Field Study

by Rachel Seiffert

  Field Study

  RACHEL SEIFFERT

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  Version 1.0

  Epub ISBN 9781407091969

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Published in the United Kingdom in 2004 by William Heinemann

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  Copyright © Pfefferberg Ltd, 2004

  Rachel Seiffert has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

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  Grateful acknowledgement is made to Pollinger Ltd and the Estate of Frieda Lawrence Ravaghi for permission to reproduce part of ‘All Souls’ Day’ by D. H. Lawrence

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  ISBN 0 434 01185 1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Also by Rachel Seiffert

  Field Study

  Reach

  Tentsmuir Sands

  Dimitroff

  Blue

  Architect

  The Late Spring

  The Crossing

  Dog-Leg Lane

  Francis John Jones, 1924–

  Second Best

  Michael and Finlay

  Also by Rachel Seiffert

  The Dark Room

  FIELD STUDY

  Summer and the third day of Martin’s field study. Morning, and he is parked at the side of the track, looking out over the rye he will walk through shortly to reach the river. For two days he has been alone, gathering his mud and water samples, but not today.

  A boy shouts and sings in the field. His young mother carries him piggyback through the rye. Martin hears their voices, thin through the open window of his car. He keeps still. Watching, waiting for them to pass.

  The woman’s legs are hidden in the tall stalks of the crop and the boy’s legs are skinny. He is too big to be carried comfortably, and mother and son giggle as she struggles on through the rye. The boy wears too-large trainers, huge and white, and they hang heavy at his mother’s sides. Brushing the ears of rye as she walks, bumping at her thighs as she jogs an unsteady step or two. Then swinging out wide as she spins on the spot: whirling, stumbling around and around. Twice, three times, four times, laughing, lurching as the boy screams delight on her back.

  They fall to the ground and Martin can’t see them any more. Just the rye and the tops of the trees beyond: where the field slopes down and the river starts its wide arc around the town. Three days Martin has been here. Only another four days to cover the area, pull enough data together for his semester paper, already overdue. The young woman and her child have gone. Martin climbs out of the car, gathers his bags and locks the doors.

  This river begins in the high mountains Martin cannot see but knows lie due south of where he stands. Once it passes the coal and industry of the foothills, it runs almost due west into these flat, farming lands, cutting a course through the shallow valley on which his PhD studies are centred. Past the town where he is staying and on through the provincial capital, until it finally mouths in the wide flows which mark the border between Martin’s country and the one he is now in. Not a significant stretch of water historically, commercially, not even especially pretty. But a cause for concern nonetheless: here, and even more so in Martin’s country, linking as it does a chemical plant on the eastern side of the border with a major population centre to the west.

  Martin has a camera, notebooks and vials. Some for river water, others for river mud. Back in the town, in his room at the guesthouse, he has chemicals and a microscope. More vials and dishes. The first two days’ samples, still to be analysed, a laptop on which to record his results.

  The dark, uneven arc of the trees is visible for miles, marking the course of the river through the yellow-dry countryside. The harvest this year will be early and poor. Drought, and so the water level of the river is low, but the trees along its banks are still full of new growth, thick with leaves, the air beneath them moist.

  Martin drinks the first coffee of the day from his flask by the water’s edge. The river has steep banks, and roots grow in twisted detours down its rocky sides. He has moved steadily west along the river since the beginning of the week, covering about a kilometre each day, with a two-kilometre gap in between. Up until now, the water has been clear, but here it is thick with long fronds of weed. Martin spreads a waterproof liner on the flat rock, lays out vials and spoons in rows. He writes up the labels while he drinks his second coffee, then pulls on his long waterproof gloves. Beyond the branches, the field shimmers yellow-white and the sun is strong; under the trees, Martin is cool. Counting, measuring, writing, photographing. Long sample spoon scratching river grit against the glass of the vials.

  Late morning and hot now, even under the trees. The water at this point in the river is almost deep enough to swim. Martin lays out his vials, spoons and labels for the third time that morning. Wonders a moment or two what it would be like to lie down in the lazy current, the soft weed. Touches his gloved fingertips to the surface and counts up all the toxic substances he will test his samples for later. He rolls up his trouser legs as high as they will go before he pulls on the waders, enjoys the cool pressure of the water against the rubber against his skin as he moves carefully out to about mid-stream. The weed here is at its thickest, and Martin decides to take a sample of that, too. The protective gauntlets make it difficult to get a grip, but Martin manages to pull one plant from the river bed with its root system still reasonably intact. He stands a while, feeling the current tug its way around his legs, watching the fingers of weed slowly folding over the gap he has made. Ahead is a sudden dip, a small waterfall that Martin had noted yesterday evening on the map. The noise of the cascade is loud, held in close by the dense green avenue of trees. Martin wades forward and when he stops again, he hears voices, a laugh-scream.

