The Dragonfly

by Kate Dunn

  Michael couldn’t help himself. “Lilian?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Lilian?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s just that – it’s a girl’s name, isn’t it?”

  Laroche eyed him coldly. “Let’s do a list of things that frost me muffin: number one, Rosbif ponces.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “It’s both.” His leg started jiggling. A vein surfaced beneath the skin of his temple. He cracked the knuckles in one hand.

  “Alright, alright.”

  He cracked the knuckles in his other hand.

  “About your daughter – Marianne,” Michael said quickly. “Her mum will have got her up and washed and changed and fed and changed again and probably caught three buses in order to bring her here to meet you. It wouldn’t do you any harm to go along.”

  Laroche looked askance at him. He laced his fingers together and cracked all the bones at once.

  “You’ve got to man up,” said Michael apprehensively. “It’s what you keep telling me I must do – Lilian.”

  ~~~

  There were days when time didn’t pass, it congealed, and the afternoon of Laroche’s conjugal seemed to last a week. Being alone in the cell felt a bit too close to solitary confinement. I’ve got half a lifetime of this ahead of me. He tried reading a book, but it failed to grip him. How am I ever going to bear it? He attempted to do a pencil sketch of Delphine from a dog-eared photo he used to keep in his wallet, but it came out full of all the fear he had for her. How will she manage? Where will she live when Lisette is too old to look after her? Would his father step into the breach on a long-term basis? Would he even want him to? He was drawing a picture of Charlotte’s mouth from memory, when he heard the particular articulation of the key turning in the lock. The law of unintended consequences is harsher than the one that sends you down for twenty years. He observed a kind of silence within himself, a stilling of his thoughts.

  Laroche burst in through the door as if he were fleeing from the paparazzi, his hands, palm outwards, screening his face. “Leave me be, leave me be.” The air crackled around him as he sat on his bed, tilting himself away from Michael. Instead of jiggling, he rocked back and forth, a movement so slight it was no more than the beating of a pulse. “Can’t get me head round this,” he muttered. “Can’t get me head – oi, Rosbif.”

  Michael was extending his drawing of Charlotte, shading the line of her jaw, pencilling in the lobe of her ear. He couldn’t bring himself to draw the intimate sweep of her neck. “How did it go?”

  “Like that.” He threw a photograph onto the table.

  Michael studied the picture. A bald baby with close-set, white-lashed eyes.

  “I’m basically fucked.”

  “She is very like you.”

  “Poor little rug rat.” He sniffed. “Let’s do a list of ten ways to shaft your kid: kill its mother – that’s a good one, that should come top in all fairness. Next one: get yerself sent down for armed robbery–” he wiped his nose on his sleeve, then glanced at the photo again and looked away. “Your turn,” he said. His gaze was drawn back to the photo. “She’s quite like me, isn’t she? You know. Just a bit.”

  “Don’t they say babies always look like their fathers? Makes the dad invest.”

  “Think she’s got me mouth – whaddya reckon? And me hair, obvs.” He bit his lip.

  “I think she’s got your eyes.”

  “Did you say invest? Fat chance. Five years, that’s what my lawyer said I’d get. She’ll be half way to leaving home by then.”

  “You can still be some kind of a dad – while you’re in here.”

  Laroche grunted. “Don’t have much to do with the other one – Zazie. Her mum’s not so keen. Got a court order against me, as it happens. We could do a list of all the court orders that’ve got my name on them if you’ve the time.”

  “Marianne’s mum seems quite keen.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  “You could write her letters, when she’s older.”

  “I could record her bedtime stories an’ all. I’ve got the leaflets. I know the drill. But.”

  “It’s better than nothing.” A heaviness descended on Michael. He stared at the picture he had drawn and with a few swift strokes of the pencil sketched in Charlotte’s neck, her broken neck, at a pitiful and incongruous angle. “We’re in the same boat, you and I. Fathers of daughters we won’t get to see.”

  A laugh cracked out of Laroche, “Result!” he said mirthlessly. “You made it in the end. You took yer time about it but yeehaw! – here you are.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You blew in here all I’m not like the rest of you. Look at you now, me old Rosbif. I’m not the only one who’s been doin’ Education.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Did Delphine disappear in that agonising moment when the rope snapped, or did she vanish later? Talking to the police, Colin couldn’t be sure. He recalled sprinting to the side of the lock and seeing with horror his boat splayed upside down in the water, its revealed hull looking unbearably vulnerable. He remembered staring at the gauzy green stains on the paintwork, the river’s fingerprints, thinking, what do I do? What do I do? What have I done, and what do I do?

  He swung into action then. With blinding velocity he climbed down the ladder into the lock and reached for the Dragonfly’s broken line. The cabin was already filling with water, sitting heavily, forcing the stern up and he was desperate to stop it sinking further. He tried tying the short length of rope to the ladder he was standing on. The propeller was snapshot still. Some of their possessions were floating on the surface: a couple of plastic plates, the navigation guide open at the correct page, a few of Delphine’s felt tip pens. They looked shamefully personal and he couldn’t bear to see their big adventure reduced to so much flotsam.

