Riverflow

by Alison Layland

  Contents

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Introduction

  No need for words

  Undercurrents

  Innocents

  What goes on

  Breathing new life

  Nice work

  The finer things in life

  Living in the real world

  An idealist with a vision

  Deftly stilled

  A show of politeness

  Being seen like this

  Stranded

  Like old times

  Restoring some kind of normality

  The escapism of believing

  Everywhere’s under threat

  This is no fun

  Something unforgivable

  Not what matters

  Time to move on

  Still the same hands

  I wasn’t there

  In memory

  Riverflow

  Acknowledgements

  About Honno

  Copyright

  For David, Ed and Trina

  with love

  Riverflow

  by

  Alison Layland

  Honno Modern Fiction

  21st October 1998

  So Bede and I finally met. And now the initial joy’s faded, I’m seriously wishing he’d never made that call, wishing he’d vanish from my life.

  Joe snapped the diary shut. Every so often he’d retrieve it and pour out his thoughts, but as far as he could remember this was the first time he’d actually read back over anything he’d written. After all these years, such negativity was hard to recall now that Bede was more like a son than a nephew, Elin a daughter-in-law.

  This was no time to wallow in memories; he was here for a purpose. Once again aware of the wild wind and the rain like a horde of devils dancing on the roof, he picked up the metal box and stuffed the battered book back into it. The hollow creaks of the workshop surrounded him, part familiar, part warning, water dripping noisily from the dormant waterwheel. He glanced around in the semi-darkness, then climbed the wooden ladder to the platform in the rafters and negotiated the intricacies of shafts and belts towards the hidden hollow between heavy roof timbers and wall. He’d noted the spot ages ago, when they were rebuilding the place. No one knew there was anything to look for, and if they ever did, it would be safely concealed here. Safe and dry.

  Maybe Bede and Elin had been right: maybe there was no need to move anything, and his time would have been better spent in the village, with them, helping others prepare for the flood. But just as he had done in the house, he felt an urgent need to get their most precious things higher, out of reach of water. The dancing devils on the roof slates, along with the ever-present roar of the leat outside, made him feel vindicated. Their renovations to the mill race had not been truly tested yet; the water could easily break out and inundate their house and smallholding. Bede put too much faith in his calculations, trying to convince Joe that, unlike the swollen river running through the fields below, it would stay put. His nephew had a sense of justice, as though the rightness of their way of life meant it was only fair they wouldn’t be flooded here. But Joe knew that life wasn’t fair.

  He stowed the box away then wavered. Tempted to dive back into the past, he reached out, but a rustle in the workshop below checked him.

  ‘Hello? Back already?’

  No reply. There were probably rats seeking shelter from the deluge too. The moment broken, he quickly descended the ladder, padded over to the door and put his boots back on.

  Hunching against the daggers of cold and wet, he paused for a moment in the scant shelter of the doorway to lock up and pull his hat down securely. The lowering clouds and water-saturated air had brought dusk on early. Late afternoon, and already it felt like time to go back into the house, draw the curtains and turn in on himself. He dashed across the yard, water streaming down his collar. Home and dry in the kitchen, he shook the worst of the wet from his jacket and petted his dog, who came running through from the living room to greet him. After a perfunctory welcome, Kip went to stand by the door, whining. Damn. He’d kept the dog in – these weren’t conditions for him to go wandering – but there was no arguing with a call of nature.

  He lit a cigarette and huddled in the porch as Kip nosed around the yard. Gazing down over the floodplain field across the road, now their willow plantation, he saw a regular flicker of motion: the river. It was more or less the highest he’d seen in all the years he’d lived here, so he scribbled Bede and Elin a quick note before following the dog down to the gate for a better view of the spectacle. No longer the benign friend of summer, the river was a restless dragon slithering its way past with a cargo of debris – logs dwarfed to the appearance of matchsticks, what looked like a caravan wall and a range of incongruous domestic items. He briefly wondered how the larger flotsam had got through the arch of the bridge, and what else had caught upstream of it. He doubted it would be long before the inevitable flood swallowed the bridge and most of Foxover High Street.

  Joe had always found the river more alluring than threatening and, safe in the knowledge his wet clothes would soon be steaming in front of the fire, he called the dog, crossed the road and slipped through the lower field gate, stopping at a safe distance to watch the elemental power of the water.

  Above the rumbling of rain and river, he became aware of Kip barking. He looked round and jumped as he saw someone swing open the gate and walk towards him. Probably some poor soul lost on the lanes. Hardly surprising on a day like this. He waved, grabbed the dog’s collar and approached to see if there was anything he could do. Maybe he’d get credit for being of some use today, after all. The newcomer bent to the dog, who fell quiet, then straightened with a hint of a smile. Joe nodded back.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I think you can, Joe.’

  Jolted, he narrowed his eyes. The voice, slightly raised above the noise of water, had a hint of something he recognised. He could see little of the face in the grey late-afternoon light, but it was enough.

