by Lucy Wood
Everything teemed. The bank crumbled and Pearl went with it – back into the churning river, which was bloated and brawny, ripping up roots and hurling branches as it went. Bowling a tractor tyre along like a toy. Juggling a ripped fence. She saw the house as she went, standing among shallow water like something marooned. Propped up and grey and bedraggled. An infuriating place. But it was hers. Yes. It was hers. Where she had ended up. Not what she had expected, but perhaps not the worst thing, to have had her life here. For it to have become home without her noticing. Her rapids, her slushy snow, her watery, boggy greens and greys. Her pain-in-the-arse remoteness, not seeing anyone for weeks. Her power cuts, her seeping and ancient moor. Her birds, her narrow and bastard roads. Her flooding river: brown and silver and fat as a trout.
Down the bank and into the pounding current. There were no slow, quiet parts of the river now. No eddying, no stagnant pools with nests of caught sticks and feathers. The water riled everything up. Leaves split and tore. Branches snapped and were flung down-river. Pearl swept out into the middle where the water was fastest, hurtled down and round the bend and . . . wait. The house was about to go out of sight. She clung onto a boulder instinctively. Somehow managed to grip onto the stone’s rough edges, work her way into the moss and cracks and haul herself up. She stared at the house. She wasn’t ready. Suddenly, she wasn’t ready.
She clung on. The river rushed past her and through her and its roaring was so loud, so steady, that she stopped hearing it. In amongst the ceaseless pressure everything became silent and calm. The browns turned into greens and yellows, the water glinted, and she remembered the first time she had stepped into the river. The first cold shock of it.
It was early spring and they had just moved into the house that winter. The first daffodils coming up like lamps, and the ramsons’ white flowers coating everything as if the snow had never left. Their pungent smell after it rained. The wind whipping. Silky buds on the alder trees like mice. Frank opening all the doors and windows to air the house and saying that he was going to teach her to swim. It was never too late to learn, apparently. He knew a nice easy stretch where the river wasn’t too deep, the current slackening and good to swim against.
Her hair had lifted up in the wind. The river was wide and glittering and they walked down the long grass, along the bank and down onto a shingly beach. Pearl took her shoes off and hobbled on the sharp stones, her soles not yet toughened up. No cracked, hard skin back then. She watched Frank take off his belt and his trousers and his shirt. He waded in. The colour of his body against the water: the creams and coppers and dusty purples. His spine like the lovely bumps in a chrysalis.
Pearl took her clothes off down to her underwear, felt Frank watching her, and folded them carefully. It was very cold. She waded in, the freezing water pushing against her toes, then her ankles, then her thighs. She waded over to Frank and ran her finger down his back. She had only known him for a year.
‘Sit in the water first,’ he told her. ‘So that you get used to it.’
They sat in the river, their skin gleaming and pale and looking not part of themselves at all, but part of the rippled and moving water. She could feel the current tugging at her and the wind pulling at the water’s surface and at the surface of her skin, making creases and goosebumps. Everything glittered green and copper, like a rusty coin being cleaned.
Frank knelt up and showed her how to lean forward and move her arms. ‘Try dipping your head under,’ he said.
She did, and got a shock of cold, blurry darkness, came up coughing.
‘Keep your mouth closed,’ he said.
Pearl spat out a mouthful of water. ‘I did,’ she said. Her first taste of the river, dank and fresh at the same time. She tried again. She dipped her head under and water streamed down her hair and back. It felt better this time; she kept her mouth closed and opened her eyes, saw brown silt and stones mixing. Frank’s feet among grey pebbles. She reached down and touched his toes and Frank ran his hand down the inside of her arm, then guided her into deeper water so that she was in above her waist. Her skin tingled. He let go of her and swam a few strokes out into the middle and beckoned her. She leaned forward and pushed with her arms. Her knees scraped along the stones, something in her wouldn’t let her knees go and she stayed there, attached to the stones like a weed. Tried again. She pushed off and her knees lifted and she was moving into the river, actually moving through the water, buoyed and lighter than she had felt before, stronger than the current, moving towards Frank’s arms. (And there was no need to go into the fact that a few strokes later she floundered and her arse floated up. What mattered were those first few strokes, cold and bright and wonderful.)