  The bushes grow dense across the top of the drop, but Martin can just see through the leaves: young mother and son, swimming in the pool hollowed out by the waterfall. They are close. He can see the boy take a mouthful of water and spray it at his mother as she swims around the small pool. Can
see the mud between her toes when she climbs out and stands on the rock at the water’s edge. The long black-green weed stuck to her thigh. She is not naked, but her underwear is pale, pink-white like her skin, and Martin can also see the darker wet of nipples and pubic hair. He turns quickly and wades back to the bank, weed sample held carefully in gauntleted hands.

  He stands for a moment by his bags, then pulls off the waders, pulls on his shoes again. He will walk round them, take a detour across the fields and they will have no cause to see him. He has gathered enough here already, after all. The pool and waterfall need not fall within his every 100 metres remit. No problem.

  __

  Martin sleeps an hour when he gets back to the guesthouse. Open window providing an occasional breeze from the small back court and a smell of bread from the kitchen. When he wakes the sun has passed over the top of the building and his room is pleasantly cool and dim.

  He works for an hour or two on the first day’s mud and water vials, and what he finds confirms his hypothesis. Everything within normal boundaries, except one particular metal, present in far higher concentrations than one should expect.

  His fingers start to itch as he parcels up a selection of samples to send back to the university lab for confirmation. He knows this is psychosomatic, that he has always been careful to wear protection: doesn’t even think that poisoning with this metal is likely to produce such a reaction. He includes the weed sample in his parcel, with instructions that a section be sent on to botany, and a photocopy of the map, with the collection sites clearly marked. In the post office, his lips and the skin around his nostrils burn, and so, despite his reasoning, he allows himself another shower before he goes down to eat an early dinner in the guesthouse café.

  __

  The boy from the stream is sitting on one of the high stools at the bar doing his homework, and the waitress who brings Martin his soup is his mother. She wishes him a good appetite in one of the few phrases he understands in this country, and when Martin thanks her using a couple of words picked up on his last visit, he thinks she looks pleased.

  Martin watches her son while he eats. Remembers the fountain of river-water the boy aimed at his mother, wonders how much he swallowed, if they swim there regularly, how many years they might have done this for. Martin thinks he looks healthy enough, perhaps a little underweight.

  His mother brings Martin a glass of wine with his main course, and when he tries to explain that he didn’t order it, she just puts her finger to her lips and winks. She is thin, too, but she looks strong; broad shoulders and palms, long fingers, wide nails. She pulls her hands behind her back, and Martin is aware now that he has been staring. He lowers his eyes to his plate, watches her through his lashes as she moves on to the next table. Notes: good posture, thick hair. But Martin reasons while he eats that such poisons can take years to make their presence felt; nothing for a decade or two, then suddenly tumours and shortness of breath in middle age.

  The woman is sitting at the bar with her son when Martin finishes his meal. She is smoking a cigarette and checking through his maths. The boy watches, kicking his trainers against the high legs of his barstool, as Martin walks towards them.

  – I’m sorry. I don’t really speak enough of your language. But I wanted to tell you something.

  The woman looks up from her son’s exercise book and blinks as Martin speaks. He stops a moment, waits to see if she understands, if she will say something, but after a small smile and a small frown, she just nods and turns away from him, back to her son. At first Martin thinks they are talking about him, and that they might still respond, but the seconds pass and the boy and his mother keep talking, and then Martin can’t remember how long he has been standing there looking at the back of her head, so he looks away. Sees his tall reflection in the mirror behind the bar. One hand, left, no right, moving up to cover his large forehead, sunburnt, and red hair.

  – What you want to say to my mother?

  The boy speaks Martin’s language. He shrugs when Martin looks at him. Martin lets his hand drop back down to his side.

  – Oh, okay. Okay, good. Can you translate for me then?

  The boy shrugs again, which Martin takes to be assent, and so he starts to explain. About the river, how he saw them swimming in the morning and he didn’t want to disturb them, but that he has been thinking about it again this evening. And then Martin stops talking because he sees that the boy is frowning.

  – Should I start again?

  – You were watching my mother swimming.

  – No.

  The boy whispers to his mother, who flushes and then puts her hand over her mouth and laughs.

