Bede told me about the plan after I arrived this afternoon. Faced with his great puppy-dog enthusiasm, I thought cool idea, but now it’s sunk in I’m worried. Injunctions, trespass, alleged breaches of the peace are one thing, but this would be criminal damage. Another thing that he, they, could get put away for. He’s 18 for fuck’s sake. What a start to adult life that’d be.
This sabotage needs to be done last-minute to rule out the chance of ‘them’ repairing the damage, so I guess I’ve still got time to talk him out of it, but my clumsy attempt earlier on turned into our first row.
I suppose he’s right that he doesn’t have to listen to me, and, shocked though I was to hear it, I also suppose he’s right that my main motivation for coming here in the first place was to get between Sophie’s organic cotton sheets. But if he thinks that means I’m not committed now, he couldn’t be more wrong. I just hate to think they’re using him, Grey in particular – making the most of his skills and abilities, yes and why not, but also getting him to go that bit beyond what anyone would consider reasonable, by playing on the fact he’s a couple of years younger than any of them (except Tig’s little ’uns) and feels the need to prove himself. And it’s not just to Grey and Steve. I’ve seen the way he’s been looking at the Welsh girl, Elin, one of Fran’s mates from uni who’s appeared on the scene recently.
Deftly stilled
Iridescent scales flashed in the early morning sunlight. Bede removed the fish from the line and deftly stilled it. He paused for a moment, mesmerised by the leaden eye and gleaming body, thanking it in the silent ritual he’d developed over the years. Although he’d probably have ridiculed himself for the like at any other time, it always felt right, there on the bank, in that special moment of a catch.
His gratitude wasn’t only for the sustenance, but for the calm and patience he found when immersed in the hours of watching and waiting by the water’s edge. And – he allowed himself to think it – for the deep friendship and love of the man who’d given him his first rod, who’d first sat an unhappy teenager down on the banks of a river and introduced him to the time-honoured joys of angling. He realised how much he’d missed the companionable hours with Joe on the banks of canals and rivers, learning about the different kinds of bait, deciphering the mysteries of rod and line. At first he’d been uncomfortable with the moment of killing, but long before he truly understood the word hypocrite he thought it was wrong to like eating fish if you couldn’t hack catching it.
He looked with satisfaction at the three trout in the wicker creel Elin had made for him – one each for their dinner that night and one to take to Marjorie – and began to pack up. A flurry of tiny waves on the wind-riffled river caught his eye and he paused, daring to look downstream. He should have done this long ago. Instead of fearing the river, he should have known the magic of reliving their shared activities wouldn’t desert him, should have trusted the water to carry away his grief and anger.
Didn’t I tell you?
The now-familiar voice made it all the more ironic that he had Robert Markham to thank for recalling him to the river today. He smiled as he gathered his things together and began to walk up the edge of the field, the light breeze raising soothing whispers from the willows before catching in his hair. Was this a first – gratitude towards his stepfather?
He’d gone into the house from the workshop the evening before to find Elin looking perplexed.
‘You’ll never guess who phoned. Your dad.’
‘What?’ The world shifted around him.
‘Robert.’
He almost felt relieved. ‘Stepdad.’
‘Yes, sorry.’
Irritation flowed fast in the wake of relief. ‘What the fuck did he want?’
‘Bede! I’m not surprised he sounded glad you weren’t around. Sam’s getting married.’ She held up a hand to silence him. ‘He was wondering, given the occasion, whether you might…it might be good to see you again. For them to meet me. Bit of a reconciliation.’
Why did she seem to find this so hard? It wasn’t her past.
‘He must be joking! Did he really…? I hope you told him where they can stick their bloody wedding.’
‘I told him I’d talk to you about it. Why not, Bede?’
She’d never really understood.
‘You do realise he doesn’t actually want us to go? This is just his way of letting me know how pissed off he is that I didn’t invite them to ours. Not that he’d have wanted to come, you understand. But God, it must have stuck in his craw to know I had the independence, the freedom, the autonomy not to ask.’
He’d refused to pick up the phone and give their apologies. Elin had insisted it was the least he could do. Thrown into turmoil by the intrusion when the two of them had other things to worry about, he’d lain awake until late into the night and woken ridiculously early. And yes, he did actually have Robert Markham to thank, for being the catalyst that finally drove him back to the sanctuary of the river.
Pausing to savour the blush of sunrise above the peaceful riverflow, he wondered why the prospect of a simple ‘sorry, we can’t make it’ had seemed at all daunting. He didn’t have to justify himself. He’d tried to get along while his mum was alive, but the Markhams meant nothing to him now. He preferred not to think of them as his past – apart from his mum, the memories that meant something to him were of Joe, of Elin, here at Alderleat. On the paternal side there was nothing, not even a name. Not a void; he preferred to think of it as a blank canvas.
He resumed his walk home: the buildings nestling along the fold of the mill stream and the turbine rising above the trees on its shoulder of land. A blank canvas on which all this was painted.
‘You’re looking cheerful this morning.’
