Summer in the City

by Fiona Collins

  ‘Hello? Dad, Kemp?’

  There is no answer. I call again, then lean back on my haunches and scan the lines of trees beyond me, in case I see Dad and Kemp disappearing into them. No. But I see those two lads advancing from the playground, in my direction, with horrible matching gaits – all shoulders and spite. I need to see Kemp. I need to see my dad. It’s utter madness, but I decide I need to climb down the ladder, as far as the top concrete step, and call for them again. I sit on the edge of the hole and swing my legs in. Place my feet three rungs down. The ladder creaks but it doesn’t feel like the staples will give way. I edge my way down, my back to the amber brickwork, feeling as intrepid as someone who’s spent the last three years sitting indoors.

  I land on the top step with a thunk and look down. The steps go on a long way, then there’s a short platform, then a much shorter run of steps. I need to go down them, don’t I? I need to go down and call when I get to the bottom. Oh, this is ridiculous. This really isn’t me. I have never been any kind of heroine in the story of my life: no masked Bunty adventurer, no Amelia Earhart or Jackie Onassis or Dian Fossey – I’ve been an also-ran, a bit part, a faceless extra in a crowd scene … But I need to do it. I must go down these steps and look for Kemp and my father.

  I make my way cautiously down the steps, the bright oblong from the hatch above me lighting my way, wondering how long it took Dad and Kemp to do the same. The steps are wide and even: Victorian engineering. It’s dusty and fusty and there’s that chalky, brick-y damp smell, the one that is neither pleasant nor unpleasant. I feel nervous, slowly descending these concrete steps, leaving the world above me and entering the unknown. I reach the platform, hesitate; I continue down. When I get to the last step I can’t help but gasp, because in the ghostly light filtered from the hatch I can see exactly why Dad wanted to come down here.

  Before me is a high-ceilinged domed tunnel of dulled-amber brick arches stretching endlessly, like an Escher drawing, into eventual blackness; a curved concave brick threshold at the base of each, rising at either side to form a row of disappearing sentry pillars, between which are an infinite series of curved eyelets in the brickwork – more arches, more tunnels – extending into the distance, with ever-decreasing centres, like wombs. The reservoir is the size of a football pitch, according to Dad. It’s like being in an ancient golden-hued subterranean cathedral, with no idea of where it ends or begins. I can see why it has been used as a film location. It’s stunning.

  I call, ‘Dad? Kemp?’

  There is standing water between each arch – a limpid black pool in a repeat pattern as far as the eye can see. I’m going to get my feet wet if I go any further, but I have to go further, don’t I? They must be in here.

  I set off into the first dark pool of water, muttering amalgamated swear words under my breath. I’m wearing flip-flops; I changed into them back at The Palladian as my sandals were beginning to rub. They squelch and sluice up great swathes of water with each step, so I take them off and put them in the back pockets of my turned-up jeans. The brickwork at the bottom is smooth underfoot. I can feel the mortar joints, the slight indentations between bricks under my toes. I walk. I walk through two or three arches, sloshing through the water that is calf deep, and cool but not cold, and stepping over each brick threshold. I try not to think of the park above me, suspended above this domed ceiling of amber. Of the two boys up there. Of the fairground. Of Salvi.

  When I reach the next threshold, I call again.

  ‘Dad?’

  I stand stock still, listening. The water I have just waded through settles and calms behind me. A drip in the distance falls from brickwork and plinks daintily into a dark pool far ahead. Apart from that, there is no sound, so I set off again. I slop through the channels of another three or so arches, maybe. I don’t know; I lose count.

  ‘Dad?’ I am exasperated now, almost beginning to laugh at the sheer idiocy of this. What am I doing down here? How did I get here? I am as far from the comfort of The Palladian as I have ever been. I am wondering at the folly of Dad and me stepping out in the world, if this is where we were going to end up.

  ‘Prue?’

  It’s faint, but that’s definitely my name echoing up through the never-ending arches.

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘Here!’ comes the faint cry.

