The Last Summer of the Water Strider (19 page)

I noticed another book on the table. This one appeared to be about palm-reading. She followed my gaze, then pushed her cushion a bit closer to mine.

‘Would you like me to read yours?’

‘Are you any good at it?’

‘People say I’m very in tune with that sort of thing. Of course, it’s not a science. But science is bullshit anyway, right?’

She beckoned for my hand. ‘Don’t be afraid.’

‘I’m not afraid. It just seems a bit silly.’

I presented my left palm to her.

‘Not that one. The right hand.’

‘Why not the left?’

‘The left hand is what you’re born with. The right one is what you accumulate through life. For men, anyway. For women, it’s the other way around.’

I gave her my right hand, and she rested it on her palm. I looked up at her and examined her face as she angled my palm slightly as if to get a better look. She appeared to be concentrating
fiercely. The light came from behind her and gave her a blurry outline. It made her seem even more insubstantial.

She studied the creases and wrinkles for thirty seconds or so. I savoured the intimacy of her running her fingers over my skin.

‘This crease is the life line.’

‘How long have I got?’

‘You’ll make old bones. Don’t worry about that. The line is substantial. But there’s a break right here. Early on. Not in childhood, but not long ago.’

She showed me a wrinkle among what seemed to be a number of other random wrinkles.

‘I can’t see.’

‘Not that one. This one.’

There was a line running along the top of my palm horizontally and a thick crease in the rough shape of a circle intersecting it about a fifth of the way up.

‘The circle means depression or unhappiness.’

‘I had a loss recently.’

‘Someone close?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, it’s written there.’

‘What else is written?’

Strawberry laughed.

‘Shit, I don’t know. What do you want me to do, tell you if you’re going to be a train driver when you grow up?’

‘I thought that was the point of the whole thing.’

She concentrated again.

‘You fall in love easily. And you get your heart broken easily. I know that because your heart line touches your life line. And you have a very deep, long head line. That means
you’re smart.’

‘How many lines are there?’

‘Heart, head, life and fate. This here, this is fate.’ She indicated a line running south-west to north-east on my palm.

‘What does my fate line say?’

‘It’s very deep. It means fate will play an important part in your life.’

‘Meaning?’

‘There’s not much you can do about anything. So relax. It’s out of your control.’

Strawberry dropped my hand.

‘I guess you think it’s all phoney, right?’

‘I don’t know.’

She reached out and picked a string on her guitar.

‘You were good at the Fayre. Really good. What was that French song about?’

‘It was about someone begging their lover not to leave them.’

‘That never works,’ I said, although I had no experience whatsoever in the arena of love. I hadn’t even had a proper girlfriend.

‘Would you like me to sing you a song?’

I didn’t say anything. I imagined that it would be embarrassing; it felt too intimate. But it seemed impolite to say so. Taking my silence as affirmation, she picked up her guitar.

‘What would you like to hear?’

I shrugged.

She strummed a few chords, then started to sing ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’. She looked at me as she sang it, and smiled. I tried to hold my eyes elsewhere – the whole thing was so
unbearably intimate – but I kept flicking them back to her face. Towards the end of the song she began to cry. She leaned the guitar against the wall, and began another fit of coughing.

‘Why did you cry?’

‘When it says: dragons live for ever, but not so little boys. Don’t you think that’s just one of the saddest lines ever written?’

‘I’ve never really thought about it.’

‘It’s a terribly unhappy song. All about loss.’

‘I thought it was a kind of pothead anthem.’

‘That too.’

‘My mother used to sing it to me when I was a little boy. She could never remember all the words, so she used to hum a lot of it. But it helped me go to sleep.’

‘Is it your mother that you lost?’

‘I don’t really want to talk about it.’

‘Why don’t you want to talk about your mother? What happened?’

I shifted on the cushion. There was nothing to support my back and I found myself perpetually off balance.

‘She choked on something.’

‘Shit!’

‘I was in the room when it happened.’

‘What did you do?’

‘It’s hard to talk about.’

‘It’s not good to keep stuff bottled up. Don’t you think?’

‘That’s not what my dad seems to think. It isn’t what my mum thought either.’

‘Did you like her? Your mum?’

