Riverflow

by Alison Layland

  ‘I’ve no pretensions about saving the world,’ he muttered. ‘Anyway, I thought they were our principles, our vision.’

  He took a towel from the back of his chair and wiped the spillage.

  ‘Yes. Ours,’ she conceded. ‘But, you know, the world needs people who think, who care, who are prepared to do things differently.’

  Bede took a sip of his tea and put the mug down, adjusting it to sit precisely between two knots in the wood of the tabletop. Elin felt like shoving it out of line.

  ‘All this talk of population,’ she said. ‘It’s just an excuse. You can’t hack the idea of responsibility.’

  ‘Thanks, Elin. Thanks a bunch.’

  His head was bowed, hair hiding his face. She’d succeeded in hurting him – petty vengeance – and almost regretted it.

  ‘Bede…’

  He jerked his head up and looked straight at her. ‘OK, yes, I do find that kind of responsibility hard to face. You know why.’ She did. She wished he’d get over it, then hated herself for the thought. ‘I just can’t see myself as a dad, all right? Surely it’s better to admit it now than make some irreversible mistake. Can’t you respect that?’

  ‘Can’t you put the past behind you and respect what I want—’ She just managed to stop herself adding foronce. ‘What’s so bloody awful about it anyway? You’ve always enjoyed having Carys’s kids here. You love showing them things, teaching them stuff.’

  He gave her a grudging nod. ‘Can’t we see how we get on with Fran and Jeff’s first? They’re like extended family. Look how it was with me and Joe. Special relationships can mean just as much.’

  She sighed, reached out and took his hand. ‘I’m not talking about a relationship, however special, with a child. I’m talking about our child. A part of me and you. Don’t you get that?’

  ‘Sorry, love, I wish…’ He squeezed her hand gently. ‘Believe me, I know what it means to you.’

  ‘The clock’s ticking, Bede. Can’t hold it back.’

  ‘And I can’t just turn around and change who I am and how I feel, all right?’

  He gulped his tea down. She took the mug from him, pushed her chair out noisily and went over to the sink. Her eyes were welling and she didn’t want him to see.

  ‘Didn’t you have something in the workshop to see to?’ she said quietly.

  ‘I thought we were talking—’

  ‘There’s no point playing it over and over like a stuck record, is there?’

  He came up behind her, put a hand on her shoulder. ‘You OK, love?’

  ‘Of course.’ She brushed a hand over her eyes, turned and forced a smile. ‘Go and do your stuff. I’ll be out in the greenhouse.’

  She stood for a moment looking at the back door he’d closed behind him, her regret at the inevitable outcome tinged with near gratitude that they were once again able to have that kind of conversation at all.

  Bede straightened and looked with satisfaction at the steady green light. He’d found the short-circuit, and the batteries should be back to taking the charge from the turbine. It had only taken a little patience. Like Elin’s seemingly endless patience with him. After half an hour of absorbed concentration he felt calmer, but wished there was a solution to her growing desire for a family and his terror of the idea.

  Wait around long enough and the decision will have made itself for you. Is that what you want?

  Of course not.He closed his eyes momentarily; tried to blink away the voice, if not the point of the words.He was being irrational, he knew, with his persistence in his resentment of the faceless, nameless bastard who had abandoned his pregnant mother, and his failure to truly put the Markhams behind him. But he was still convinced that humans’ inability to live sustainably on the planet was due largely to overpopulation. That wasn’t irrational. Of course, Elin could be right that he didn’t have any hope for the future. Whether or not he could answer that one, he knew how much a child meant to her. Maybe he could consider it. Maybe. The word induced such a tangible fear that he realised he was shaking his head in denial.

  He busied himself with putting his tools away neatly, then walked over to the door. The regular popping of the clay-pigeon shoot somewhere in the distance insisted its way towards him on the breeze: a distasteful reminder of the real shoot that would replace the clays when the season came around. The sound of the guns irritated him, rekindling his anger at yesterday’s riverside face-off.