  I set off again. A calf-sodden and ineffective Nancy Drew. A woman with as much derring-do as a slug on a biscuit. The water is a little deeper and definitely colder as I trudge on. The air is damp and so musty now you could slice it with a bread knife; the smell of wet bricks and Victorian enterprise is thick and claggy. As I slop through the opaque water, it gets gradually darker, too, but the decreasing light from the hatch at the far end of the tunnel is still enough to show me the way. There are so many arches; I can’t see their end.

  ‘Dad! I’ll be with you soon!’ I shout at the top of my voice, after I’ve trudged across several more thresholds and navigated more silken pools of blackness.

  ‘OK!’ a voice echoes back.

  I keep walking. My jeans are soaked up to just below the knee now. The further I get from the oblong skylight of the hatch, the harder it is to see anything at all, but I can just about see the end of the tunnel now, in the gloom. There’s some writing on the brick wall there, but nothing that I can make out. At least the tunnel does have an end, I think.

  I walk three or four more arches. My feet are very cold now; my shins numb. I am far from the hatch and the real world, and I feel I have been down here for ever.

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘You’re nearer,’ he shouts. ‘I’m pretty sure I’m at the end of the tunnel, right-hand side.’

  ‘Just keep calling, so I can find you.’

  ‘OK!’

  ‘Are you all right, though? Where’s Kemp?’

  ‘I don’t know! But I’ve hurt my ankle. I can’t stand on it.’

  ‘OK, I’m coming!’

  I keep walking. I want to go faster. It’s impossible to run in the two foot of water between each threshold, but I wade as quickly as I can, my arms out by my sides for balance, like an insane windmill. At the same time, I don’t want to trip. I have to navigate. I have to stay upright. I have to get to my dad. I trudge through this watery submerged cathedral under Finsbury Park and I try not to be afraid.

  I am three or four arches from the end of the tunnel when the lights go out and I’m plunged into complete darkness. The light from behind me, channelled down from the hatch space, has disappeared. Fear grips me like one of those brittle, plastic skeleton hands on the ghost train. Has someone closed the hatch? Those boys, laughing as they trap the ugly creature in the dungeon, have they shut it on me? Bloody hell. It’s pitch black. I’m scared to go any further; then I remember I’ve got my phone. Doesn’t it have a torch? I’ve never used it before but I know how to put it on. Shit, one per cent, I think, looking at the screen; I haven’t charged my phone since this morning. I flick on the torch and angle the phone in front of me, to light my way.

  ‘I’m almost there, Dad!’ Through the water, over the threshold, each arch in turn. It’s getting cooler and cooler. I can feel the hairs on my arms begin to stand to attention. I splash through the water, the light from the torch reflecting from its surface. One arch to go, though, and everything goes black again, as my phone conks out. Absolute velvet pitch darkness.

  Oh, fuck. Where’s Paddington when you need him?

  ‘Dad, say something again so I know exactly where you are!’

  ‘I’m here, love. I’m here.’

  He’s to the right. He’s beyond the final arch. I’m relieved I’m so close to him now, but I’m frightened. It’s so densely and relentlessly black. If he can’t walk, how am I going to get him out of here, in the dark? How will we even find our way out when neither of us can see? I clamber over the last brick threshold, slick and a little slimy, feeling I may trip at any moment. I wade into the final pool of water.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Here
!’

  I drop down into the cold dark water into what is probably a comedy crouch, my arms held out in front of me, and head right. From what I’ve seen of the repeat pattern of architecture here, and from where his voice is coming from, Dad is in the space – cavity? – hole? – beyond that final eyelet arch. There’s a foot-high threshold to climb over and I clutch around for it. This would be comical if it wasn’t so scary. If I wasn’t such an out-and-out wuss. I used to have a lamp on in my bedroom at night, for goodness’ sake! I’m clutching at the air. I’m clutching at nothing. There. There’s the lower wall of the eyelet. I clamber over it, like a very ungainly otter, and down the other side.

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘So am I, Dad.’ I clamber forward and reach out and I can feel his arm. His shoulder. The soft material of his Fred Perry T-shirt. ‘Thank God. I found you.’

  ‘You found me, Roo,’ says Dad and his voice suddenly sounds very small and very Italian.

  ‘What on earth happened? And where’s Kemp?’ I ask again.

