by Phil Gilvin
‘I know how you feel,’ said Clara. She’d wanted the words to come out the way Sophia would have said it, that way she had of letting you know, somehow, that she understood. But it didn’t.
Jack gave a loud sniff. ‘What do you know?’ he growled.
‘I know a lot,’ said Clara. ‘I’ve lost my family too, remember.’
Jack wiped his face with a forearm. ‘I thought you didn’t like ’em. Changed your mind, then?’
Clara sighed. ‘Yes. Changed my mind.’
At dusk they stopped at Wallingford and, as if the Scrapers lived on, they broke into a shop that had closed for the night. Their luck was in: they collected food, blankets, a couple of pans, some spoons and a cloak for Clara (Jack said he didn’t need one). The wind was rising as they returned to the boat, and by the time they moored for the night – on a small, wooded island in midstream – they were cold. They found some shelter amongst the trees, and as Clara lay on the hard ground, shivering under her blanket, she could see the moon, almost at the full, and the bright stars peeping down through the leaves.
Above the arching trees the stars had faded into a sky of palest blue, with a faint wisp of cirrus here and there. Clara tugged her blanket tighter around her, trying to capture a few more moments of precious sleep. Then she became aware of a tang in her nostrils, and a quiet crackling and spitting behind her.
She rolled over. ‘What are you doing?’ she cried.
‘What’s it look like?’ said Jack, kneeling on the ground a few yards off. In front of him was a small fire made of twigs and sticks. He’d found some stones to surround it, and one of their newly pilfered pans sat on top.
‘Put it out!’ shouted Clara, hurrying over to him. Dead leaves and stalks of grass stuck to her clothes and hair.
Jack stared at her. ‘What you on about?’
‘The smoke,’ she said. ‘They’ll see it. They’ll find us.’
‘Keep yer hair on,’ said Jack. ‘I just thought you’d fancy a coffee.’
‘Coffee?’ said Clara, swallowing.
Jack stabbed at the fire, sending up a cloud of sparks. ‘I got dry stuff, all right? Look – how much smoke can you see?’
Clara gazed upwards. As the smoke rose between the great trunks, it was lost among the leaves and branches. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘that’s not the point, is it? We don’t know how far away Carrow and the Repsegs are. They might be on either of those banks right now.’
‘Fine,’ said Jack. ‘You can get your own bloody coffee. Or d’you want me to put the fire out now?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Clara, ‘I just meant–’
‘And anyway, why d’you keep saying that? Saying they’re looking for you? What makes you so special?’
‘Well – I don’t know,’ said Clara. ‘But why did they just happen to turn up at the cottage?’
Jack stomped off, kicking at the fallen leaves as he went. ‘They were looking for that priest, o’course,’ he called back. ‘Your trouble is, you think you’re so bloody important. Well, you’re not, you hear me? You’re not.’
She found him at the southern end of the islet, sitting on a rock and hugging his knees. Here by the water’s edge, it was still cold. ‘I had to make the coffee in this,’ she said, holding out the pan. ‘Do you want some?’
He looked up. ‘All right.’
‘Careful,’ she said, handing it to him. ‘It’s hot, but you can just about drink it.’
He sipped, pursed his lips, nodded. ‘It’s good.’
She sat next to him, wrapping her blanket tighter. ‘Sorry I shouted.’
‘Um,’ he said, taking another sip. Then he gestured downstream with the pan, making the coffee slosh. ‘Look. That must have been nasty.’
A hundred yards off, a railway had once crossed the river. Around the broken bridge the water swirled and eddied, while nettles and ivy scrambled up the banks. From one of the piers, remnants of steel rails jutted out and down; one twisted length snaked halfway to the water. As Clara looked, she saw that what she’d taken for brown rocks in the stream were really parts of a rusting carriage; on the bank, dark hollows showed where the windows of another had once been, before the ivy had claimed it.
‘It’s sixty years since any trains ran,’ she told Jack. ‘Then there was no more fuel.’
‘I wonder how many people died,’ said Jack, blinking.
