The Last Summer of the Water Strider (32 page)

The judge wore an ordinary grey suit, and seemed brisk and cheerful, smiling without discrimination at the small congregation below, although the smile was unconvincing, like that carved into a
Hallowe’en pumpkin. On one side of the room, myself and Henry. I scrabbled around on the desk, trying to help him to find documents and notes. On the other side, lawyers from both the church
commissioners and the local council. There was a stenographer, a few court officers and a reporter from the local paper. Also there, to Henry’s great consternation, were Pritchard, Constable
Urquhart and one of the parents of the girl who had seen Henry swimming naked.

In the public gallery sat Pattern and Moo, Vanya and Troy. There were a few faces I didn’t recognize. And there was Toshack, in full church regalia, gazing down like Zeus, eyes shooting
sparks.

The proceedings didn’t take too long – I suspected Henry’s heart wasn’t in it any more. He defended himself against the charge that he had concealed his criminal record
when he had taken over the lease, arguing convincingly that not only had the offences taken place years previously in another country, but that no such information had been required of him when he
signed the lease. The allegations by Pritchard that there had been an illegal gathering at the boat were also dealt with efficiently by Henry, who had done his homework and demonstrated
convincingly that no by-laws had been transgressed.

The judge beamed down as if delighted by the whole spectacle of the proceedings. When the allegation of indecent exposure was made, he smiled even more widely. Henry pointed out that no action
had been taken at the time, and that he had a right to swim unclothed in a remote stretch of river.

Even the complainant, a nervous sprig of a man in a grey suit who looked leaned-upon and shifty, seemed uncertain of his ground. The judge continued to beam, and scribble occasionally on the
notepad in front of him.

The atmosphere in the courtroom changed for the final complaint, however.

Testimony by Urquhart – unopposed by Henry – that Strawberry Shortcake, née his seventeen-year-old daughter Susan Templeton, had been slowly starving to death under his care
drained all levity out of the room. Photographs were produced of her after hospitalization – she looked, from the angle they had been taken, like a concentration-camp survivor.
Urquhart’s description of the scene when he and Toshack had arrived at the cabin was surprisingly poetic. He talked of his ‘profound disquiet’ and ‘intense sympathy’
for the girl. He and Toshack swapped glances. It was fairly obvious that the police constable had been schooled.

Lastly came Toshack. He pulled out all the stops, presenting himself as an Elmer Gantry, although I thought of him as Robert Mitchum in
The Night of the Hunter
. He was holy, he was
upright, he was a proud man of God, he was forgiving, but he was stern: this must not stand. And so on.

Finally it was Henry’s turn. He faced the judge. I waited for his defence. I was sure he wouldn’t go down without a fight. When he spoke he called on all his reserves of gravitas,
which were considerable. A certain electricity entered the staleness of the proceedings. People in the court, including the clerk and the stenographer, sat up sharply and attended to the rumble and
boom of his voice.

‘Your Honour. I have today been standing here fighting for my home, my honour and my reputation against a number of unfair and unfairly presented slanders on my character. They are not
motivated, as they present themselves, by human charity and decency, but by greed and cynicism. The council wish to remove me from the reach because they consider my boat an eyesore and, worse than
that,
unusual.
A different way of living. This threatens them in some irrational and obscure way that makes them seek my destruction.

‘As for the church commissioners, they have been got up to this by a certain person in this court who stands to benefit and profit from my removal from Lexham Reach. I will not name him as
I am aware that the law of slander still pertains in civil law. But he knows who I am talking about. He knows.’

‘A damn lie,’ muttered Toshack audibly.

The judge glared at Toshack. Henry continued, ignoring the interruption.

‘I have defended myself, I believe, successfully regarding three of the four charges that have been laid in front of you today, alleging contravention of the terms of the lease. It is very
clear to me that the evidence brought against me in these cases is weak, and well short of the balance of probabilities that is required for a verdict against me.

‘However, in the fourth case, that of my daughter Susan Templeton, who chooses to call herself Strawberry, I have little in the way of a legal defence. She is my daughter. She is
technically a child. She did come to harm under my care.’

There was a silence, as I waited for Henry to parry his own thrust.

‘Before I continue, I would like to read out this letter from my daughter, if the court will permit me. She was not fit to leave hospital today, but she was passionate about wishing to
make her side of events heard.’

There were objections from the other bench, but the judge overruled them.

‘The letter reads as follows:

He handed the letter around for inspection. In the meantime, the lawyers for the Church Commission and the council were on their feet, complaining of duress, second-hand testimony, etc.

The judge, after little more than a few seconds’ consideration, instructed that the testimony be struck from the record, agreeing with the objecting lawyers that it had no legal relevance.
Henry nodded, as if it was exactly what he had expected.

‘Do you have anything else to say, Dr Templeton?’ asked the judge.

‘I have nothing else to say on the matter, Your Honour, other than that I believe I am guilty of nothing more than infringing a technicality of the common law because of my moral beliefs.
I do not shrink before my own conscience or the judgement of others. And I would ask you finally to consider, if your concern for my daughter is so profound, how precisely it will benefit her to
make her father, and therefore her, effectively homeless. Thank you.’

It was a desperate last throw. Henry sat heavily down. The judge sighed and cleared the court.

The verdict took fifteen minutes.

Henry had thirty days to get off the boat.

We met with Pattern, Vanya and Troy afterwards in the lobby. Troy gave Henry a hug. Vanya kissed him on the cheek.

‘It was all set up before it started,’ said Pattern, shaking Henry’s hand with the air of an old fellow-combatant. ‘The fuckers.’