  ‘He’s down here,’ says Dad. ‘But I’m not sure where.’ He clutches for both my hands now and I hold his tight. They are a warm, familiar relief. ‘I got bored, waiting up there. Kemp came down on his own, as we planned, and I sat up there, like a lemon, just waiting. Haven’t I just sat waiting most of my life? After I’d waited for ages, I decided to come down the ladder and stand in here for a while, feel the acoustics, touch the walls. I knew there were nine rungs. I got to the top of the steps and I called for Kemp but heard nothing so I went down the steps.’

  ‘You went down the steps? On your own?’ My voice echoes in the pitch dark. It bounces off brickwork and still water.

  ‘Well, yes. I can walk down steps. I thought I’d be OK … Anyway, when I got to the bottom I called again and there was no answer. I started to worry because I knew Kemp was down here somewhere. So I rolled up my trouser legs and I walked two or three arches.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Dad, this isn’t like paddling on the beach at Southend!’ I exclaim. ‘It’s dangerous down here!’

  ‘I was fine, for a while. I’ve been down here before, remember? I’ve read about it since. I know the layout. But I had to look for him. If he wasn’t answering, then he had to be in trouble. I was calling him all the time. Nine arches in, I finally heard something. A moan. So I came looking.’

  ‘And you ended up all the way down here.’

  ‘Yes. I followed where I thought it came from, all the way down here to this bullseye arch, but now, I don’t know. He’s not here. I went wrong somewhere. And I tripped on something, when I climbed the other side of the wall, and now my ankle is shot. God knows where my cane is.’

  ‘You’re a bloody idiot!’ I cry and my voice ricochets up the vast, never-ending chamber of the reservoir. I feel around for the cane but I can’t find it. ‘You could have done so much worse! You came down all those steps and you walked all the way down here! What on earth were you thinking? You could have gone back into the park, or into the fair, and asked for help! Done something sensible. You’re not some kind of superhero, Dad! And just because you’ve been to the Albert Hall and the sodding Shard doesn’t make you some kind of blind bloody Christopher Columbus!’

  ‘Not a good analogy,’ says Dad calmly. ‘He went everywhere by ship.’

  ‘Well, maybe so should you! Honestly, Dad!’

  ‘Well, mi dispiace,’ says Dad, and I bet he is doing a typically Italian shrug. ‘I’m sorry. But Kemp needs our help and I have no idea where he is.’

  We listen, in the dark, but there is silence, just the drip drip of water – like the ticking of a clock – and a scuttling sound. A rat? No, the rats are above us – those boys in the vests; the gits who plunged me into complete darkness. We listen again. And again. Eventually there is a low moan, from somewhere ahead of us.

  ‘The other side,’ Dad says. ‘I came to the wrong side.’

  ‘Kemp?’ I call out. ‘Is that you? Are you all right?’ There is no reply apart from another low moan. I start to feel my way to the low wall. I climb over it and land in the pool of water. I wade carefully in the cold and the pitch dark until I can feel the threshold of the eyelet the other side. There’s another moan, very close to me now.

  ‘Kemp, are you OK?’

  I climb over the low wall. I drop to a crawl, reach out with my left arm. My hand lands on what I think is Kemp’s thigh. I pat up his body until I get to his chest. It is softly rising and falling. I feel for the side of Kemp’s head – his temple – and my hand comes away wet. I hope it’s water, but the thought it might not be fills me with horror. My hand moves to his cheek – it is warm – and down to his neck, where I can feel his pulse, steady but weak – is it weak? I don’t know. Perhaps I should have checked that first, but I have no idea what I’m doing. I try his wrist, under those leather bracelets. The pulse feels the same. I lean forward and put my face near his cheek and he smells just like he always did, when I was lucky enough to accidentally get that close – like a little piece of heaven.

  I try not to think that I love him, I love him. I have always loved him.

  ‘Kemp,’ I say, ‘you’re going to be all right.’

  He moans a little but I shush him, stroke his forehead with my hand.

  ‘I’m sorry, Bertie,’ he whispers.

  ‘Don’t be sorry,’ I say. ‘And don’t try to talk now. You can talk when you get out.’