  Bede went back into the workshop and took the axe from among the tools lining the wall. Reassuring himself with a brief glance at the green light of the inverter, he went out to the timber stack behind the workshop and began to chop firewood. As he lost himself in the rhythm, he allowed himself a moment of pride in what they’d achieved. Proving it was possible to live sustainably without compromising on comfort, harnessing technology and using his fascination for all things mechanical to serve a worthwhile purpose. Yes, he allowed himself pride, satisfaction, though he recognised they weren’t going to change the world. Even Elin sometimes conceded that they were not so much teaching by example as simply living by their consciences. Despite his reputation for mouthing off, he found it hard to see himself as an ambassador for a cause, and on top of that, he was even beginning to doubt the direction in which they were heading.

  They’d tried to spread the word with Sunny Days. Based on Bede’s practical skills, Elin’s head for organisation and their old friend Steve Day’s combination of an electrician’s qualifications with golden-tongued salesmanship, they had established a small business installing solar panels and the occasional mini-turbine in homes around the region. But in the turmoil following Joe’s death, Bede’s contribution had grown erratic, and as his belief in what they were doing became more shaky – trying to stem the tide by replacing resource-hungry consumption with slightly more sustainable consumption – Steve’s tolerance had been tried to the limits and he’d eventually gone his own way. It had been several months since they’d heard from him. Bede and Elin still needed to make a living and drumming up custom for himself was not his forte. He really had let things go. Maybe it was time to give Steve a call.

  He stopped to gather the split logs into a wheelbarrow and take them over to stack in the shelter. The burble of Elin’s radio drifted across to him from the greenhouse, interspersed with the sporadic shots, as their cockerel crowed an intermittant elegy for the hapless pheasants being reared for probable death in a few months’ time.

  He heard another splutter of distant guns from the shoot. What a way to spend a weekend. Not to mention all the months spent breeding excess numbers of birds that didn’t belong there, for the sole purpose of being blasted from the sky for entertainment. Local employment? Surely they could find something more useful to do. As he turned to gather another load of logs, he caught a glint of sunlight off a car approaching along the winding lane from the village.

  Kip began to bark as the car turned into their yard. Bede straightened, silenced the dog with a stern word and strolled over, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to look presentable.

  Elin had approached the man from the car; he towered over her but that did nothing to diminish her attitude of defiance. Bede recognised the young local policeman from Halbury. They’d never really met, although he’d said hello to him in the bar of the Horseshoes a few times.

  ‘Bede Sherwell, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s me.’ He offered his hand, which Will Elsworth shook as he introduced himself. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘There’s was a bit of an incident last night at the breeding pen in Holtwood. You know where I mean?’

  ‘Sure.’ The breeding pen that didn’t belong in Holtwood. ‘What kind of incident?’

  ‘A whole load of young pheasants let loose, the enclosure smashed and left wide open. A fox clearly finished what the vandals started. Carnage. And to top it all, “Murderers” daubed in red paint across the gate.’

  ‘Sorry to hear it.’ Bede shook his head in sympathy.
‘So how can we help?’

  ‘Where were you last night?’

  ‘You what? Hold on a minute. Just because—’

  ‘We need to check, that’s all.’

  Noting Elin’s warning look, Bede took a deep breath and calmly told Will about their evening routine followed by the bonfire in the far field.

  ‘And you went straight back to the house after that?’

  He glanced at Elin. ‘I went for a walk.’

  Will’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What time?’

  Bede shrugged. ‘Half past ten?’

  Elin confirmed it and moved close to him.

  ‘What time did you get home?’

  ‘About an hour later,’ Elin said firmly. ‘There’s nothing unusual about Bede going off for a walk. He likes to be on his own sometimes, you know? And he set off in completely the wrong direction for Holtwood, if that’s what you’re implying.’

  ‘You’ve been warned about vandalism in that area before.’

