Anne Berry - The Water Children

He blinks and a merman has slithered out of his nightmares. He is sitting on the same step that his mother sat on minutes earlier, his scaly tail flapping against the striped runner, briny puddles soaking into it. He shakes his head, and his brass-wire hair floats up like the mane of a jellyfish, to sting the white ceiling. The salty, dead-fish stink of him fills the air, making Owen want to gag. He turns and runs into the lounge, slamming the door behind him and very nearly tumbling over his father. Bill is on all fours harvesting the vegetables that are scattered all over the carpet, orange-coned carrots, copper-balled onions, sausage strings of Lincoln-green courgettes, cucumbers lying like sea slugs on the woollen pile, and dozens of cherry tomatoes. He is still dressed in yesterday’s mud-stained gardening clothes, and Owen is still wearing his school uniform. He moves with purpose over the vegetable patch rug, uprooting the vegetables one after another, and placing them with care on the seat of the settee.

‘I won’t be long,’ he mumbles, taking in his son with a swift upward glance. ‘Just clear up this mess. Wouldn’t want your mother finding it like this when she gets up, now would we?’ He chortles with impish pluck. He raises his bushy eyebrows at Owen, hinting at the dire consequences that might be in store for them both if he does not complete his mission. ‘I see you’re all ready for school. Good chap. Just the ticket. Won’t be a moment and then I’ll go and start up the car.’

Owen nods and presses his spine with all his might into the lounge door, arms spread, palms flat, knowing what lurks behind it. He thinks of the Humber Super Snipe eating up the roads, heading for the coast and the waiting ship. And then he thinks of their Hillman Husky in its washed-out shade of grey, an old, mud-caked elephant. He recalls the grains of earth freed from the upholstery creases by his weight, the gritty sensation of them sticking to his bare thighs, the stacks of plant pots that fight for space at his feet. He folds his arms, and feels his diaphragm jig to the uneven metre of his phantom tears. And then the Water Child is there, drowning his demons in a flood of light.

Owen receives an ‘A’ for his essay on childhood memories. The Abingdon family he writes about is just like the Woodentops. The father works in an office, the mother is happy all the live-long day in the kitchen, and the son plays in the garden in the reliable sunshine. His English teacher, Miss Laye, asks him to read his essay aloud to the class. She tells the other students how accomplished it is, how vivid and descriptive. ‘Owen has set a very high standard with this excellent piece,’ she says, giving her student an approving smile. He wonders what mark he would have got if he told the truth. What would she have said to the waiting class then?

Chapter 5

Sean Madigan is standing on Richmond Bridge staring down at the Thames. It is a glorious evening in early summer. Tyre tracks of pale cloud etch a ghostly path across the hyacinth-blue sky. The only hint of approaching night is the denser, more richly pigmented line of the distant horizon. The river is still busy, a thoroughfare of pleasure boats and smaller rowing boats. From where he stands he can see people strolling along the towpath or enjoying a drink outdoors in one of the riverside pubs, a mother pushing a double buggy, a man walking a dog, a family of ducks bobbing on the merry-go-round of the water.

In just under an hour he will be meeting Catherine. It is their third date and he is going to take her out to dinner at a pretty Italian restaurant on Richmond Hill. He has picked it mainly because of the views, the panoramic views over the river, though he has reconnoitred and glanced briefly at the menu. He knows she will like it. She isn’t hard to please, not one of those women who are forever summing you up, what you wear, if you’re mean or generous with your pennies, whether or not you take them somewhere besides the pub. Catherine appears content to be carried along with the current. As far as he can tell, and he admits that it is still early days, her nature is easy-going, self-contained, appreciative. She seems to enjoy listening to him talk, to his craic, to his jokes. And when he outlines his plans for setting up a business selling shampoo, her eyes follow his with interest. He recognizes that she is impressed. She sees he is a man with aspirations, that before long he will be making his mark. She has foresight, this English woman; she approves of his goals. She has the perception to look beyond an Irish navvy moving from one construction site to the next, to glimpse the man he will become. He is saving, puts by money each week, has worked out to the last detail what he will need to get his business up and running. He has sketched out his blueprint and she has encouraged him in his endeavours.

He met her at L’Auberge where she was waitressing. He liked the look of her straight away. Shoulder-length red hair tied back neatly with a velvet ribbon, and constrained green eyes that fluttered away from you and had to be coaxed back constantly. There was an immediate rapport between them. He didn’t imagine it, because she smiled and accepted the note he passed her with his ’phone number scrawled on it. And then she rang him no more than a week later. On their first night out he took her to the pictures to see The Poseidon Adventure . He put his arm around her protectively in the darkness. But that was all. For some reason he didn’t want to take advantage of this young woman, who dressed so demurely and who gave him licence to be whatever he wanted to be.

For their second date he suggested ice-skating and was surprised to see a flash of real anxiety light her otherwise placid eyes. So instead he took her shopping to Kensington Market, and out for lunch at a Beefeater. Catherine seemed delighted with that outing too, letting him choose an embroidered Indian smock for her, and a necklace of amber beads that stood out against her pale skin.

Her voice is very English, very posh. He hasn’t met her family yet but he expects that they are quite highbrow. If he is correct in his assumption, it means that he is already moving in the right circles. Who can say where their relationship may lead? He has only kissed her once so far, on the lips but chastely, her mouth firm and unyielding under his. He doesn’t mind. In fact he sort of approves in a masochistic way. She is a good girl, a virgin, he is sure of it. Ironically, she is just the sort his mother might select for him, except of course that she is English. He can wait. It will be all the more special when it comes. He will teach her the joy of lovemaking. But he will take it very gently, very slowly. After all, she is beginning to matter to him, so it is vital that he do things properly. When you stumble on a woman of Catherine’s class, you don’t want to go scaring her off.

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