so time-consuming.’

‘What would happen if they succeeded in getting you out?’

Henry looked surprised, as if he had never considered this possibility.

‘They won’t. They have no grounds. Typically enough, they’re brandishing the cudgel of morality. Toshack and his brigade of “concerned local citizens” have spent a
lot of time combing through the small print of my lease, and discovered somewhere on page gazillion, subsection nine hundred and ninety-one, clause F, paragraph four – or something like that
– that it demands I behave in a “lawful and upright manner” and “conduct myself at all times with due decorum and appropriate responsibility”.

‘Just because I’ve had a few parties down here – which the locals naturally assume quickly develop into drug-addled orgies – they think they can sling me out. But they
have no evidence whatsoever. The police have raided on more than one occasion – again, no doubt thanks to Toshack – but have found nothing other than a few empty cases of, admittedly
poor-quality, wine.’

‘Is Ash on her dad’s side? She didn’t seem like much of a puritan to me.’

‘Ashley is bored. Everyone’s bored around here. Most of them have forgotten how bored they are, though.’

‘So I’m not alone.’

‘Oh no. You are very much participating in the local zeitgeist, so to speak. But be careful. You’d be surprised what they do in order to ease the weight of all that piled-up tedium.
Particularly the young ones.’

‘Is that some kind of warning?’

‘I don’t know much about Ash. She probably not so bad really. Some of the boys around here call her “Ash the Pash”. She’s quite widely fancied.’

‘She’s pretty.’

‘More than that. A red-hot chilli pepper. But don’t get any ideas. She’s a Bible basher. Just likes to play it down. Very keen on her father. Quite the daddy’s girl.
Mother died six, seven years ago. They’re close. And Wesley is not my biggest fan, so Ashley probably lines up on his side.’

‘Why? What did you do? Apart from live on a houseboat.’

‘The worst thing a man can do to another man around here.’

‘What’s that?’