Tim Parks - Rapids

Well …

I remember your wife saying something.

He only pretty well runs the whole bloody bank! Louise arrived hungry. There was a bag of Chocos she was after, under Tom’s elbow. Move over macho! The girl wore no bra under her T — shirt.

One shouldn’t exaggerate, Vince began.

Oh, come on Dad! You know you run it.

Adam seemed to be expecting a response. I imagine, he insisted, that someone like yourself has to be in touch even while you’re away. I mean at certain levels of responsibility …

But now a new noise captured everybody’s attention. There was a tinny jingle. Oh no! shrieked the young Max, his straw hat tipped back. On the table in the kitchen tent, beside the milk carton, a white hamster, about a foot high on its hind legs, had begun to beat a tin drum. Legs and paws moved with mechanical grace, while the solemn head made slow turns from side to side. A recorded voice in his innards crooned:

I think I love you, but that’s what life is made of.

Amelia and Caroline were bent double with giggles. The big girl grabbed Phil. Was it you? She had to pull off the headphones of his Discman.

And it worries me to say, the voice crooned on, that I’ve never felt this way.

Who stole my hamster? Mandy demanded. The bristly white muzzle was hilariously wise. The voice was that of some twenties vaudeville entertainer. Picked up in a service station, the toy had been a constant joke on the long journey from England. Amal was grinning broadly.

Do you think I have a case, the hamster sang, won’t you tell me to my face?

Who’s been in my tent? Mandy insisted. This is a happy British holiday, Vince told himself. I must participate. Adam smiled sardonically. Who was it? Mandy shrieked. Everybody was running around, giggling. Who stole my hamster? Guilty! Keith peeped a ruddy face from behind Michela’s pine tree. Was it possible, Vince wondered, that the group’s leader and their administrator had something going together? You cheeky bastard, Mandy made a half — hearted dash. Nosing in my stuff! Oh a serious impropriety! Max shouted in his most camp voice. Photograph! someone shrieked. One for the website! When Vince turned he saw Michela was hurrying away to the trailer where the boats were loaded and locked up. How lithe she was. You are under a spell, he told himself. It was an expression he would sometimes use at work to describe this or that commodity or currency. Coffee is under a spell. There’s no other explanation. The dollar is under a spell. But now Tom was saying politely, Mr Marshall, actually I was wondering—

Vince, I’m called Vince.

Sorry, I was wondering if I might pick your brain on money supply at some point? There are a couple of things they’ve been teaching us at university that I really don’t understand.

Listen, don’t talk about my work, Vince told Louise quietly as they gathered their kit together for the day’s outing. His cag was still damp. She couldn’t find her towel. She was sure she’d left it on the line. Please, he said. They fussed about the fly — sheets. It bothers me. What else is there to talk about with you, Dad? she asked. You never do anything but work. He asked if the message she had received this morning had been from her cousins. No, she said. She smiled very brightly. Adam had promised her she could charge her phone on his car charger.

They already had the boats on the water before the sun climbed over the mountainside and poured its warmth into the valley. This time they ran the section from the campsite to the village of Geiss. Never do anything but work, Vince is thinking. His daughter’s words have soured his morning. Yet he hadn’t called the office so far this holiday, as his colleagues no doubt expected. He hadn’t even read the papers or listened to a radio. Quite probably they are trying to contact him. He hadn’t turned on his mobile. He hadn’t bought a car charger. He had no idea what the market was up to. For thirty years you give your whole life to something, he thought, you build up a solid career; and then in the space of a couple of weeks, it’s forgotten. I have lost my daughter, Vince told himself. This holiday is confirming that loss. First in Florence, now here. I have lost all sense of purpose. All I notice is people in love. From what you tell me you are clinically depressed, his brother — in — law had advised him. Jasper worked in that field. He ran a psychiatric clinic in South London. You should be on drugs, he said. Vince was afraid that drugs would cloud his judgement. It was a difficult moment in foreign equities. It is always a difficult moment. He had stopped performing after Gloria died. He knew it. He knew they knew it. Why had he let Louise go to live with her cousins? I have no home now. Suddenly, Vince feels a grating under the boat. Wake up! The kayak is broadside to a bank of pebbles rising from below the grey water. The river slides forward with a strong steady pull. He should have seen the tell — tale rippling on the surface. It’s too late. Vince finds himself being turned over in only six inches of rapidly flowing water. His shoulder bangs along on the stones. Wally nomination! Phil shouts. Phil has the creature tied round his neck for his behaviour yesterday. What a fool! Vince curses himself. He is livid.

Only a few minutes later, Clive orders: Stop paddling everyone and listen. There are still patches of early — morning mist rising on the calmer stretches of the water. The boys are splashing each other. Listen up! Adam complains. It seems to irritate him that Clive and Keith won’t impose discipline more firmly. Mark, I said listen! he tells his son. Stop paddling.

The fifteen kayaks with their bright plastic colours drift on the glassy surface. The thin mist is luminous and the water wide and apparently tranquil, pressing steadily forward. Three ducks are flapping along the bank in front of them. Faint in the distance from beyond the trees is the repeated beep of a truck reversing, in some quarry perhaps. Brian giggles, Mysterious!

Shush!

Leaning back, arching until her helmet rests on the deck behind, Michela gazes upward. Among high white clouds, the tall mountains slowly revolve. It’s dizzying. The current is turning the boat. The high rocks seem precarious. They will tumble down. A buzzard swoops above the tree line and the girl feels as if she herself has fallen from there. She is still falling, the mountains turning. It’s so calm. She doesn’t believe what has happened. She is living an intense swan — song of adoration and denial. She has given herself completely to Clive. My family is behind me. I will go anywhere you go, she told him last night. She lets her hands trail in the water and the chill climbs up her fingers to wrists and forearms. You know I can’t go home.

Then Vince hears it. Beyond the still — beeping truck, a low roar emerges, a dark line floats up on the auditory horizon. At once the water takes on a new urgency. They are gliding past narrowing banks of steeper and steeper stone. Alrighty! Phil breaks the silence. River — left! Clive shouts. He is paddling backwards, facing the others. As he tells them what to do, he is sensible, steady, entirely manly. But Michela recognises the hint of impatience in his voice, the energy restrained. He wishes he were in another era, exploring virgin territory, commanding soldiers. She loves this in him. Kayaks are plastic toys, he complains when he is depressed. There’s nothing necessary about them. They’re not natural. One evening he asked over and over, Do you understand, Micky, what I mean by something being necessary? Clive is old never to have settled; she knows that. She saw the mad intensity of his eyes at the demonstration in Milan.

Keith is shouting names and numbers. He has to yell now over the roar of the rapid, swollen with yesterday’s rain. Amal five, Amelia six, Louise seven. They must follow Clive’s line. Three boat — lengths apart. Don’t get too close.