  ‘A few anti-fracking posters?’ Bede tried to keep his voice calm. ‘There’s a bit of a difference.’

  ‘Also, Mrs Henderson’s guests were admiring the moonlight when they saw someone – tall, long-haired – walk up the footpath over there. They arrived for the clay shoot first thing this morning and heard about the incident from Philip Northcote’s keepers. Apparently you had a run-in with them yesterday?’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking! It was only a bit of verbal. Nothing to do with the shoot.’

  ‘“A bit of verbal”. What happened?’

  He and Elin described the events as best they could.

  ‘I’m told your behaviour was threatening. Carl Smith says you “went mental”. You were about to set your dog on him and your wife had to hold you back.’

  ‘Oh, please. Carl Smith is exaggerating,’ Elin said firmly. ‘Anyway, what’s that got to do with liberating pheasants?’

  ‘“Liberating.” Do you sympathise with the vandals?’

  ‘Just a turn of phrase,’ she said. ‘It’s used a lot.’

  ‘In some circles, perhaps.’ He raised his eyebrows before turning back to Bede. ‘I’ve got to ask – what shoes were you wearing?’

  With a haze of anger building inside him, Bede glanced down at his work boots. ‘My sandals, wasn’t it, El?’

  ‘Please can I see them?’ Will looked pointedly at the shoe rack that was visible just inside the cottage door.

  Trying to stay calm, Bede fetched the sandals, and a pair of wellingtons for good measure. Will checked them against a photo of a sole print, then narrowed his eyes as he passed them back.

  ‘Looks like you’re in the clear,’ he said, stowing the photo away and moving towards the car.

  ‘You might as well check these while you’re at it.’ Bede thrust his hands out. ‘No red paint beneath the fingernails. You’re welcome to search the sheds for cans, wet paintbrushes. Honestly, it’s not my style – but if a man’s “gone mental” you never know what he might do without realising.’

  Will fixed him with a stare. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you. But if you hear anything, do let us know.’

  Bede stood, hands shoved into his pockets, as he and Elin watched the car disappear down the lane. She touched his arm and the tension ebbed a little. As the engine noise faded into the summer air, they heard another faint volley of distant guns.

  ‘Did you have to be so antagonistic?’ she asked.

  ‘He provoked me.’ Bede turned to her, unease seeping through him. ‘I suppose you’re going to ask me what really happened.’

  She rose to the bait. ‘So? What did?’

  He stared out over the yard and beyond, hens pecking unconcerned, produce calmly growing in the garden, the willows a rustling audience to the river minding its own leisurely business as it slid past. He couldn’t believe she felt the need to question him. ‘I went for a walk, didn’t I?’

  He started to trudge back to the woodpile.

  ‘Bede, wait.’ He paused and turned. She flashed him her smile, the one that always won him round. ‘Of course I know you’d never go off and have all the fun without me.’

  ‘Liberating captive birds, you mean?’ He couldn’t help grinning. ‘Did you say you wanted a hand in there?’

  ‘Thought you’d never ask.’

  He would have preferred to go back to the logs but, relieved that he seemed to have been forgiven after their earlier disagreement, he wanted to be with her.

  ‘I can’t believe they’d do that,’ he said as he ducked slightly beneath the greenhouse door. ‘Those guys from yesterday. Naming me for no good reason.’

  ‘You didn’t exactly show them your best side.’

  ‘They didn’t show me theirs, and I didn’t go blaming them for some fictitious crime.’

  Elin pointed him in the direction of a tray of seedlings. ‘Philip Northcote probably put them up to accusing you. You know what he’s like. Pompous git.’

  ‘Huh. If ever I have a go at him, you start on about slander.’

  ‘Maybe because you’re implying murder.’

  He shook his head. ‘Slander means lies. I’m only pointing out facts. He started sniffing round here a couple of years ago, buying back additional land – we know what for now, don’t we? – and planning to do up the Grange. Lo and behold, shortly after he arrived—’

  ‘You can’t blame him for the flood.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Don’t.’