Clara looked at him. His jaw was working, his face set. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s finish that coffee. I want to get away from here.’
‘Here,’ said Jack. ‘About Tesley. Are you okay?’
Clara felt something happening in her throat. She swallowed. ‘Yes. Yes, I am. Thanks, Jack.’
‘The only consolation is, he won’t last long if he hangs out with Repsegs. They won’t want to work with a man.’
Clara wiped her cheek. ‘He’ll take the money and run, I expect. Come on. Let’s go.’
By careful paddling, they navigated between the derelict carriage and the bank. From there the current was steady and calm, and they were able to drift down it, with only a touch or two of their paddles. As the river bent to their left they passed rows of once-neat gardens, now waist-high in goldenrod and thistle. In the shallows, a motor-boat listed to one side, its paint peeling: The Jolly Tar, said the faded gold lettering at the prow.
They had been going for less than half an hour when the land on either side began to rise into low hills. The sun was already warming the river, and birds darted in and out of the rushy banks. Jack was steering, and Clara’s eyelids began to droop. She dipped her hand in the water, and felt the current through her fingers.
‘Jack,’ she said.
Jack blinked. ‘What?
‘I’m sure they were after us, you know. After us both.’
‘Who yer talkin’ about?’
‘When they came to get the priest, Carrow was there, and that could’ve been coincidence. But why did they have Tesley along, too?’
Jack shrugged. ‘Cos he’s a git?’
‘Tesley knows me, and he knows you. They were looking for us, Jack. And we led them to the priest. She’s dead because of us.’
‘Don’t beat yourself up. They’d have got her sooner or later.’
‘Yes, but maybe it would have been later. But the point is, Jack – we’re going to have to be careful.’
Jack shook his head. ‘Y’know, when you talk like that you really spook me, you do.’
With a frown, Clara pulled her hand out of the water and stared at her fingers. She dipped them back in again. ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Are we going faster?’
Jack sat up and stared ahead. ‘Hear that?’ he said. ‘There’s something going on.’
Clara listened. At first it reminded her of the wind whispering in the birch wood near Briar Farm; but then she noticed a deeper edge to it – the sound of rushing water.
Jack knew it too. ‘Weir!’ he cried. ‘Quick, make for the bank.’
Clara made a grab for her paddle, making the boat pitch. ‘Oi, careful!’ cried Jack.
Guessing the right bank to be some twenty yards off, Clara thrust the paddle deep into the water, pushing it forward to turn the boat. The prow came round a little, then veered back into the current. She tried again; cold water ran down past her elbow and splashed her knees. She could hear Jack grunting as he threw all his effort into it. She tried again; this time she thought they were gaining, but again the prow sprang back to face resolutely downstream.
‘It’s not moving!’ she cried. ‘The current’s too strong.’
‘Got to keep trying,’ shouted Jack, spilling water everywhere.
‘If only we can make those rushes,’ Clara said, waving the paddle at the bank. The weir was closer, the noise louder.
‘I can’t see no rushes,’ said Jack. Then he turned. ‘What are you doing? Which bloody bank are you making for?’ he yelled.
‘Well, that one,’ said Clara, inclining her head. ‘It’s closer. What are you doing?’
&nb
sp; ‘That’s the side where the weir is! We’ve got to get to that bank.’
‘It’ll take ages to get across there!’ screamed Clara.
Jack said nothing, but stuck his paddle in, and turned the boat for the left bank.
‘You’d better not kill us,’ cried Clara, and began to paddle hard, this time the right way. But now the boat spun swiftly round; they had overshot and were facing upstream. Then the fierce current whirled them all the way round again. They held on.
‘Just do it together,’ cried Jack. ‘And go that way!’
They paddled. Every time they took their paddles out of the water, the boat began to veer, until they hurriedly took the next stroke. The weir was rushing up towards them, but as they got out of the main current the going became easier. Panting and grunting, they urged the boat into the shallows. Clara reached out and grabbed at a tree root; Jack had to hold on to her legs as the boat tried to slide from under them both. At last they managed to drag themselves, together with the boat and both of the paddles, onto a muddy bank between two oaks.