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ he says, his voice hoarse, and I want to laugh but I also want to cry, to lay my head on his warm chest and cry and cry because I could be too late, this could all be too late. For him. The boy in the darkroom. The boy with the smile who danced on his own. The boy who always had a plan. Instead I say, ‘You idiot.’ But I am the idiot – a giant, selfish, stupid one; an idiot who couldn’t listen, out on the street, in bright sunlight. I place my palm on his cheek for a second. Then I move my mouth to his ear and I say, ‘You better be all right, Kemp. You better be bloody well all right.’

  Don’t you dare cry, I tell myself, as I rise away from him and feel my way back to the low brick wall and climb over it. Don’t you dare bloody cry!

  I’m in the pool of water again. I step forward, but I stumble on something: an uneven brick underneath my feet? A slippery patch? I don’t know. But I go flying, face forwards, and land on my hands and knees in the water.

  ‘Oof!’ I scramble up.

  ‘Are you all right?’ calls Dad.

  ‘Yes, I fell. I’m OK. But Kemp’s hurt. I need to go and get help.’

  There’s no way I can get a blind father and a barely conscious man out of an underground reservoir in the pitch dark on my own. The thought is laughable. Terrifying. We need paramedics. Stretchers. We need serious help here. But I feel frozen; I am paralysed and panicked with fear. I’ve also lost my bearings. I have no idea how to rescue any of this. ‘OK, I don’t even know which direction to go in now, Dad. I know you’re somewhere to the left of me, but I’m scared I’m going to set off in the wrong direction – the wrong angle. I can’t go stumbling about. I don’t want to walk slap bang into a pillar or something!’

  ‘The wall,’ calls Dad. ‘The end wall is behind you. Find it.’

  I turn and flail around with my arms. ‘I can’t feel anything! I can’t find it!’

  ‘Stay calm. My voice is to your left so the wall must be behind you. So, turn around and take six steps in every direction, like you’re travelling to numbers ten o’clock to two o’clock on a clock face, there and back, there and back, and you’ll find it.’

  I gingerly turn and take six steps to an imaginary ten o’clock, holding my hands out in front of me; an un-spooky ghost. There is nothing. I retrace my steps and try again to eleven o’clock. Twelve. I don’t think I’m anywhere near that wall. At one o’clock I feel something.

  ‘Found it,’ I cry. I smooth my hands back and forth on the brickwork. ‘At least I think so. I don’t think it’s a pillar. It’s wider than that.’

 
; ‘Can you feel raised letters?’ says Dad. ‘The letters are raised as the paint is thick.’

  I smooth my hand over the brickwork again. I can feel a two-inch wide column that’s slightly raised; it curves round into what could be an ‘O’. ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Then you know exactly where you are,’ says Dad. ‘The letters say “ELWW Hornsey Wood Reservoir, 1868 and 69”. Put your back against the wall.’

  I do so. It feels cool and slick through my soaked T-shirt.

  ‘There are twenty-four arches, Prue. I counted them all on the way in and you’re going to count them all on your way back out, so you’ll know exactly where you are, and you won’t panic. You also won’t fall headfirst on to the steps when you get to them. There are twenty-four thresholds, approximately fifteen steps between each one – remember, keep to the middle as the threshold there is lower. After you’ve got to arch number twenty-four, you’ll be at the steps. There are eight stairs then a platform, about four foot deep, then there are sixteen more steps. Sixteen. At the top, the ladder will be in front of you. Nine rungs.’

  ‘How do you remember all of this stuff, Dad?’ I ask, steeling myself to take a deep breath and walk.

  ‘I just do,’ he says.

  ‘What if I fall again?’

  ‘You won’t fall. I’ve got you. Mind how you go.’

  I step forward, trusting the direction because of the wall behind me and trusting Dad. Haven’t I trusted him all my life? Hasn’t he always had me, even through our bleakest times? And this is how he walks through life, every day. In the dark.

  I carefully walk fifteen steps, sloshing through the knee-deep water, feeling the smooth brickwork under my feet, then I slow right down and edge gingerly forward until my toes hit the wall of the first threshold. I hesitantly step on to it – one foot, then the next, a wobbly weathervane, arms held out for balance – then step down the other side. I almost stumble but I’m OK. There’s such a long way to go. I repeat the same steps; through the dark pool of the second arch; over the bricked second threshold.