  ‘You can’t keep me away by simply denying me,’ the half-familiar voice said, and Joe realised he’d been shaking his head. ‘Not any more.’

  The shop was going to be inundated. No doubt about it. The rain, here and further west in the Welsh mountains, was as heavy as ever, the water rising, and Elin imagined the new ponds already dotted around the fields expanding to form lakes, inland seas. Already close to the highest of the ancient marks on the pub wall, the flood was soon going to lap at the doors of the community shop, and worse. As if to confirm it, the lights went out. Everyone else had long since gone home and in the weird glow of the emergency exit light, the shelves and display tables looked post-apocalyptic. At least it was a planned, damage-limitation desolation. Most of the Foxover Storehouse stock had been moved upstairs to the crammed store-room, the rest shared out among the boots of their cars. The high street was bustling with more activity than a Saturday morning as people rescued what they could, piling up futile-looking sandbags and checking flood defence barriers.

  She tried Bede’s mobile. No reply – typical. He’d been called away to the pub down by the river; she assumed he was still there. She texted Joe telling him not to bother coming – too bloody late now, but couched in concern for his safety, of course – before locking up the shop, pulling her hood over her ears and heading out into the street.

  Battered by the deluge, she hurried to meet up with Bede and leave before the river cut off the bridge and forced them to drive miles out of their way to get home. From the pub porch, she felt the turbulent water ominously close. The arch of the bridge, normally sturdy and solid, looked like an empty gesture, a symbol of people’s insignificance to the river. She suppressed the guilt she f
elt at actually liking the thought.

  Inside the Horseshoes, always first hit when the waters rose, the lounge bar was spiky with chairs upended on tables – probably pointless, as the lot might soon be floating. She made her way in the half-light towards sounds of activity in the kitchen. Angie looked worn out, her usual good cheer subdued. They exchanged smiles of sympathy and encouragement.

  ‘Bede here?’

  ‘He’s upstairs in the flat with Brian, sorting out the generator. He’s been a star. Or will be, if he gets it going. Grab this and take it upstairs, will you, Elin love? I’ll be right behind you, then we’ll be ready to pull up the drawbridge.’

  Her back aching, Elin took the box of food. As she reached the top of the stairs a sputtering engine noise accompanied the lights flickering on, off, then permanently on as the mechanical hum steadied.

  ‘Yesss!’Bede’s triumphant voice filled her with relief. No way would she have got him out and back to their car had it meant leaving a challenge unmet. She put the box down and turned.

  ‘When all this is over, I’ll sort you out with a proper solution,’ Bede said to Brian as he tucked his glasses case in his pocket.

  ‘You what?’ The irritation in the landlord’s voice seemed to pass her husband by.

  ‘You’ve got a massive south-facing roof and—’

  ‘Can’t see solar panels doing much good on a day like today.’

  ‘It’s all about storage, mate. Get you set up with a battery. Anyway—’

  ‘Yes, anyway,’ Elin cut in. ‘It’s rising like crazy out there and we ought to be thinking about escaping.’

  ‘I really appreciate your help,’ Brian said. ‘Though you can save the hard sell for another time.’ He was only half-joking. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t told us how we deserve this.’

  Elin winced. Bede paused in his search for his coat. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Brought it on ourselves. Consumption. Pollution.’

  Slowly and deliberately, Bede took his socks from in front of the fire, the way he handled them indicating they were warm but still soaking, wrinkled his nose as he pulled them on and eased his feet into sodden boots. He stood and began buttoning his coat.

  ‘This river has always flooded,’ he said calmly. ‘Throughout history. People have always dealt with it by pulling together.’ He stood back to let Angie past with an armful of linen. ‘Of course, the havoc we’re wreaking on the climate means it’ll happen more often, more forcefully from now on. But that doesn’t mean…’

  He smiled, leaving the several possibilities of what it didn’t mean hanging in the air. Elin knew the main one would be ‘…that I’m quite such a tactless bastard.’ She also knew from Brian’s expression, and the half-bottle of whisky he proffered as they were leaving, that he realised it, too.

  As they crossed the bridge, the overfull river felt strangely close. A muddle of debris jostled the upstream side. On their way home along the lane, Bede untied and shook out his hair before peering out of the side window.

  ‘Wow, look at that. It’s a lake out there.’

  She stopped the car. Peering through the rain-streaked windows, she twisted to look back at the stranded bridge, its hump like a prehistoric creature wallowing between the woods on their side and Foxover on the far bank. The water had spread to the fields between river and road, and was continuing its ominous swell. In the rain-darkened late afternoon, they could just make out the other side, murky water lapping its way up the village street.

  It was a relief to get home and turn into the Alderleat gate.

  ‘I hope Joe’s got a fire going,’ Bede said as they hugged their coats around them ready to make a dash for the house.

  He held the porch door open for her, but Elin paused on the threshold. She thought she heard the dog barking. It was hard to tell through the wind and rain, but it sounded like it was coming from the field by the river.

  ‘Isn’t that Kip?’