Moving branches outside produced shifting patterns of light inside.

‘What kind of question is that?’

‘I never liked my mother. She was a bitch.’

I felt shocked. I’d never heard anyone talk about their mother like that.

‘My mother was nice. Nothing special. Boring really. But very nice.’

‘How was she nice?’

‘The usual ways. Fussing over me. Making me cups of tea. Worrying about me. Washing my clothes. Nagging. She was like all the other mums I knew. Just an ordinary parent. All pressed from
the same mould.’

‘Do you know that poem about your parents fucking you up? Not meaning to, but doing it all the same.’

‘No.’

‘Henry taught me it. My mum fucked me up. She was out screwing men half the time. Or in screwing men. I could hear her making out in the next room. This was like, when I was six, seven?
Can you imagine your mum doing that?’

‘Not really.’

‘It’s pretty disturbing. I couldn’t work out what the noises were. I used to think there were ghosts in the next room. ’Cause my mum, she always said she couldn’t
hear anything. You know, when I asked her the next morning.’

‘What about your dad?’

‘He wasn’t around so much. Not that he would have minded, I don’t expect. It was the spirit of the times. Yeah. That’s what he would always say, “the spirit of the
times”. My dad’s not such a bad guy, though. He just had a habit of choosing the wrong women.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Oh, still around. Somewhere or other. He keeps in touch. When he feels like it.’

She got up and opened one of the windows. A slight breeze had arisen and I could hear the branches rustling. She sat back down again.

‘I’m glad your mum was nice. And . . .’

‘And what?’

The words came out with an edge. I stared at the floor. I could see splinters in it. ‘I was just going to say I’m sorry that she’s dead.’

‘Right.’

‘Do you feel guilty about it?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Guilt’s like poison. You got to get rid of that stuff. I’m sure you did all you could.’

‘You weren’t there.’

My voice came out edgy, harsh. Strawberry flinched slightly. But I couldn’t quite stem the trickle of bile.

‘Everyone’s always sticking their nose in. Trying to be “sympathetic”. It’s just about making themselves feel better.’

As if to pacify me, Strawberry reached out to a white cardboard box sitting on the floor at arm’s length.

‘Don’t be angry. Here. I’ve got some of those Greek cakes I told you about.’ She took a dusty white lump about the size of a table-tennis ball out of the box.
‘They’re made of almonds and honey. Too much sugar for me, but I think you’ll like them.’

She sounded close to tears.

‘Look,’ I said, more softly. ‘I know you meant well.’

‘Forget about it. I’ll shut up.’

‘You see, it makes me . . . Thinking about it. It makes me want to . . . to . . .’

‘Cry?’

‘Vomit.’

It felt I had retched the word itself. Or at least that my stomach had rejected it, and it had come out involuntarily, leaving my mouth tasting bitter. I bit into the cake. It was sticky and
floury and felt like cotton wool dipped in syrup.

‘I know what that feels like. To think of something, and for it to make you ill,’ said Strawberry.

‘So maybe it’s better to keep these things to yourself. Maybe it’s better not to talk about them. Not to think about them.’

‘You think that’s healthy?’

The door to the shack opened a crack and Henry poked his head through.

‘What in heaven and earth would you know about what’s healthy?’ he asked.

‘C
an I come in?’

‘You’re already in,’ said Strawberry.

Henry pushed open the door, to reveal himself outlined by the timber frame, looking serious and puffing on his pipe. He was carrying a large cream-coloured canvas holdall.

He took the pipe out of his mouth and prodded the stem in the direction of Strawberry.

‘Look at you. You’re fading into nothing.’

‘You’re a water sign, Henry. I’m an air sign. I don’t expect you to understand.’

‘You’re going to float away sooner or later. A blossom in the wind.’

Strawberry pulled her legs up under herself.

‘What are you doing here anyway? You’re usually writing at this time of day,’ she said. ‘In fact, come to think of it, you’re
always
writing at this time
of day.’

‘I rather felt in the mood for a walk. Maybe to the lake. We could swim.’ He held up the holdall. ‘Towels. Swimsuits. And more. Refreshments.’

‘I’d like a walk,’ I said.

‘What’s going on, Henry?’ Strawberry looked at him sideways as if suspicious.