Now, Pearl clung to the stone. Alongside saturated moss, which was old and strong and probably didn’t even notice. Still she held on. The river dragged and she streamed out like a flag. Rain drummed. Pearl closed her eyes. Felt the water spreading and she a part of it, flooding through the valley.
Water poured down through the woods from the moor, picking up mud and clay and pine needles. The river slopped over the bank and onto the paths, scouring earth and leaves. Mixing with the rain and overflowing pipes. Gurgling up through drains and spilling out onto the roads. Reeking, mulchy water, full of dirt and rust. It carried sticks and sweet wrappers, tin cans, plastic bags, unidentifiable crud from a dumping place, a cup, a blanket, a handful of batteries.
And on the road outside their house, Clapper and Petey picked the rubbish out of the drains to help the water go down. Clapper picking carefully and Petey holding the bag as wide as it would go.
The water flowed out of the top fields, some of it bubbly with chemicals and soap, and streamed down the road that wound through the valley. Past front doors, past gates and down the hill, where cars had to stop and put their handbrakes on tight.
Over potholes and gravel, past verges and fences. Down towards the shop, where it pooled by the front door. Mick swept at it with a broom to keep it from getting in. He was wearing his wife’s old waders – too tight and wouldn’t go over his knees. He swept and swept, beating the water back. Praying that the water would stay away. His wife had been the canny one; he had stopped paying the insurance to save money.
The water poured down the narrow lanes and past the pub. Val heard the torrent and knelt on her bed to look out of the window. Saw the water whisking past, then turned over and went back to sleep, unalarmed. Making up for all those lost hours.
Down the valley and into Judy and Robbie’s farm, where it lost speed and spread over the lower fields, turning them to glistening marsh. Judy and Robbie up all night dragging in sheep and moving cows. The water not deep enough to do much damage; but more work, and more worry, and no sleep for them.
And at Luke’s place, the water ran through the garden and turned the bonfire remains into a charred stew. It started to pool in a long, deep hole in the garden, but Luke was nowhere to be seen.
A telegraph pole sparked and cut out. Everyone in the west of the valley lost their electricity. The Trewins made a grill out of a metal bucket and some coal and cooked rounds of sausages.
A group of bungalows was surrounded by hoarded sandbags.
The cafe was above it all and missed everything.
And what was happening at the house? The water was still pushing up through the foundations, filling the house with a shallow layer. Who was that? The little one, coming down the stairs, getting the broom and starting to sweep water out of the door, saying, go away, go away. And where was Ada? There she was, still sitting on the study steps, looking around like she didn’t know where she was exactly.
‘Come on girl,’ Pearl muttered. ‘There’s only one thing you can do.’ Still Ada sat there. And then, finally, she got up and went over to the desk and picked up a plastic box. She opened the window, bent down and started bailing. Throwing out box after box of water. ‘That’s right,’ Pearl said. Although it probably wouldn’t even touch it; but what else was there to do? She watched t
hem sweep and bail. It was out of her hands.
The river swelled. A huge pressure, like cloth that was as taut as it could go at the seams. Pearl saw something glinting in the water. She reached down and grabbed it as it swept past. Her button. She clutched it tightly; although she couldn’t remember why it was so important . . . it was before all this, back before all this even happened. There was a lot more to go over, a lot more to sift through until she was back at the very start. Everything glinted silver and rushed fast and deep. An overwhelming circling feeling – the water seeping into mud then draining back, always separating and joining, always the backbreaking, bending feeling of the river trying to meet itself at the beginning.
A heavy branch crashed into the rock and Pearl slipped and scraped against the edge. The water slowly prising her off. She dug in harder and then stopped. Felt the current tug at her. The river calling out. She couldn’t cling on forever. It would be ridiculous. How long had she been here already? It felt like a long time. It felt like enough time. The water glinted and galloped. It peaked and folded, transforming second by second. Maybe better to see where it would take her.