  Bede called a hello into the house, listened for a moment, peered out alongside her. The barking was more distinct this time. They ventured back into the rain and hurried down to the yard entrance. The gate across the road was swinging open and Kip came through, bounding towards them. Frowning, she bent to him. Kip shook his sodden coat, sending out a shower of drops to blend with the rain.

  ‘What’s he doing here? Where’s Joe?’

  Without replying, Bede ran across the road and paused at the gate.

  ‘I can’t believe how high it’s got since we left earlier.’

  She joined him and saw that the water was fast lapping its way up the young trees of the willow plantation. He grabbed her arm and pointed into the branches to their left.

  ‘What’s that? I saw something move.’

  Elin didn’t look, because her eye was caught by a flash of silver straight ahead, down by the waterline. The distinctive V on the back of Joe’s jacket. She brushed the rain from her face, horrified to see him being dragged out by a tug of the current towards a large branch that was sweeping by. Joe made no attempt to grab it, swim or even struggle.

  ‘Bede! Over there!’

  He swore and broke free from her, vaulting the fence between their field and the next, sprinting downstream, trying to keep up with the riverflow. There was clearly no hope of matching the speed of the current. She followed. At the far end of the field he reached the thick hedge and stopped at the water’s edge. She had a horrible feeling he was about to dive in.

  ‘Stop! Don’t do anything stupid!’

  She caught hold of him and they stood, helpless, as Joe and the branch were swept out of sight around the bend. Time was suspended for a frozen, drenched moment, before panic sent them both running to the house to get help.

  No need for words

  Eighteen months later

  The little nests of light sailed downstream, flickering flames weaving fire patterns into the grey-brown tapestry of the evening current. Thirty-six miniature boats drifted off to merge with the orange streaks of fading sunset. And onwards, gradually moving out of sight round the lazy curve of the river, to fade, to burn out. Maybe to give unexpected pleasure to someone else along the way. Maybe not. This was theirs. If someone else happened to share it, that was fine.

  Elin snuggled into the embrace of Bede’s arm gently draped on her shoulder.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Happy birthday,’ he murmured.

  It was a remarkable gift to celebrate the unremarkable thirty-six. Sometimes he’d simply give her a present. Sometimes it was different, a random flight of fancy. He was certainly more a man of gestures than things. She recalled her initial shock, some seventeen years ago, when he’d revealed the tattoo, his sign of commitment to their future life. She now reached up and gently traced the inked leaves showing in the open neck of his shirt, visualising the green-man-garlanded body art that delicately twined across his shoulders, leaves drifting to waters that meandered down his back like a seamless extension of his long, sandy-coloured hair. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.

  The wind rustled the willow leaves of their plantation behind them. She looked again at the steadily vanishing lanterns. Like their miniature voyage, it hadn’t been a smooth or easy ride. For the past year and a half, he’d hardly given her anything. She understood, but it was good to have him back. Leaning over, her hand on the cool grass, she looked around at their friends. Fran smiled.

  ‘Happy birthday, Elin.’

  She moved to give her a hug. Jeff did likewise. Fran exchanged conspiratorial glances with Bede; Elin now knew why, for the last few days, her friend had periodically vanished to the inner sanctum of the workshop. Elin had been busy with spring planting, and the atmosphere of contentment that had recently settled over Alderleat had soon turned any pangs of jealousy or exclusion into the anticipation of surprise. So now she knew: Fran had been helping Bede weave miniature baskets from scraps of withies.

  As the last of the little boats bobbed from view, Kip came panting back alon
g the bank, tail waving like a banner. He’d set off in fascination after the lanterns, trailing them as far as the hedgerow in the next field, and now his return was zigzagged by the distraction of evening scents in the undergrowth. Bede called him and ruffled the dog’s mongrel brown fur as he settled at his feet.

  ‘He says we’ve had enough of this inactivity,’ he announced. ‘And I’m inclined to agree. Night hike, anyone?’

  Jeff rolled his eyes. ‘Can’t we just—’

  ‘I’m up for it,’ Fran said, deliberately ignoring her husband’s help-me-out-here eyes. Elin smiled to herself. She was well aware that Jeff tolerated these occasional forays into country living for the sake of Fran’s and her friendship. Their current visit was nearly over and, after a week of fresh air and activity, Elin could almost feel the couch beckoning him across the gently-sloping water meadow. There was nothing she fancied more than heading for the open country beyond the house, but that was countered by the prospect of dragging a reluctant Jeff along, or leaving him behind and forcing Fran to make an awkward decision.

  ‘How about a compromise?’ she said, throwing a rope to a drowning man. ‘What about a walk, but we make it pubwards? I could fancy a birthday drink.’

  She looked at Bede, who nodded. It was hard to tell whether his smile was forced or genuine, but when he released Kip to run off after some enticing rustle in the willows, the dog’s burst of energy felt like a statement.

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ Jeff said, his voice full of gratitude. ‘Should be far enough even for Action Man to work up a thirst.’