Jon McGregor - Reservoir 13

By April there’d been no proper rain for four weeks and there was a lack of good grass for the stock. The new month brought a warm wind from the south and by mid-morning the village was hung with wet washing. Susanna came in from her run through the woods and rushed to pour herself a glass of water, gulping it down before she’d got her breath back and feeling the cold shock of it wind down through her chest. The Spring Dance was held in support of Water Aid, at the insistence of Mr Wilson, who said that if they thought they were having a hard time with this so-called drought then he could tell them a few things to think on. His thoughts on the matter were known, and the decision was approved without him needing to hand out the information sheets he’d brought with him. Jim Stephenson from the high school brought his brass band for the dance. Rather than the more traditional pieces, they played arrangements of disco classics: Stevie Wonder, Donna Summer, Sly and the Family Stone. When he’d first introduced these pieces to the band Jim had needed to listen to them on CD in order to familiarise himself; but by now, with the performances confident and smooth, he found himself conducting with a movement that was close to dancing. Jim Stephenson was not a young man. Afterwards at the bar Miriam Pearson asked what had been going on with his hips. Some people watching had been amused but Miriam’s response was something else. Slightly flushed but not at all embarrassed, he told her that the music left him unable to keep still. That’s where you feel it when the rhythm’s doing the right job, he said, and Miriam smiled. That’s very true, Mr Stephenson, she said, as he wiped at his bald head with a large white handkerchief. There were St George’s mushrooms up on the bark chippings by the timber yard, and as far as Jones could tell no one else knew they were there. He took pleasure in fetching them since the yard had been sold to the Hunters. Was like taking something that belonged to Stuart Hunter, and he’d never liked the man. One of the protesters up at the camp broke his leg and had to be carried down the hill by the mountain-rescue team. He’d been trying to leap from stone to stone; something which was talked about as an ancient rite of passage but which was clearly impossible when the gaps between the stones were looked at in the cold light of day. The missing girl’s mother was seen with a man no one recognised, walking through the village. In the evening they were in the lounge bar of the Gladstone, sitting closely together and sharing a bottle of wine. She seemed to make a point of meeting the gaze of anyone who looked for too long, and holding the gaze until it was moved away. At one point in the evening they were seen to be holding hands.

In May the days broke open with light. Breakfast was eaten under the spell of clear sunlight, and tea prepared to the sound of children playing outside. In the horse chestnut tree by the cricket ground the woodpigeons were fighting, rearing up at each other with rattling wings. It wasn’t always clear what kept them from falling out of the tree. The noise of it could be heard as far down the road as the church. Early before school Jones was out at the allotments earthing up potatoes. Clive was on his plot putting out the courgettes from his greenhouse, but Jones didn’t see him and soon headed home, his tools over his shoulder. Later Clive saw Miriam Pearson carrying trays of plants to her plot from a car. She’d bought them in the garden centre, he took it. They’d need a whole lot of water before they even got into the ground would be his suggestion but he wouldn’t give it unwarranted. Her path edges were looking neat. At the parish council Janice Green read a letter from the bus company which threatened to remove the service unless there was an improvement in the car-parking situation. There was general objection to the letter’s tone but it was conceded that they had a point. A discussion about enforcement and pinch points ensued, and when everyone seemed to have finished William Pearson said that really what they were talking about at the end of the day was Martin Fowler constantly parking like a cunt. A number of those present actually turned their faces away. Judith was asked not to minute that last remark, and William was asked to leave, at which time it became clear that the coffee he’d been pouring from a flask all evening had been mainly whisky. Once the door was finally closed behind him it was noted that he did have a point about Martin’s parking habits, and it was suggested that words would be had. In the conifers above Reservoir no. 5, a buzzard sat warmly on her eggs while the wind pulled through the trees. There was rain in the evenings of the sort it was pleasant to be in for a while, taking the dust from the air. Ashleigh Wright friended her father on Facebook. He had found her and sent a message and she was excited to be in touch. She knew not to tell him where they were living, but there was enough in her posts for him to work it out. He dropped the name of the village into conversation and she had a bad feeling she couldn’t tell anyone about. Richard and Cathy took Mr Wilson’s dog in her car up to Reservoir no. 13 for a change of scenery. It was high ground, and the wind cut straight off the edge of the moor, pushing the water in dark furrows towards the top of the dam. They walked along the track around the shore, leaning into the wind and raising their voices as he told her he was thinking about moving into his mother’s house for the long term. He could take on contracts that didn’t require him to travel. He told her he’d enjoyed spending time in the village after so many years away. It had been good reconnecting with people. He asked what she thought and she said he should think about all his options carefully. She asked how his mother was doing, whether she’d had any more falls, and he felt her nudging the conversation away from what he wanted her to say. He let himself be nudged. He said she seemed fine but they were keeping a close eye on her. They reached the head of the reservoir, where the track came to an unsatisfactory end. When they turned and headed down to the car the wind at their backs gave them a sprung posture, their knees braced slightly to keep from running.

In June the widower moved in to the old Tucker place. He came up the lane one morning in a hired van, and from his allotment Clive could see him unloading boxes and bags and chairs. It was obvious he was going to need help. Clive waited until he saw the man sitting on his wall for a rest and then went up the lane to offer. There was a sofa and a bed and a couple of long wooden packing cases in the van. The carrying didn’t take long. The widower was polite in his gratitude but there were no introductions and Clive wasn’t invited inside. The weather brightened again and in the sunlight the river was like glass beneath the packhorse bridge, breaking only when it fell over the weir. The keeper went out checking licences. It was known he was thorough so there was rarely anyone fishing without. But the holidaymakers sometimes knew no better. Les Thompson towed the mower around the first of the fields, cutting from the outside in, lifting and dropping the mower at each turn and leaving a broad swathe of grass to wilt in a haymaker’s sun. Brian Fletcher brought a mug of tea and a plate of toast outside and balanced them on the low wall beside his car. Sally had been up and out before he woke, leaving a note on the kitchen table to say she was off for a walk through the old quarries. Butterflies, again. This was her thing now. It was hard for him to see the difference a lot of the time, or to get close enough to tell. A flash of colour, gone in a moment. It was hard for him to take an interest. But she didn’t expect him to, just as he didn’t expect her to take an interest in his cars. No doubt she couldn’t tell the difference either. She probably hadn’t noticed that this was a new one. A 1968 Citroën DS with swivel headlights. He’d been after one for some time. It had taken some discussion before the man would sell. The emails had gone back and forth. But he’d been patient. He had a way with words, he liked to think. He had a way of judging what to say, and when to say it. The whole thing had been reminiscent of when he and Sally had first conversed. The emails that had gone back and forth before they’d even met. He looked at the clean lines of the bodywork, the elegance of the silhouette. He finished his tea and his toast, and went to lift the bonnet. In their nest in the conifers the first buzzard chicks were hatching. The long days raised the hedges high. Down by the river the walkers had already left a network of flatted paths in the meadows. Winnie worked on the well-dressing designs, the sheets of greaseproof paper spread across her dining-room table. She started with the framing and arches, moved on to the lettering, lined out the sky and clouds and sun and hills, and finally detailed the figures and animals in the foreground. As always, she doubted it was sufficient for the committee’s purposes; as always they assured her effusively that it was. Three young blackbirds appeared on Mr Wilson’s lawn, plump and bristle-feathered, and were taken by crows. In their colonies the bats gave birth and held their pups in the folds of their wings. There was a nightly shift and murmur as the young bats fed and the movement was like a breeze through the trees.