‘What makes you think there’s something going on?’

‘Because, like most lazy people, you’re usually very careful to stick to your schedule. In case you sleep your life away.’

Henry nodded. He put down the holdall, extinguished his pipe, tapped out the tobacco on to the ground outside, and placed it in the right-hand pocket of his thin cotton pull-ons. Then he pulled
the letter I’d seen earlier out of the same pocket and brandished it.

‘It’s finally happened. Was bound to sooner or later. They’re trying to throw me off the reach.’

He stared at the letter, as if not sure what to do with it, then put it back in his pocket. He took a fat roll-up out of his other pocket, lit it and inhaled deeply. The aroma was unmistakable,
a pungent reek. Strawberry grimaced and gestured impatiently towards the smoking joint. ‘Not in here.’

Henry sighed, licked his fingers, extinguished it and stuck it behind his ear. His eyes were already red at the rims.

Strawberry touched him on the arm.

‘Let me see the letter.’

‘It’s all in lawyer. You’re not going to make much sense of it. They’ve set a date for a hearing at the end of August.’

‘Could they win? What are the grounds?’

‘They say I’ve broken the terms of the land lease, because I “concealed my criminal record”. It was fifteen years ago! But they think it will play to the clause that I,
quote, “conduct myself at all times with due decorum and appropriate responsibility”. They’re going to need a lot more than that, though, if they’re going to have any chance
of success.’

‘I guess they don’t think drug smugglers are really of benefit to the local community,’ said Strawberry, waving her hand around again to disperse the residual smoke.
‘Which of course isn’t strictly true.’

‘It was one lid of weed. What the hell has that got to do with anything? It’s Wesley Toshack that’s behind it, him and and his greed, all gussied up as piety and community
concern. I can’t imagine how he found out about it. He is clearly a very assiduous and determined and dangerous man.’

‘You’ll be fine, Henry. It sounds like bullshit. You know your way around the law.’

‘It is. I do. It’s not going to wash. Still, I could do without it.’

‘Why don’t you just torch the fucking thing, Henry?’ said Strawberry. ‘The
Ho Koji.
It’s insured up to the fundament. Take the money and run. You
don’t need this hassle. Buy a nice bungalow somewhere. You ain’t Peter Fonda any more. Get a rock garden with a few fucking gnomes.’

‘I’m not really a bungalow kind of person.’

He nodded towards the holdall.

‘I’m not going to let the casual spite of small-minded people put a dent in this beautiful day. I’m heading for the lake. Coming?’

Strawberry turned to me.

‘Wanna get wet?’

We followed Henry into the woods, trying to keep up with the long panther-lope of his legs. We walked for ten minutes, largely in silence – an open silence that asked
nothing of us. I could hear small creatures, perhaps birds, tussling invisibly in the undergrowth. Tree branches screened out most of the sky, but the heat still penetrated right down to the
ground.

We walked first in parallel with the river, and then veered off into another thicker sector of woodland. There was something magical about the landscape here. Soft green light shadowed the lush,
thick grass, which was bedded with all manner of summer flowers growing wild. This part of the woods had a sense of being deserted – for ever untouched. It felt like we three were the only
people that could ever possibly be there. I could feel the warm air sweet in my lungs.

‘Can you feel it?’ said Henry, stopping for a moment. It was the first thing he’d said since we’d started walking.

Strawberry and I caught up with him, then we all headed into the heart of the wood. The foliage became denser, and the overhanging leaves thicker. Although no path was obvious, Henry clearly
knew where he was going, taking sudden angles of trajectory to the left or right. After we had been walking for maybe twenty minutes, we came to a large clearing.

‘We are now precisely in the middle of the wood,’ said Henry.

There was a pond, or perhaps more accurately a small lake, about a hundred yards across. There were dozens of water lilies suspended on it. Occasionally a breeze that had somehow penetrated the
trees corrugated the surface. There were dragonflies punctuating the air, and butterflies.

Henry chose a soft-looking patch of grass and sat down on it, then beckoned for us to do the same. He reached into the canvas holdall and took out a bottle of red wine and a corkscrew. He opened
it and poured it into a metal cup which he had also retrieved from his bag. He handed it to me.