So she let go.
Chapter 36
‘Just check one more time,’ Pepper said. She stood by the car and picked at the rust. The water had worn the gravel away from the tyres so that they were sitting in deep holes. And the rain had got in and pooled on the seats.
Her mother leaned in and turned the key again. Nothing happened. ‘We’ve tried it twelve times now,’ she said. She adjusted the straps on Pepper’s rucksack, then on her own. ‘Ready?’
Pepper moved her feet around in her damp boots. If she squeezed her toes really hard, cold water bubbled up. ‘Do we have to?’ she said. It was a long way up to the shop.
‘I thought you said you’d die without milk,’ her mother said. ‘Come on, it won’t take too long.’ She started walking up the lane and Pepper followed behind her.
The road was slick and wet. Water gushed down gullies on either side, and piles of sticks and leaves were caught in the drain covers. The trees dripped, the sheep dripped, the fields were bogs instead of grass. Everything was soaking, especially the house. The water had got into all the rooms downstairs and left them mucky and reeking. Everything smelled like that bus-station toilet she’d been into once; the one with the skull painted on the wall and the woman lying on the floor singing. The water hadn’t cleaned the house at all; instead, it had smeared mud and sludge on the carpets and black gunk on the bottoms of the walls. The floorboards were warped and dirty and the paint was bulging and brown. Chunks of plaster were cracking off. The kitchen door wouldn’t close properly any more. And strange things had washed in and been left behind when the water went away: bits of fence and plastic, a bright yellow glove next to the study window, a rusty horseshoe by the car.
She caught up with her mother. ‘But how long exactly will it take to clean?’ she asked.
‘We talked about this,’ her mother said.
The grass on the verge had been flattened by the streaming water. ‘But a long time,’ Pepper said. Waited for her mother to say she didn’t know, or that it probably wouldn’t take very long.
‘Yes,’ her mother said. ‘It will take a long time.’
Pepper thought about the photos on the walls: one of them had fallen down and got ruined. Others were so damp that the corners had started to rip. And the carpet in the study was going to be rolled up and thrown away, and maybe the desk would have to go too – its legs were splitting halfway up. It wouldn’t be the same any more. But they were going to put wax on the floor instead of the carpet and it would smell nice, like pine trees, and there would be new paint on the wall in the kitchen and she was allowed to choose the colour, except she wasn’t supposed to choose black, or dark red, she was supposed to take her time and choose properly. ‘And we will still be here,’ she said.
Her mother touched a crumpled leaf in the hedge. ‘Yes,’ she said.
They walked for a long time. The roads and the drains slurped water. The shop’s sign dripped and the door was soaking, but when they went in, Mick was triumphant: he had kept it all out of the shop. He bowed low as they came in, pointed out a picture of a dog wearing a sombrero in a newspaper, opened a can of lychees and ate them straight out of the tin one by one. ‘Little brains,’ he said to Pepper, who watched the juice run down his chin.
They got firelighters and matches, milk, tins, cereal, cat food and bread. Pepper worried about how heavy it would be walking back, but her mother only packed the light things in her rucksack.
‘You took a hit down there I bet,’ Mick said. He rang in the last tin. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘I’m sure a certain young fellow won’t mind giving you some assistance from what I’ve heard.’ He ate another brain then licked over his front teeth.
There was a moment of silence and Pepper held her rucksack very tightly. Then her mother rolled her eyes. ‘That’s pretty old news by now,’ she said. She packed the last tin in the bag. ‘Next you’ll be telling me you haven’t heard the latest about Val’s brother.’
Mick blinked. He fiddled with the cuffs of his jumper. ‘I guess you’ll need more wood now anyway,’ he said. ‘Bet yours got soaked when it poured on you down there. Special deal, seeing as you’re so needful of it.’
‘We’ll think about it,’ Pepper told him.
Mick glanced at her, his hand hovered over the jar of pink lollies on the counter, but then he took it away again. Maybe another time.