  The lock keeper, who was talking into his phone, raised his arm peremptorily to indicate that he had words to say to Colin too. Behind him, Colin could see that another hire boat had joined the queue to pass through the lock, and another, and then he noticed that beyond them a cherry red prow was stealing round the bend in the canal and more than a sense of humiliation at his own foolishness, he felt relief and a kind of ludicrous delight. Tyler was coming. Tyler was coming. Merely the sight of Sabrina Fair seemed to have a calming effect on him and as he watched the small peniche ease through the sloping curve of the canal walls he marshalled himself enough to make a short to-do list in his head: find a bed and breakfast where he and Delphine could stay the night (he groped in his back pocket and his fingers closed over his wallet and his phone: another relief); buy sandals in order to be able to walk round Chatillon and accomplish the former; possibly buy a case of wine and take a bottle to every boat waiting in the queue and apologise profusely; make peace with the lock keeper (another case of wine?); ring the insurance company. As he stood watching the progress of the cherry red prow, he fell to wondering where and how Tyler featured on his list. He contemplated compiling a second list, of all the things that he might do to try and make things right between them. He wasn’t sure if this was a list that he should write. There wasn’t a manual, a handy book with diagrams, to show him how to square the circle of being a lover and a grandpa.

  He did think of Delphine at that point – he thought that he would take her to the shops as she’d need clothes to replace the ones that were currently drifting down to the bottom of the lock; he was thinking that perhaps he could buy her an ice cream, when the lock keeper snapped his phone shut and addressed himself to Colin.

  He got the gist of it: grue… demain… après midi, with the mention of an eye-watering sum of euros. The crane would be arriving tomorrow afternoon and would cost a month’s wages. The lock keeper was keen to emphasise the disruption – de Clamecy jusqu’à Decize, before striding off.

  “Yes,” Colin kept nodding, “Comprend,” he said, “Désolé, désolé.”

  Desolate was about the size of it.

 
Throughout all of this, he was pretty sure that Delphine was sitting at the bottom of the steps – no, huddling; huddling at the bottom of the steps in an abandoned little ball; he couldn’t be certain, but he was reasonably sure, because part of him wanted to be huddled there as well pretending that none of this was happening.

  The reason that Colin didn’t turn round then and go back to the steps and flop down next to Delphine and loop his arm around her shoulders or pat her on the knee and say, “It’s not the end of the world, you know. I shall have a great time this winter getting the Dragonfly shipshape again. Perhaps you can come and visit me in the holidays and I can show you my shed and take you to Sally Lunn’s for a bun…” The reason that he didn’t say any of these things, for which he castigated himself, was that from the corner of his eye he saw Tyler strolling down the tow path, shading her eyes from the sun, and at the sight of her his heart, which had been fidgeting and fretting ever since disaster struck, settled quietly in his chest. He was inexplicably moved by how familiar she seemed: there were things he knew about her, as well as so much that he didn’t know. He knew her late night fragrance and her early morning scent; he knew the sound of her footsteps and the length of her stride; he knew the colour of her eyes, but he didn’t know her birthday. He didn’t know how long she’d been married, where she had lived, if she’d been to college, if she had brothers or sisters, what films she liked. He didn’t know if she would want to speak to him.

  He could tell the exact moment that she saw him. She glanced back over her shoulder, hesitating, then with her head bowed, she began to retrace her steps. She was so graceful and athletic, her supple outline moving sadly down the tow path.

  But then she stopped and raised her arm and he thought that she would hook it round behind her neck, but instead she ran her fingers through her hair and shook her head as if she had come up from the depths and was scattering a halo of bright spray. She spun round and started hurrying towards him. She reached the lock a little out of breath.

  “I just wanted to say,” she began and then she stopped and peered more closely at him. “You’ve only got one sandal on–”

  He stared at his feet. “That’s the least of my problems.”

  “You wouldn’t by any chance be involved somehow in this delay? A guy back there said the lock will be shut for two days at least.”

  “Somehow,” he glanced sideways at her and then nodded in the direction of the lock.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  “The rope jammed…”

  “Oh my God–”

  “…and we just managed to get off in time before it broke.”

  “Colin, I am so sorry. I’m so sorry.” She covered her mouth with her hands.

  He shrugged.

  “You built it yourself, didn’t you? Your beautiful boat…”

  “Well… the insurance will cover it, I suppose.”

  “Yeah, but…” She looked around. “Where’s Delphine?”

  Shoving his hands into his pocket and starting to turn with comfortable, presumptive certainty, he replied, “She’s over th–” and then he froze.

  The step was empty.