They lay there, coughing and panting. As soon as she had enough breath Clara sat up. ‘What on earth were you doing?’ she said. ‘We could’ve been killed.’
‘Nah, we couldn’t,’ said Jack. ‘And we’d have been out of it a lot quicker, if you hadn’t been going the wrong way.’
Clara threw her hands wide. ‘What’s the matter with you? We nearly went over the weir.’
Jack lay back with his hands behind his head. ‘I wasn’t worried. I’ve been in boats a lot, see. Besides, a little soaking never hurt anyone.’
‘Is that so?’ said Clara, through her teeth.
‘Yeah,’ said Jack.
‘Right.’ Clara scrambled over to the boat and, grabbing the pan, scooped up several pints of river and poured them all over Jack.
‘Hey! What did you do that for?’ he spluttered.
Clara folded her arms. ‘A little soaking,’ she said, ‘never hurt anyone.’
Jack took the paddle that lay near him, dipped it in the river and flicked a good dousing of water over Clara. ‘Ha!’ he cried.
The next two minutes involved a lot of water-chucking and pan-wrestling, until Clara cried out, ‘Mind the food!’ – a quart of water had just landed in the boat.
They stopped, panting, and glared at each other.
‘Ooh, you are stupid,’ said Clara.
‘I’m not stupid, you are.’
‘Well, you’re so – so – so wet!’
Jack sniggered. Then he giggled. Then he laughed. Clara stared at him, and began to laugh herself.
‘Come on,’ said Clara, and they pushed their way up the bank. It proved to be one side of an old railway embankment – maybe on the same track as the broken bridge, she thought. Here the rails had long since been reclaimed, but the crumbling concrete sleepers remained among the thistles and buddleia. They stood on top and looked at each other, dripping and dishevelled, with black streaks all over their clothes and faces. Clara pointed at Jack and laughed again; Jack laughed too. Then they lay on the far side of the bank, where the sun was strongest, to dry themselves.
The next few days passed amid heavy showers and rising wind. Blinking the water from their eyes, they covered the boat with blankets to keep the provisions dry. At Reading they heard gunfire, and paddled faster to get away before they were seen; at Henley a pack of wild dogs prevented them from landing.
When they reached Maidenhead, they faced a broken concrete bridge where the river forced its way amongst the wreckage. Jack swore as, desperately, they tried to steer a passage. They managed to negotiate the centre of the ruins, but as they emerged into wider water the current gave a surge and flung them forward. There was a brief thud, and the boat span around.
‘Are we holed?’ cried Jack. ‘Are we holed?’
‘Can’t tell,’ said Clara. ‘But there’s more water.’
They couldn’t go on. They abandoned the boat at Bray and set off for Windsor on foot, from where they took a ferry down river. Jack had to stand in the stern with the other males, while Clara sat amongst the market-goers with their bulging shopping-bags, and listened to their gossip.
‘I heard there’s been a battle,’ said one woman, ‘and it’s gone none too well for us.’
‘Where did you hear that?’ said the another.
‘Zima, o’course. She’s just got back from Burford way. Long lines of wounded, she said, all laid out by the roadside.’
‘That’s not what the paper says.’
‘And when was the last time you believed what you read in The Republican Woman, hey?’
The ferry passed slowly among the water-meadows of Runnymede and dropped them at Staines. They found a baker’s, where Clara bought a loaf to share, and a bun for Jack. They took care to ask for the way north, and pointedly left in that direction. Then, to throw off any pursuit, they veered to their right. As they trudged along the old road the rain came again, thin and grey in the sudden September dusk. The road was badly broken, but passable; to their left was a thirty-foot bank of earth. Jack climbed it, but came back down at once. ‘Old reservoir,’ he said. ‘Just a muddy field now.’
Further on, they came to a Closed Area; but the fence was broken in several places. Glancing up and down the road, they made through one of the gaps, all the time listening for dogs. At the third attempt, they found a house that seemed fairly secure and didn’t smell of damp. After devouring the bread (the bun had vanished earlier), they made their way upstairs, closing behind them the few doors that remained on their hinges. Some dejected curtains still hung by the windows; these they tore down to use as blankets, and settled down to sleep as best they could. The rain nagged on the windows.
