Jon McGregor - Reservoir 13

On Mischief Night a large group of older teenagers from Cardwell somehow managed to lift the entire bus shelter and carry it halfway up the side of the moor. The next day there were pictures of it all over Facebook, and it took the Jackson boys half the morning to bring it back down. Questions were asked about where the youngsters had even got their hands on an angle-grinder, and why no one had heard it being used. Irene said it reminded her of the time her late husband had hidden an entire dairy herd, as a young man. The story was familiar, she was told. There were very few apples gathered in Fletcher’s orchard. The trees had been productive and well maintained for a time after Sally’s brother had left, and had become a source of pride for Brian. The loss of the trees taken out by the fire knocked the pleasure out of him. He blamed himself for being too lazy to have the caravan removed. Les Thompson was out with the quad bike at four in the afternoon to fetch the herd in for the milking. They’d heard the sound of the motor and were heading towards him by the time he found them, blinking against the low afternoon sun. He turned and let them follow, feeling a push of warm air behind him. He was not a sentimental man but he would miss these girls if he had to give up. He was one of the last dairy men for miles. The prices made no sense. The supermarkets were killing them. On the television there were pictures of floods and storms and fires. The Cooper twins asked if they could join the local football team, which ran training sessions and played on the pitches beside the river in town. Austin drove them down there on a Saturday morning, and did some shopping while he waited to pick them up, leaving Su to have a lie-in at home. He went early to collect them, and watched from the car park as they jogged along the pitch with the other boys, warming down. They didn’t say anything when they got in the car, and when he asked how it had gone they said it was fine. The following week they told him they didn’t want to go again, and he gave them a talk about how important it was to persevere. The third week they were waiting in the car park when he came back from the shopping, the session in full swing behind them, and they said they were definitely not going again. They refused to explain. They said it was nothing. Lee looked at him pointedly and told him he wouldn’t understand. The clocks went back and the nights overtook the short days. The sound of gunshots cracked down from the woods in pairs. At home once Andrew was finally asleep Irene ran a bath as deep as she dared, steaming hot and salted, and winced into it. Her body always felt lighter under the water. The salts had given the water a dark-green tinge which almost hid the bruising on her arms. She rested her head against the end of the bath and listened to the settling sounds of the house. The creak of timber, the water in the pipes, the frantic breath of Andrew’s sleep.

On Bonfire Night there was a heavy fog, thick with woodsmoke, the fireworks seen briefly like camera flashes overhead. In the beech wood the foxes prepared their dens. The vixens dug down into old earths and reclaimed them, lining them out with grasses and leaves. In the eaves of the church the bats settled plumply into hibernation. By the river the willows shook off their last leaves. At night the freight trains came more often, a single white light leading and the wagons shadowing heavily behind. The widower asked Clive for advice over pruning his fruit trees and Clive was surprised to see the state that things were in. The plums had silver leaf and needed taking out altogether. The fruit bushes badly wanted cutting back. The timbers he’d used for the raised beds were splitting, and there was no sign of any new hens. It had been a good year for courgettes, he told Clive. He was thinking about keeping bees. Late in the month Brian and Sally Fletcher invited some people to the Gladstone for drinks, and let it be known that it was their fifteenth anniversary. There was a quiet surprise that they felt this worth marking, but there was cheering and applause all the same. More drinks were bought. The two of them left early, and as they made their way home the first snow of the winter started falling, turning in the orange light from the streetlamps and dissolving on the road and not looking like settling any time soon. It had snowed the night before their wedding, Sally reminded Brian. When they’d first set the date they’d been called in to speak to the vicar. They knew there’d been talk about the marriage so they steadied themselves for her to intrude. People didn’t know Sally, was part of it. The age difference was something else. There was a feeling that Brian was being taken advantage of in some way. His family had said this directly. They had taken steps to isolate themselves against the risk she might pose. This was the phrase they used. They said they didn’t want him to think there was anything personal in it but they had generations of the family to consider. He had no idea what they thought they meant and he didn’t much care. None of them had ever let him feel as cared for as Sally did. This was what he’d said to Jane Hughes when the three of them met and it had made her clap her hands with delight. He was embarrassed and told her not to let on he’d said any such thing. She had none of the questions they’d feared she would. She didn’t want to know where Sally was from or how they met or what made them think this would work. She’d baked them a fine lemon drizzle cake and she asked if they’d chosen the hymns. She’d only been gone from the village a few months now and the two of them missed her tremendously.

Richard Clark’s mother went into the hospital in Sheffield and there were some who thought she wouldn’t be coming home. Irene took it upon herself to make sure she had visitors while her family wasn’t around. There was a rota. Ruth and Susanna were seen together on the allotments, cutting holly and fir. Jones had hacked his hedge down to knee-height again and was burning off the cuttings in a slow bonfire, spilling wet smoke across the village. Clive was in his greenhouse. The snow started thinly from a low grey sky and was ignored for a time. Towards dusk it was settling, and by the time Jones had shouldered his tools it was clean and squeaking underfoot. There were springtails in the rotting sheets of plywood stacked against the wall in Fletcher’s orchard, and the juveniles among them were shedding the first of their many shell-like skins. Gordon Jackson was seen talking to a journalist who’d come up from London to do a piece on the tenth anniversary of the girl’s disappearance. The piece was going to be about the impact on the village more than the missing girl herself. Our readers know about the girl, she said. They can imagine how the parents must have felt. I doubt it, Gordon said. She smiled. Well, okay, but they think they can. Her name was Emma. She was wearing a long coat and a silk scarf, knee-length boots. Her hair was very tidy but she kept tucking it behind her ear. He wondered if she might keep the scarf on. He showed her around the farm, took her in for a pot of tea, talked about the challenges sheep farming was going through. There was a perfume came off her each time she fussed with her hair. When she seemed done talking he told her he had to get on. But you call me if there’s anything else I can do, while you’re here. Eye contact. Careful silence. There was a pattern but it was never routine. Later she texted him and they met for a drink at her hotel in town. She had more questions but he thought it was clear where things were heading. Towards the end of the evening she thanked him for his time and said she had an early start. He went with her towards the stairs and then realised he’d got things wrong. She smiled and said goodnight. He turned away. He didn’t know quite what to do with himself. This was new.