They were halfway back to the house, a packet digging sharply into Pepper’s back, when there was the sound of a truck behind them. Her mother held Pepper’s hand and told her to press as close as she could into the hedge, but the truck stopped next to them. It was Judy and Robbie. Robbie stuck his head out of the window. ‘It’s Luke,’ he said. ‘We’re going over there now.’
They got into the back. There was a draught coming in from a gap under the door. The seats smelled of straw and chewing gum. A cold feeling started gnawing at Pepper.
‘What’s happened?’ her mother said.
Judy drove quickly down the narrow roads. ‘We don’t know exactly,’ she said. ‘Tristan phoned us. He couldn’t get through to you. Said he was passing Luke’s and called in but couldn’t find him. Then heard a noise from in the garden. Down in some huge hole. Been out digging or looking for something, I don’t know. He went out for another go in the rain and the sides collapsed. He couldn’t get back out.’
Pepper sucked in her breath. Her stomach clenched like she was about to be sick. Her mother turned to look at her. ‘He’ll be OK,’ she said.
But Pepper closed her eyes tight and felt the car sway. Muddy water flicked onto the windows and ran down the doors.
They pulled up at Luke’s house. Pepper stayed behind in the doorway. She heard everyone talking at once and then there was Luke’s voice. It sounded just the same as it always did, maybe a bit quieter. She went through the hall and looked into the kitchen. He was sitting in a chair covered in blankets and hot-water bottles. Streaks of mud down his face and neck. Shep came over and sniffed her feet and she stroked him and didn’t look up.
‘I think he’s got a bruised ankle, something wrong with his rib and a chipped tooth,’ Tristan said. ‘He won’t let me take him to hospital.’
‘Hospitals,’ Luke said. ‘More likely to die in one than out. I read that somewhere but I forget where.’
Pepper concentrated on Shep; his curly fur, his rough tongue lolling out.
Tristan sat down at the table then got back up again. He went over to the corner and started slicing up bread with a big knife. Judy switched the heater on to the highest setting. She and Robbie said they’d go upstairs for towels and spare clothes. Her mother went over and stood close to Tristan. Tristan carried on sawing the bread. She reached up and put her fingers under his hat and moved it so she could say something in his ear. He stopped sawing.
‘Come here,’ Luke said.
Pepper looked u
p and saw he was talking to her. She patted Shep once more, then went over to Luke. She picked her lips. Kicked his shoelace around the floor with her foot.
He leaned over and spoke quietly. ‘There wasn’t much there,’ he said. He smiled and there was even mud on his teeth. But there was an old coin on the table next to him, battered and mouldy and bent.
‘You found something,’ Pepper said.
‘There was something,’ he said.
Pepper nodded. She prodded at his shoelace. ‘It’s one of the best coins I’ve seen,’ she said finally.
Luke pulled at one of the blankets. Then he bared his teeth. ‘I bet my chip is bigger than yours,’ he said.
As he got more tired, he began to describe how it had been when the mud started slipping on him, and what it was like trapped there in the dark, not knowing if he would get out. His leg crushed, his mind wandering. Thought he was back in the bed where he was born and if he just unwrapped the blanket, if he just shouted a bit louder, then he would be able to get up and get on with things. Which he did.
Pepper went to find Captain and make sure he was OK with having Shep in the house. It was late afternoon and dark. Captain hissed and backed away. Probably best to keep them separate. The fire was roaring and every single window was open even though it was cold, to try and get rid of the damp. All the sodden things had been piled up outside: one pile for saving, one pile for throwing away.
When she got back into the kitchen, Tristan was chopping onions and his eyes were watering. He’d brought over a camping stove to cook on because their oven didn’t work. Her mother’s hand was on his back. The sizzling oil and the sizzling onions covered up the sour, fetid smell in the kitchen.
Later, her mother smoothed the covers around her in bed. She smoothed and then she pushed at the lumpy bits in the mattress. ‘Do you like Tristan?’ she said eventually.