With a screech of brakes, Tamsin brought her bike to a halt and paused with a foot to the ground, school bag in the basket on the front. He waved, noticing as he did so that both Kate’s and Philip’s cars were in her driveway. It seemed the bike had been her personal choice, not forced on her by the lack of a lift.
‘It’d be hard to be anything else on a morning like this,’ he said as he closed the field gate behind him. ‘Why don’t you bring the bike next time you come round? I’ll smooth those brakes for you and check why your chain’s been slipping.’
‘Thanks.’ Frowning, she eyed him with suspicion. ‘I didn’t know you were into fishing.’
‘Oh, I am. This is the first time since Joe died, that’s all.’
It felt satisfying. No more euphemisms, no more hiding it away in some murky depth of non-acceptance. ‘Since Joe died’ – a sad but natural fact of life.
She was still looking at him strangely. ‘I’d never have thought you… Oh, I get it – you put them back, yeah?’
He showed her the contents of the creel. Her face fell.
‘But you’re veggie, you and Elin. Like me.’
Bede waved an arm in a broad arc encompassing the river, the willows and the fields beyond. ‘We are, largely. But it’s not all about the cruelty and destruction of factory farming. I don’t need to tell you that meat eating and livestock rearing is disastrous for the planet in terms of land use and emissions. Localised wild fishing, on the other hand, isn’t upsetting any ecosystem. I’d be the first to stop if it did.’ Her eyes were still boring into him. ‘You think I’m a hypocrite, don’t you?’
‘It’s still taking something else’s life.’
‘Can’t deny it.’ He shifted the basket on his shoulder. ‘I try to be quick and humane. Prey and predator is…natural, and I only take what we need. There are some questions have no easy answers. Contradictions emerge if you think deeply enough about anything.’
‘Sounds like you’re just wriggling out of it to me.’ Tamsin glanced at her watch. ‘Shit, sorry, I can’t risk missing the school bus. Got to be off. But I’m not leaving it at that. Don’t think you’re off the hook.’
‘Ha ha.’
She caught his eye and smiled for the first time since
she’d noticed his fishing rod and waders.
‘I look forward to the debate,’ he said, grinning back.
As he watched her cycle down the lane, Philip Northcote’s Bentley drew up alongside him. The window swished down.
‘I’m glad I’ve bumped into you.’ Philip frowned at the sight of Bede’s fishing tackle. ‘I hope you’re entitled to do that. Bridge Farm leases the fishing rights on this stretch to—’
‘The riparian owners’ rights along the Alderleat bank stayed with the house. And I have an up-to-date rod licence, not that it’s any of your business. Anything else I can help you with?’
Philip picked up an envelope from the passenger seat.
‘This is for you.’
Bede raised his eyebrows in a tacit question. Philip said nothing, apparently waiting. It was obvious what it contained but Bede duly opened it and skimmed the contents, tutting and sucking air through his teeth.
‘What a rip-off.’ He looked up. ‘New wing? Two new doors? The guy I used to work for in Halbury’s a bodywork wizard. He could’ve… But I understand. Main dealer, warranties and all that. I sympathise – but I guess it’s small change for someone like you.’
He made to hand it back.
‘Quite the comedian,’ Philip said. ‘There’s a note with it – I’m giving you seven days. I’ve just taken a picture with the dashcam as proof of you reading it. Pay up or I’ll see you in court.’
‘No need to wait seven days,’ Bede said, surprised by his own calm. ‘As far as I’m concerned you can instigate proceedings now. Except you won’t because you know you don’t have a leg to stand on. Where was your dashcam when you needed it?’ He ripped the bill and letter into several pieces. ‘This’ll have to go for recycling. You could’ve e-mailed it. What a waste.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’
His tone never failed to wind Bede up. ‘I know I might as well save my breath. You don’t give a toss about waste, do you? Just as you don’t give a toss about industrialising the landscape, polluting the groundwater or digging up fossil fuels that should be kept in the ground!’
‘Oh, please. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. I have the interests of this community at heart too, you know – I just have more realistic ideas about how to serve them. I haven’t got time to hang around talking in circles with you here and now,’ he snatched the remains of the letter Bede was thrusting at him, ‘but I suggest you keep your arguments reasoned and make them through the proper channels.’
‘Pity we haven’t got the financial resources to make sure the “proper channels” are listening.’
Philip’s air of pained reasonableness gave way to anger. ‘You’d be well advised to keep insinuations like that to yourself.’
He sped off, giving Bede the dubious satisfaction of having touched a nerve. Shouldering his fishing creel, he regretted the intrusion into his new-found calm and once again wished they could simply be left alone to get on with their lives.
The following Saturday, Tamsin knocked at the door bright and early. Well, early at least, Elin thought – yet another dull, showery day could hardly be called bright. She poured her a coffee and laid out bread, jam and honey on the kitchen table.
‘How’re you getting on with the glamping place?’ Tamsin asked as she spread honey thickly on a slice of bread. ‘Can’t wait to see the developments.’