  ~~~

  They searched around the lock and the street above it, Colin speeding along as best he could at a lolloping hop.

  “We’re not going to get very far with you like this,” Tyler said presently. “You go and check with the hire boats and I’ll scoot into town and get you some shoes. What size?”

  “Eight.”

  “What’s that in real money?”

  Colin was already hobbling off down the tow path, “Forty-two,” he called back.

  “What was she wearing? Just in case I…”

  “That pink sundress we got in Auxerre,” he answered, “With some kind of cardigan thing tied in the front. Orange. And Michael’s hat. You couldn’t miss her…”

  There followed a terrible sequence: Have you seen a little girl – she speaks English with a French accent / I’m looking for a little girl in a bright pink dress / I’ve lost my granddaughter, she’s about this tall again and again and again. Some people didn’t understand; others shook their heads; one man began, “Is it your boat that’s–?” but he didn’t stop to answer. The helpful boater who had translated for him said, “That little girl? Yeah, yeah, I saw her–” and Colin wanted to seize him and hug him, “She was sitting at the foot of the stairs going up to the street…”

  “Did you see her after that?”

  The man rolled his bottom lip, capturing his little tuft of beard between his teeth, “No mate,” he shook his head, “Not after that. Do you want us to help you look?”

  “Would you? Would you?”

  Tyler came running up, brandishing a pair of espadrilles, “Best I could do.” She shook her head as well, in answer to his unspoken question.

  Colin took a deep breath, “Perhaps you two could start with the town and I’ll check the canal in both directions. I’ll radio the lock keepers,” he broke off. His VHF was at the bottom of the Nivernais.

  “I’ll radio the lock keepers,” Tyler offered, “while–?” She looked questioningly at the helpful boater,

  “Peter–”

  “While Peter makes a start – is that OK, Peter?” She turned back to Colin, “Have you any idea where she might…?”

