Jon McGregor: Reservoir 13

Richard’s mother was still in hospital after Christmas, and when he came to stay for the week he spent most of his time on the ward. She hadn’t taken to hospital life. She seemed diminished by the experience. Some mornings when he arrived he thought she wasn’t in the bed at all. He sat with her, and she slept often, and he caught up with emails. The staff got to know him, and offered him tea and coffee, and he marvelled at the care with which they spoke to his mother, addressing her as Mrs Clark, speaking with something like love in their voices although he knew it couldn’t really be love. In the valley the rain was constant. The river thickened with silt from the hills and plumed across the weirs. There were scratch-marks in the heaped soil around the badger sett, and a trail of leaves and grass where fresh heaps of bedding had been dragged underground. The pantomime was Dick Whittington , with the lead role taken by Susanna Wright. The production committee had chosen a rather modern script, and afterwards there were objections. Clive raised it at the parish council, saying that he had concerns about the use of dick. Janice Green excused herself from the room for a short period, and on returning asked Clive how he would prefer that to be minuted. As is, Secretary, he said. As is. There was rain and the wind was biting. On the reservoirs the water was whipped up into whitecaps. It was a decade now the girl had been missing, and although little talked about she was still in people’s thoughts. Her name was Rebecca, or Becky, or Bex. She’d been wearing a white hooded top with a navy-blue body-warmer. She would be twenty-three years old by now. She had been seen in the beech wood, climbing a tree. She had been seen at the railway station. She had been seen by the side of the road. She had been looked for, everywhere. She could have arranged to meet somebody, and been driven safely away. She could have fallen down a hole. She could have been hurt by her parents in some terrible mistake. She could have gone away because she’d chosen to, or because she had no choice. People still wanted to know.

At midnight when the year turned there were fires in three sheds at the allotments, and again they were burnt out before the fire brigade arrived. At the school the lights were seen on early, and when Mrs Simpson walked from her car and came into the staffroom she was surprised to see Miss Dale already sitting there, working on a lesson plan and eating toast. They looked at each other, and Miss Dale asked if Mrs Simpson had overslept. I don’t know, Mrs Simpson said. I don’t, I don’t really know. She seemed confused. The nights were hard with frost. On the high frozen ground a ewe stumbled and died, and the buzzards came to feed. A smell of coal-smoke hung over the village through the days. In his studio Geoff Simmons sat on the sofa and watched the last batch dry. He had left them out too long and they were cracking. The kiln should have been on by now. He had made no sales for weeks and could feel another bad patch coming. He wanted to take the whippet out for a walk but there was too much weight in him to stand. There were plates and bowls in the sink to be washed. She’d said she wanted to see him again and he hadn’t yet told her he’d had enough. She wanted to come and stay so she could help him get his living space together. Those were her words. She’d asked whether he’d thought about teaching. It would make for a more reliable income, she said. He was finding her less persuasive than he used to. At the Jacksons’ the carers were only coming twice a week now. Jackson was finding it difficult to get out of bed again, but that was more down to the tremendous weight he’d put on than anything to do with the stroke. The adaptations they’d fitted to the shower room went unused. Towards the end of each day Maisie filled a bowl with hot water, added soap and a little oil, and carried it through to the front room with flannels and a towel.

A scrap-dealer came for the remains of the caravan in Fletcher’s orchard, dragging out the chassis and wheels and leaving the shreds of blackened plastic on the ground. They were soon covered over by the brambles which had grown high around the walls. The fieldfares had started leaving already. Irene took a long walk back from the bus stop, up behind the post office and round to the top of the allotments. It was warm for the month and as she came over the rise she unbuttoned her coat. In the lane she saw Jones. She expected him to turn away but he nodded and stepped towards her. Said her name. She stopped. He looked at her steadily, waiting. Weather, he said. It’s not what it was, she agreed. He was tracing a line in the limey soil of the lane with his boot. Andrew away on the bus? She nodded. She told him she’d dropped him at the bus stop, that he’d be at the centre all day. Gives me a chance to catch up with some housework, she said, smiling. He nodded. He looked at her, steadily. There’s help, he said. I’m not sure as I know what you mean, she said. I can manage the house. He shook his head. No. I mean there’s help, if he’s hurting you. Irene had a feeling like her legs going out from under her but when it passed she was still standing. She could see Clive on his allotment, digging. He seemed to be looking in their direction. But he wouldn’t be able to hear. It’s not like that, she said. She was whispering. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t mean to. Jones lifted his hat and rubbed his head and put his hat back on. Probably none of my business, he said. But you took enough of that from Ted. You’re not obliged. Jones was the last person she wanted to have this conversation with. Where would he go? she asked. He’s got no one. He wouldn’t understand. Who have you got? he asked. She took a deep breath and pulled her coat together, fastening the buttons. He was right; this wasn’t any of his business. She couldn’t say anything more. She held up a hand to say it was enough, and she walked on. What was he thinking. What right did he have.

From his window if he slid far enough down the pillow Jackson could see the flag on the tower of the church and know the strength and direction of the wind, and in March the first westerly of the year had the flag standing out straight. It had him thinking of the flags on the moor when they were looking for that girl. The allotments committee got the insurance money for the burnt-out sheds, and there were rumblings when the replacements went up. Everyone’ll be burning out their sheds if that’s what you get in return, Clive said. Susanna Wright took on the allotment plot next to Clive’s. It had only been vacant a few months and was in good order. She walked round it with him and started talking about a shed, new paths, a lawn area with a table and chairs. There was a greenhouse but some of the panes were missing and she talked about replacing those. He nodded but he was making a face. You look like you have a suggestion, she said. Clive pulled some shreds of plastic feed-bag from the brambles by the greenhouse and began coiling them around his fist. Not really a suggestion, he said; more of an observation. Susanna waited. We get a lot of new folk taking on plots, he said. They like to do a lot of tidying up. They like to make the place look nice. Make themselves comfortable. Takes a lot of work. Gets so they forget to do the planting. Susanna nodded. There were some pieces of broken glass in the soil beneath the brambles, and she crouched down to pick them up. And that was my mistake last time? It’s a question of priorities, he said. You get your plants in at the right time, get the mulch down, do the weeding, do the watering, that’s work enough. You do all that, you’ll enjoy being here. A plot full of healthy plants, crops coming off, flowers out, that’s the best little place in the world. You’ll not be worrying about benches or lawns or tidy paths. Water features. Wind chimes, Clive? He looked at her. I see you putting a bleeding wind chime up here I’ll be straight over to take it down, he said. She laughed, but he wasn’t joking. That’s noted, she said. I appreciate it. I don’t want to meddle, he said. No, please do. Meddle away. He looked at her, and handed over the coil of shredded plastic. Bins are in car park, he said, and as he turned to go she heard him mutter something more about wind chimes. The clocks went forward and the evenings opened out. The bracken shoots sprang slowly from the hills and unwound towards the sky. The penned pheasants on the estate started to lay, and the eggs were taken to the hatchery to be washed and sorted. Su Cooper was made redundant from her job at the BBC, with a much smaller payment than she’d been offered the year before.