Jon McGregor - Reservoir 13

Sophie Hunter was at the university for a day and a half before she phoned her parents. They’d been trying not to watch their phones, because there was nothing to worry about; all the way down the motorway, with the back of the car empty and quiet, they had told each other there was nothing to worry about, that Sophie would be absolutely fine. But when the phone rang they both jumped, and Stuart stood by while Jess talked to her. The conversation started lightly but Jess thought something was wrong. Are you meeting people? she asked. Are you making friends? Sophie said she was meeting lots of people, yes, and some of them seemed nice. But the trouble was that as soon as she mentioned where she was from they all wanted to talk about the missing girl. I don’t want to talk about it any more, Mum. How come they even remember? Jess reminded her how big a news story it had been, at the time. People remember that sort of thing, she said. Later, via Facebook, Rohan and Lynsey and James reported the same experiences. Rohan called it The Curse of the Missing Girl, and Lynsey told him not to be cheap about it. In the village Mischief Night had become more or less the same as Hallowe’en, and for the first year doors were actually knocked on and the phrase trick or treat was used. Toilet paper also featured for the first time, draped across trees and bushes in people’s front gardens, and it was a hell of a job cleaning up the next day. Ashleigh Wright and Olivia Hunter were found to have been mostly responsible. They were coming into themselves now their older siblings had left home, was the feeling. Pumpkins were stolen from people’s front steps, and dumped in the walled orchard at the end of the Fletchers’ garden, which was overgrown and failing. The fruit hadn’t been harvested for years and the trees were thickly gnarled. He’d been told there were grants to restore it but he seemed in no hurry. Inefficiency was a point of pride with Brian Fletcher, a man known for being late to his own wedding despite living opposite the church. The reservoirs were high and the river thickened with silt from the hills and plumed across the weirs. A decision was taken to lay a second line of flagstones across the top of the moor, to limit the erosion caused by walkers, and a helicopter was brought in to drop them at intervals along the route. The flagstones came mostly from derelict mills in Manchester, cut a few centuries earlier and deeply rutted by the clogs of the workers going in and out for their shifts. At the school Jones had another argument with Mrs Simpson. The boiler had broken down again and an inspection had recommended replacing the system altogether. The boilerhouse would be demolished. He wasn’t having that. The boiler was fine. It just needed some work.

When they’d left for university, James and Lynsey had said that of course they would keep in touch. They all had. Lynsey had texted the others a few times, but keeping in touch turned out to mean reading the updates on Facebook. Halfway through the term she took a coach to Newcastle, where James was studying, and only texted him for directions when she got there. She thought it would be cool to surprise him, she told Sophie. But then he introduced her to Holly, his girlfriend, and offered her Holly’s room to sleep in since she wasn’t using it at the moment. It wasn’t quite what Lynsey had planned. They’d left things open between them but she’d thought they could pick up again. There were things she wanted to talk about. There were possibilities she’d had in mind, such as sharing his bed. Instead of which she drank most of a bottle of vodka and was sick into Holly’s bedroom sink. When she woke in the early morning the sink was still full of it, and she left without saying goodbye. She caught the first coach back to Edinburgh. The coach drove through flat arable land and she felt a long way from home. She wanted to message Sophie but she had no signal. When she slept the bumps in the road became hills and she dreamt she was driving into the village, where the stems of coppiced willow stools on the Hunters’ land gleamed red and gold in the narrow winter light. The foxes were lying low. Martin Fowler was working at the meat counter in the supermarket when Bruce came through with his new partner. Dad; this is Hugh. Martin nodded, concentrating on the back bacon he was cutting. The slices fell thinly away as the blade whined and rolled to a halt. He fanned them out on a layer of waxed paper in the display chiller, and then looked up at Hugh, who seemed more embarrassed than he did. He nodded. Hugh; how do. He didn’t know what else to say so he turned back to Bruce and asked whether they’d been to see his mother. We’re heading there now, Bruce said. Martin nodded. She expecting both of you? Yes, Dad. She’s expecting us both. She’s met Hugh before, you know? Martin nodded, and from the corner of his eye he saw his supervisor step towards him. I should get on. Good seeing you. Pop over some time? Bruce nodded. Yes, Dad. I’ll do that. Some time. As they were leaving, Bruce told Hugh that he’d never heard his father say how do like that before, it wasn’t something he said, he must have come over all flustered. Hugh just wanted to get back to the car. Martin’s supervisor said he could have an extra break if he wanted, go for coffee in the store restaurant or something, and Martin said, thanks, no, but he was fine for coffee.

Jackson stopped using the sun room, and it gradually filled up with boxes and rolls of sheeting and sacks of feed. Tom had started making a Guy Fawkes, and left it unfinished in the reclining chair. Mike was in there looking for some waterproofs and from the kitchen the others heard him yelp and drop something heavy, and then shout something that sounded like shit up my arse . Nobody looked him in the eye when he came back in the room, and they were quiet as he filled the kettle. That was a lot of work we put in to build a fucking storeroom, he said. What was the bloody point of that? Is he never going to use it? Maisie told him they should be patient, that their father was feeling more tired than usual at the moment and wasn’t able to get out of bed. The doctor said there’d be ups and downs, she said. Mike made himself a tea and headed outside. Shit up my arse? Simon asked. Fuck off, Mike said, and slammed the door. At Reservoir no. 9, the maintenance team were unblocking the spillway screens, clearing out the weeds and rubbish in anticipation of heavy rains to come. At the allotments the Brussels sprouts stood tall, their leaves wilted and holed and the sprouts knuckled tight against the frost. The allotment committee asked Susanna Wright to give up her plot for lack of cultivation. She knew they had a point but it stung. She hadn’t realised what time would be involved. Folk never do, said Clive. Takes a retired or a nut-job to work an allotment properly. Well, I’m not yet either of those, Susanna said, giving him the key. On the estate the laying pheasants were taken in for winter feeding, and new stock delivered. In the woods the wild pheasants clustered together and fed on the spilt feed left in the pens. On a Friday after school Jones set to repairing a sash window in Miss Dale’s classroom. He had the casement down and was halfway through singing the second verse of ‘Fernando’ before he realised that Miss Dale was in the reading corner. When he saw her she caught his eye and kept an absolutely straight face. He nodded, and went back to scraping the paintwork and grease from the casement channels. After a few moments he thought he heard Miss Dale singing the next verse very quietly, but when he looked he couldn’t see her moving her lips. It took an hour to get the casement back up, and when he was done she was still working on her papers. He packed up his tools and said goodnight. Goodnight, Mr Jones, she said, smiling. There was rain through most of the month and more floods and the debris jammed up against the footbridge again but this time the footbridge didn’t fail. There was carol singing in the pub, and when the sheets were handed round there was a lack of enthusiasm. But by the time they got to the ‘Calypso Carol’ the singing could be heard from the square and people had started crowding in from the main bar. Oh now carry me to Bethlehem.