‘For once, Pattern,’ said Henry, ‘and perhaps for the only time, I do believe you’re right.’

T
he day after the hearing, Henry had to go to the hospital to pick Strawberry up and return her to the place that would be her home for only a
matter of weeks. Ray had arranged to collect me that coming Sunday, only two days later.

Troy turned out to be a surprisingly good friend to Henry. Understanding that there was no money for him to invest in the crystals business, he offered Henry a partnership all the same.
‘You have the mystique, man. I’m just a dumb hippy but you can talk the talk.’ Henry calmly responded that he would give the proposal serious consideration, but I knew his pride
wouldn’t allow him to do it.

After Henry left for the hospital – he was meeting Troy there and they were returning together – I found some of the home-made beer he had served at his lecture and decided to get
stuck into it. To celebrate Strawberry’s return, I told myself. It didn’t taste as bad as it smelled. It was strong. After two pints my head swam pleasantly.

I was lying on a sun lounger, staring at the sky, nursing a half-empty glass, when the solution to everything occurred to me.

The idea enveloped me like a blessing. I took another swig of beer, gargled it and swallowed, smelling rather than tasting the acrid smack of the hops.

Henry had always told me to trust my instincts – not to overthink. Not to weigh the pros and cons like my father did, but to dive into things using intuition and the guidance of the
unconscious, which, he said, was ‘ancient and wiser than reason’. ‘Go left or go right, but do not wobble’ was the Zen saying he was most fond of.

I turned the idea over in my mind, examined it, held it up to the light. I could find no flaw in it.

After lying there for several more minutes, I rose somewhat shakily but determinedly to my feet. My vision, blurring slightly now, located the rusty barbecue. I staggered over to it and wheeled
it into the field, halfway between the boat and the forest, a distance of some thirty feet either side. The wheels squeaked and protested as if trying to dissuade me from my still-crystallizing
purpose.

I went and looked in the fridge. There were chops, sausages, a steak, some red peppers and halloumi cheese.

I set up a barbecue to welcome Strawberry home. That’s what I would say.

There was a brisk breeze coming off the river. I gathered brushwood, then laid a path of thin twigs between the barbecue and the forest, and another between the barbecue and the boat.

I found some coals and poured them into the base of the barbecue, then replaced the grill and laid the meat, cheese and vegetables – ‘for Strawberry’ – tenderly on
top.

There was a can of kerosene in a lean-to outside the boat. I fetched it, then emptied a quarter of the contents into the briquettes.

I used the rest of the liquid to douse the brushwood kindling.

I checked my watch. I expected Henry, Troy and Strawberry to arrive in about forty-five minutes. By that time, the work should be done. I pulled a box of matches from my pocket. I took another
swig of beer.

Go left, go right, but do not wobble.

I was fighting with the thought that what I was doing was insane. But with so much other insanity going on around me, could I be blamed? I was still, legally, a child. They wouldn’t lock
me up, even if they read my crime in the story of the embers. The thing was to act spontaneously, sincerely and without regret.

Henry couldn’t find fault. After all, he would lose the mooring in thirty days anyway, and he had nowhere else to put the boat. Without me, all was lost for him.

The insurance on the
Ho Koji
would set him up to start again.

I slowly moved the match towards the charcoal. I was contemplating finally calling the whole thing off when the vapours caught and the thing went up with a giant
whoosh –
far more
violently than I had expected, almost catching me in the face. The wind swung the tower of flames around in all directions. Sparks and, almost immediately, dollops of hot fat began to take to the
air.

I staggered back, astonished at the force I had released. I gazed, mesmerized, then, intoxicated not only by the beer but by the sheer beauty of destruction, I took another match and threw it on
the brushwood that led to the forest. It too caught immediately, running at the trees as if possessed by a spirit of fire. The brush leading to the boat went up with similar violence.

I felt a purifying sense of liberation. The primal erasing of things. Henry had talked to me of Kali the destroyer and Prometheus the fire-god. I felt as though they were working through me,
compelling me. The flames were already at the willow curtain and swallowing the scrub under the trees. I sat down on the grass, lit a cigarette and watched the conflagration.

The
Ho Koji
began to catch with the same urgent readiness. Black smoke poured out of the roof and flames licked through the windows. I stood and peered through the open sash. I could
see the Wharfedale stereo system light up, as if some unheard music had manifested itself physically in the vapour pouring out of the cones and membranes.

Heat radiated towards me from two sides, the forest and the boat. The violence of the sun above completed a triangle. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a bird with its feathers blazing,
screeching, running wildly in circles. I just had time to see that it had a yellow ring round its leg before it was consumed. I looked around for water to pour on him, but there was none.
Ginsberg’s screeching soon died away.

I watched, transfixed, stunned, as the blue and orange flames advanced into the study. I wondered if Henry’s typewriter would melt.

Henry’s typewriter. It was only then, through the cloud of alcohol, that I remembered his book.

The book about everything.

Five years’ work.

I staggered to my feet. There were flames on either side of me now, ten feet away, raging. The forest beyond the first fringe of trees had taken. It would be clearly visible from some of the
habitations a mile or two beyond the fields, and they would have telephones. The fire service would be called, but it would be too late.

The single sheet of flame that had first ignited
Ho Koji
was swelling into three dimensions. I started towards the boat, holding my hand up as if it could protect me against the flames.
I staggered closer. I could almost feel the lick of the flames. I could see Henry’s study through the porthole, full of smoke, but no flames. I tried to force open the window, but it
wouldn’t budge.