‘Are you awake?’ whispered Jack.
‘Yes,’ said Clara. She’d been lying there for an hour or more, listening to the rain and feeling the hard boards against her back.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Jack.
‘What?’ The night was dark, and Clara felt as if her words would disappear in the blackness.
‘You said we’re running out of fuel, didn’t you? You know, like coal and oil, and that.’
‘Yes. There’s less and less of it each year. I think some of the oil comes in by sea, but that’s getting harder and harder to do. The prices keep going up, too.’
‘Yeah, but you said it was the same for the whole world.’
‘Yes, I think it is. Soon no-one will have any.’
‘And we’ve forgot a lot of what we used to know? That’s yer Knowledge Project thing, yeah?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the weather’s getting worse, and all that?’
‘Yes, that too.’
‘We’re stuffed then, ain’t we? Like, we won’t be able to make steel or anything, ‘cause we got no fuel. And we won’t be able to make things out of wood, ’cause we’ve forgotten how. So how are we going to make the things we really need? Y’know, like ploughs, buckets, carts, wheels. And knives, and axes, things like that.’
‘I suppose you’re right. When I was a Truth Sister, I thought we were going to find all the old knowledge. But they’re wasting all their time on trying to keep cloning going.’
‘Yeah. So it’s not going to work. Point is, Clara, how are we going to survive?’
Clara didn’t answer. Jack was right, of course. The Republic had pinned all its hopes on the Knowledge Project to save womankind – to save humanity. But it wasn’t going to work, and it didn’t seem like the rest of the world was in any better shape.
Jack was quiet for a minute. Then he said, ‘So, what happened with you? You said you was a Truth Sister, and then they found out you was a Natural, right?’
Clara rolled onto her side. ‘I don’t know who I am, Jack. That’s the trouble. I thought I was Pureclone. I was happy when I grew up. On a farm, that was. I thought Mother was my clone-mother, and that James was just a servant. But I liked him. Then Mother – she wanted me to get a good job, to have my o
wn money – she sent me to the Academy.’ She stared into the darkness, fighting down the lump in her throat. ‘But at the Academy, they made me into a proper daughter of the Republic. They taught me to hate men, and to hate Naturals. I ended up a Truth Sister, and I betrayed a – a friend.’
She could sense Jack listening. From under the floorboards came the tic-tic of a mouse’s footfalls.
‘Then Mother told me that James was my father. I was a Natural after all. That was on my birthday. Some present, eh? They’d wanted to pass me off as a Truth Sister, wanted me to have privileges and everything. I hated them – I wanted to turn them in. But if I did, I’d be sent to a rec-gang or something, so I couldn’t. We did a deal. We kept it quiet, and I went to work at the Ministry of Knowledge. But I said I never wanted to see them again.’
‘Why d’you do that?’
‘I – I don’t remember. I felt dirty. I hated them, I hated myself.’
‘But they was your family.’
‘I was supposed to be a Clone, Jack. I was supposed to be pure. I didn’t want a family.’ She sniffed, and swallowed again. ‘They said they loved each other. They said they loved me.’
‘And did they?’
‘I suppose they must have done. Oh!’ Suddenly she was sobbing, sobbing so hard she couldn’t breathe, her tears dripping onto the dusty boards.
Jack groped his way over and knelt by her. Putting a hand on her shoulder, he said, ‘Look – here, don’t cry. Don’t cry, all right?’
Clara could hear the tremor in his voice, and it was that which forced her to pull herself together. She swallowed hard. ‘All right,’ she murmured. She dried her tears on her cloak. ‘I’m sorry.’
Jack wiped a sleeve across his face. ‘So, what happened?’
‘My aunt had found out. I’d been shouting at my parents, so she’d overheard. She turned them in, while I was in London. James is her own brother, but she still turned him in.’
‘You said you were going to turn them in, till they stopped you.’