Elin smiled, wondering what Bede would say if he knew they were preparing to offer ‘glamping’. After helping Brian dismantle a shed and reclaiming the timber, they’d spent the last few days erecting a wooden structure on the chassis of a stock trailer that had been slowly decaying at Frank Barnham’s. ‘We’ve got a frame up and we’re about ready to start on the roof.’
‘Wow, quick work. I meant to say, my dad’s got a couple of skylights lying around in his garage. I think they’re still there and I’m sure he won’t be needing them. Would they be any use?’
‘Sounds wonderful if you don’t mind asking.’
‘Provided I can have a go at helping with the building.’
Tamsin had made herself at home in just a couple of weeks. Elin would never have guessed she’d enjoy getting her hands dirty or be so willing to pitch in.
‘Sorry to disappoint. I really need you in the greenhouse.’ Elin looked at her sternly. ‘All day. I’ve got a shift at the shop this afternoon but that doesn’t mean you can let Bede sneak you off to help with the caravan.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe some overtime tomorrow? You could have a go then.’
‘No can do.’ She looked at her warily, chewing a large mouthful of bread and honey.
Elin could imagine the reason. ‘Other plans?’
‘Yeah.’ Even the coffee cup Tamsin raised to her face wasn’t enough to conceal her excitement.
‘Are you seeing him again?’
‘Who?’ Tamsin said, avoiding her eyes.
‘I’ll take that as a yes. Silvan seems quite a character. I’m pleased for you.’
Tamsin relaxed a little. ‘He’s off seeing his mates in Birmingham today, and a gig tonight. My mate Lauren’s coming for a sleepover tonight in any case,’ she added as if keen to prove that life went on as usual. ‘She’s just passed her test, looking forward to having her mum and dad’s car for the evening. Then Silvan’s taking me out tomorrow. Up into the mountains, or even to the coast, depending on the weather.’
‘Is Kate cool with that?’
Tamsin paused, her knife hovering over the bread. She looked at Elin, back at the bread. ‘Well… I sort of let her assume I’ll be going back with Lauren. I’m sure she won’t question it.’
‘Don’t you think you should tell her the truth? What if anything happens?’
‘What d’you mean, “anything happens”?’
Elin backed off a little from all the possibilities. ‘Like she finds out you’ve been lying?’
‘If I told her she probably wouldn’t let me go.’ She looked defiantly at Elin, dropping the knife with a clatter. ‘Honestly, Elin, I thought you’d be different. But you’re, like, on my case same as everyone else. The minute something good happens… Don’t you remember what it’s like?’ She waved a hand at the ceiling and the creaking floorboards of Bede moving around upstairs. ‘With him?’
Elin did remember, and what it was like to be surrounded by people hinting while trying not to say outright that she was doing the wrong thing. Realising she was becoming fond of Tamsin, she nevertheless wondered how she’d managed to land the role of confidante. She sighed. ‘Yes, I do. I hope you have a lovely day out. Just…’ Just what? ‘Take it steady. Watch yourself.’
‘Jesus, what d’you think’s gonna happen?’
‘Nothing, but…he’s several years older than you, for a start.’
‘Thanks for the words of wisdom. I hadn’t noticed. So what’s wrong with twenty-four? Are you and Bede exactly the same age?’
Elin shook her head in exasperation. ‘He’s a year younger than me, actually. And I was in my first year at uni when we met. Not sixteen.’
Tamsin sighed dramatically. ‘Like I said, I wouldn’t have had you down—’
‘Oh, we know where you are, and you’ve got our number.’ Relenting, Elin raised her own eyes towards upstairs and smiled. ‘Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t.’
They both relaxed. There was nothing like a shared old chestnut to smooth things over. Elin gathered the plates and cups and went to the sink.
‘Morning, girls. I hope you’ve left some breakfast for me.’
Bede wandered in. His shower-wet hair straggled in tendrils over his bare shoulders, tiny rivulets watering the garlanded leaves of his tattoo. He turned to put the kettle on, revealing the stylised swirls of the river winding down his back. It was so much a part of him that it took Tamsin staring to make Elin see it anew. He glanced down as if he felt the same way, then reached for a T-shirt from the drying rack in the corner.
‘Hold on,’ Tamsin said. ‘That’s amazing, let me get a proper look. Um, hope you don�
�t mind me saying…’
‘Thanks. ’Course I don’t mind.’
She nodded appreciatively. ‘Looks even better in the flesh.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know – I’ve seen a couple of pics online. Googled that protest you were involved in. The Engineer.’ She glanced at Elin, who sighed inwardly. ‘You haven’t changed much.’
Bede pulled the T-shirt over his head, turned and busied himself with the coffee. His irritation was tangible. ‘Where d’you hear about that?’
‘I was explaining to Tamsin a few days ago how a scratch in Philip’s paintwork really wasn’t your style,’ Elin said.
‘Sounded cool,’ Tamsin said.
Sitting down to the table, coffee mug in hand, Bede raised his eyebrows. ‘Really?’
‘I wish I could’ve been there. It must’ve been great to feel you’re really doing something.’
Riverflow Page 13