  He turned to the tray of young plants and concentrated hard on transplanting them to the soil Elin had prepared, trying in vain not to give in to the thoughts that nagged like an addiction.

  ‘I still think Joe could have known something—’

  ‘Bede.’

  ‘—before Philip was ready to unleash his plans on the village.’ The planting abandoned, his hands were working uselessly, rubbing compost between his fingers as if to break each grain into its constituent atoms. ‘But it’s like today, isn’t it? Whoever it was that reported this, you’d think the police would have better things to do. But Northcote points the finger, they follow. Just as he pointed it away from Joe drowning and they stopped trying.’

  ‘You see?’ Elin said, her tone of voice resigned to going through the motions. ‘Slander.’

  ‘Surely I can talk freely to you? What about the blow to his head? Fact. The movement I saw in the willows? Fact.’

  ‘Debris in the river. Wind and rain.’

  He continued undeterred down the path of obsession. ‘Northcote was back in Foxover after years of absence. He and Joe had history. Now his fracking plans have come to light, it seems he had a motive.’

  ‘He also had an alibi. Honestly, Bede, what makes you think Joe knew a thing? That very “history” means they were hardly likely to sit down and have a cosy chat about it, were they? Please.’ Elin closed her eyes and opened them again as if blinking some inner strength to the surface. ‘You said you were going to let it go. You’ve said it before. I don’t know why I keep believing you.’

  There was a catch in her voice that got to him. She was right – no point dragging it all up again like a corpse from the mud.

  ‘I want to let it go,’ he said. ‘I’m doing my best to mean it, love.’

  He went over and put his arms round her from behind.

  ‘I know.’ She reached back and touched his cheek briefly before pushing him away. ‘You’re getting my T-shirt mucky.’

  Beneath the reassurance of her teasing, he sensed her lingering unease.

  What goes on

  Bede hunched into his waterproof cape and cycled down the lane. His resolve to try and embrace all weathers was pushed to its limits as he turned to wave to Elin and was rewarded by a cold trickle of rainwater down his neck. Weaving his way among the large puddles that had gathered on the tarmac surface, he wondered whether he’d manage to look presentable for his first night at the Horseshoes.

  He’d been as amazed as anyone at Brian’s proposal that he or Elin help out behind
the bar on busy nights. Elin had said she had enough on with managing the Storehouse and her part-time research at the nature reserve, and since his own work with Sunny Days was non-existent at the moment, it fell to him.

  The rain was taking a breather as he reached the bridge. He was early and feeling irrationally nervous, so he stopped, pushed his hood back and leaned his bike against the ancient stone parapet. Resting his elbows on the low wall, he looked down into the rushing flow, aware from the corner of his eye of the damp, folded umbrellas in the waterside beer-garden like forlorn statues of Sabrina, the goddess of the river. Now the moment had arrived, he feared the prospect of maintaining a public veneer of affability while some of the regulars baited him – intentionally or accidentally; it made no difference – and took offence if he spoke his mind.

  Why keep thinking the worst?

  Bede took a sharp breath and looked around. He used to find it comforting, but was beginning to wish the voice would leave him alone. He nevertheless allowed his negativity to dissolve into the swirling water below him and wash away. Why shouldn’t he enjoy this? He was efficient and honest and could raise a smile at most of the right moments. Brian and Angela had warmed to him since he’d helped out during the floods. As he emerged from the black months that had followed Joe’s death, the pub had been a refuge whenever he, and Elin in particular, needed to get out from Alderleat. The lingering contempt among a few people had turned to friendly ribbing as new-found friendships dusted his uncle’s shadow from him. Even so, he’d never have imagined it extending to bar work, and briefly wondered if the suggestion had been a ploy of Elin’s to keep him outward-looking and sociable. But her surprise had seemed genuine.