  As Tyler spoke, Colin remembered how Delphine had slipped off to find the otters, and his panic at seeing her empty bed when he woke up. He felt the same bitter fear now. He remembered the sound of her laughter leading him to her, how it coloured the air.

  ~~~

  At five o’clock, already frantic, Colin went to the Gendarmerie and reported his granddaughter missing. He sat in an office with windows too high to look out of, staring at a poster with a cartoon of a pickpocket that was blu-tacked on the wall and as he tried to give an accurate description of her, he felt as if the whole ghastly process had set in train a self-fulfilling prophecy which could only end with a blank-looking, out-of-date photograph of Delphine splashed across the evening news. The policeman told him in almost accent-less English that her description would be forwarded to all the patrol cars in the department and that in nine out of ten cases the missing person turned up unharmed and oblivious to the furore.

  But what about the one in ten?

  Colin stumbled out of the police station. He glanced at his watch. It was six thirty: there were about two more hours of daylight left. He was distraught at the thought of her alone in the darkness. He yearned for the sight of her curled up in her bunk with Amandine tucked under her chin and her lavender tweed hat tipped back on her head. Where would she sleep? How would she keep warm? Would somebody take her in? Would they care for her? Would they hurt her? Holy God! For the first time the possibility that she hadn’t gone, that she’d been taken, began to gnaw at his innards; anxiety, like bared incisors, ripping into him.

  Tyler came hurrying over the town bridge. He went rushing to meet her, but she quelled him with a single shake of her head. “No luck so far,” she sighed. “I ran into Peter just now – he is such a great guy, so kind – he’s going over to the chateau to see if she might have wandered into the grounds. It’s possible. And the shops haven’t shut yet. She may appear from somewhere at closing time – you know what she’s like, she is such a girl for new clothes…”

  They stood side by side without speaking, wretchedly computing other possibilities, until Colin said, “We’d better go back to the lock. Perhaps we could walk along the canal and look there.” He told himself that it was something to do; it was better than having stiff drink after stiff drink; it was better than throwing himself in the Nivernais; it was better than doing nothing.

  Walking felt like therapy; it felt purposeful, until Colin remembered how as a child he’d had a macabre fascination with the discovery of an old shoe or a draggled scarf or a discarded pair of tights – he’d always pictured them being the prelude to the uncovering of some terrible dismemberment. He shivered, forcing himself to look into the ditch be
side the tow path, fearful of glimpsing a torn length of something fuchsia-coloured or a crumpled orange cardie and he wished he could trade these well-founded adult terrors for his morbid childhood imaginings.

  “Are you OK?”

  He grimaced. “I’m OK.” Casting his mind back to the ordinary innocence with which the day began made him feel a little unhinged. “I’m feeling bloody awful, to tell you the truth. Bloody terrible.”

  They walked on, dusk dispersing through the countryside like ink dissolving. Colin cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted her name. “Del-phine! Del-phine,” using the singsong intonation of the searcher, “Del-phine!” They left the path and walked through the verges, kicking up leaves, delving into undergrowth until the only light left seemed to come from the pale bark of the trees. Colin’s phone rang and he almost dropped it, his hands were shaking so.

  “No news,” said the policeman. “I wanted to let you know that we are scaling up our search. I have asked for more men and for divers, so we can examine the lock.”

  “Perhaps we should go back,” said Colin, when he had hung up. Coming to any decision seemed beyond him, he was finding it increasingly hard to believe that anything which anyone could do would make a difference. “If they’re going to drag the lock…”

  “Colin,” said Tyler, “Would it be OK if I – without any kind of, you know, obligation – or anything like that – if I held your hand…?” Tentatively, she intertwined her fingers with his. “I hope you don’t mind me asking.”

  He shook his head in the forestry dark.

  “For comfort…” she whispered.

  They looped the long way back to the centre of the town. They asked in the auberge, they asked at the petrol station, but no little nine-year-old, overtired and abashed, came scuffing out from the shadows, unwilling to meet their gaze, unsure how to say sorry. It is not possible, Colin kept rehearsing her saying inside his head, it is not possible.