  – No. No, that’s not right.

  Martin shakes his head again, holds both hands up, but it is loud, the woman’s laughter in the quiet café, and the other two customers look up from their meals.

  – I was not watching. Tell her I was not watching. I was taking samples from the river, that’ s all. I’m a scientist. And I think you should know that it is polluted. The river is dirty and you really shouldn’t swim there. That’s all. Now please tell your mother.

  The young woman keeps laughing while Martin speaks, and though he avoids looking in the mirror again, he can feel the blush making his sunburn itch, the pulse in his throat. The boy watches him a second or two, lips moving, not speaking. Martin thinks the boy doesn’t believe him.

  – You could get sick. The river will make you sick. I just thought you should know. Okay?

  Martin is angry now. With the suspicious boy, his laughing mother. He counts out enough to pay for his meal, including the wine. Leaves it on the table without a tip and goes to his room.

  __

  In the morning, a man serves Martin his breakfast, but before he leaves for the river again the young mother comes into the café, pushing her son in front of her. She speaks in a low whisper to the boy, who translates for Martin in a monotone.

  – My mother say she is sorry. We are both sorry. She is Ewa, I am Jacek. She say you should tell me about the river so I can tell her.

  __

  Martin is still annoyed when he gets back from the river in the afternoon. Doesn’t expect the woman and her boy to stick to their appointment, half hopes they won’t turn up, still hasn’t analysed day two and three’s samples. But when he comes downstairs after his shower, he finds them waiting for him in the café as arranged.

  The boy helps Martin spread out his maps, asks if he can boot up the laptop. His mother murmurs something, and her son sighs.

  – She says I should say please. Please.

  – It’s okay.

  Martin shows them the path of the river from the mountains to the border and where the chemical plant lies, almost a hundred kilometres upstream from the town. Amongst his papers, he finds images of what the metal he has found in the river looks like, its chemical structure and symbol, and he tells them its common name. He says that as far as they know, the body cannot break it down, so it stores it, usually in the liver. He speaks a sentence at a time and lets the boy translate. Shows them the graphs he has plotted on his computer. Waits while the boy stumbles over his grammar, watches his mother listening, thinks: Jacek and Ewa.

  – Where do you come from?

  Ewa speaks in Martin’s language, points at the map. Martin looks at her, and Jacek clears his throat.

  – I am teaching her.

  Martin smiles. He shows them where he is studying and then, a little further to the west, the city where he was born. And then Jacek starts to calculate how many kilometres it is from Martin’s university to the border and from the border to the town. Martin asks Ewa:

  – How old is he?

  – Nearly eleven.

  He nods. Thinks she must have been very young when she got pregnant.

  – He’s just about bilingual already.

  An exaggeration, a silly thing to say, and Martin can see in Ewa’s eyes that she knows it, but she doesn’t contradict him.

&n
bsp; – School. He is good student. Also good teacher.

  She smiles and Martin is glad that they came today, Ewa and her son. Pushes last night’s laughter to the back of his mind. Sees that Ewa’s smile is wide and warm and that her tongue shows pink behind her teeth.

  __

  Day five and Martin works his way along the river again. The hot fields are empty, the road quiet. The water here is wider, deeper; flies dance above the surface.

  Mid-morning and Jacek crashes through the undergrowth.

  – Martin! There you are. I am here.

  Martin looks up from the water, startled. He nods, then he doesn’t know what to say to the boy, so he carries on working. Jacek watches him a while, and then pulls off his trainers, rolls up his trousers, picks up a vial.

  – No! You shouldn’t come in.

  – I can help you. You work faster when I can pass them to you.

  – Shouldn’t you be at school?

  Jacek frowns.

  – Does your mother know you are here?

  – She don’t mind.

  Martin thinks a moment.

  – We don’t know enough yet about this metal, you see. It’s too much of a risk.

  Jacek avoids eye contact, rubs his bare ankles.

  – You really can’t help me without boots and gloves, Jacek. I only have one pair of each. I’m sorry.

  An hour later the boy is back with pink washing-up gloves and a pair of outsize rubber boots, soles caked in mud. He holds up a bag of apples.

  – For you. From my mother.

  __

  In the evening the café is crowded and Ewa is busy; another waitress brings Martin his dinner. His table is near the bar, where Jacek is doing his homework again. New vocabulary, and he asks Martin to correct his spelling. Ewa makes a detour past his table on her way to the kitchen.

  – Thank you.

  – No problem.

  He scratches his sunburn, stops. Feels huge at the small table after she has gone.