Jon McGregor - Reservoir 13

Cathy knocked on Mr Wilson’s door and asked whether Nelson needed a walk, and he was halfway out of the house before she’d even finished speaking. I think we’ll both come this morning, he said, Nelson already on the lead and bounding out ahead of him. As smartly dressed as ever, with something extra about him this time; the creases on his trousers sharper, perhaps, or his hair trimmed shorter. They turned left at the church and walked down past the orchard and the lower meadows to the packhorse bridge, and once they’d crossed the river Cathy asked whether he didn’t want to stop for a breather. He started to claim there was no need but thought better of it, standing beside the bench and gesturing for her to take the seat first. They sat and listened to the water turning over beneath the packhorse bridge and the crows rising and falling from the sycamore trees. Nelson snuffled around in the long grass on the riverbank. The sun was high and the day was almost warm in the shelter of the overhanging rocks. Cathy tilted her face towards the sky to enjoy it. This was the first day of the year she’d been able to savour being out of doors. She noticed how still Mr Wilson was beside her. He felt poised. They were sitting closer together than she’d realised, and now he lifted a hand from his lap and laid it on her knee. Somewhere a little higher than her knee. It rested there, loosely, and they both looked at it. For a moment they seemed as surprised as each other. She lifted his hand, which was softer and warmer to the touch than she might have imagined, and placed it gently back on his lap. Neither of them spoke for a moment. My apologies, he said. But you won’t fault a man for wondering, will you? She smiled, and shook her head. It’s just that one does get lonely, on occasion, he said, looking away up the river. I know, David, she said, softly; we all do. The river turned over beneath the packhorse bridge. Nelson hunkered in the long grass, and Cathy reached into her coat pocket for the plastic bags.

Lynsey Smith moved in with her new boyfriend, who lived in one of the new houses on the far side of town. He was older than her and worked as a surveyor for the quarrying company. He owned the house and had two cars, and although it had started as something she expected to be brief she realised she’d grown fond of the certainties he carried with him. He had a tidy home and he could cook and he bought her thoughtful gifts. He encouraged her to apply for the nursing school she’d been talking about since she’d graduated. His name was Guy and she’d met him while she was working at the Gladstone. She told Rohan about it one evening, when he’d come into the bar on his own. He was sort of charming, she said, but he wasn’t trying to be charming, if you know what I mean? Rohan nodded. He had no idea why she was telling him this. I knew he was interested, but it was like he was interested in me and not what he could get from me, sort of thing? He sounds nice, Rohan said. I’m pleased for you. I know it looks sudden but it just feels right. Does it look sudden to you? I think you should trust your instinct, Lynsey. Exactly, it just feels like the right thing, all of a sudden. You get to our age and sometimes you just know these things. And it’ll be good to move out as well, it’s been a nightmare living at home again. How about you, how’s things? How’s your mum? Your mum, Rohan said, automatically. The Spring Dance was held to raise money for repairs to the churchyard wall, and went off without more than the usual incident. New steps were cut into the embankment leading down to the new footbridge by the tea rooms, and within weeks the earth of each step had once again been trodden deeper than the boards set in place to hold it back. A pair of goldcrests built a nest in the spruce at the end of Mr Wilson’s garden, too high for him to see the work of knitting grasses and moss together.

Richard’s mother had kept hold of most of her husband’s possessions after he’d died, and he was having to sort through all those as well as hers. Cathy had come across to help, and they’d emptied boxes full of paperwork from the wardrobe over the bed. There might be some of this you can just chuck without really looking at it, she said. There were men on the roof, repointing the chimney and re-laying the slates. They could be heard shuffling around precariously. Every now and then a broken slate was flung over the side, falling past the window and smashing into the skip by the front door. There were glimpses of his father all over the paperwork: in his handwriting, in the names of the farm suppliers he’d dealt with, even in the slight smell of engine oil and tobacco. And although it had been almost twenty years now Richard still found himself thinking back to the funeral. He’d only come over for the day, and had felt detached from the whole thing. He’d seen Cathy and Patrick as he was leaving, and that would have been the first time he’d seen them in years, and he hadn’t been able to tell if they were awkward about that or just awkward about not knowing how to express sympathy. It was known that he hadn’t much liked his father. He’d made it easier by asking Patrick about his work, asking them both about their sons. Cathy had held him, stiffly, and Patrick had shaken his hand. That was the last time he’d seen Patrick. A few years later, his mother had called him to say that Patrick had just peeled over in the street, and been quite put out when he told her she probably meant keeled. You weren’t even there, she’d told him. How would you know. Another slate was flung from the roof and smashed into the skip, and Cathy began picking through all the papers spread across the bed. There might be some letters here I suppose, she said. There might be something your sisters will want to see. Before he knew what he was doing, his hand was resting lightly on her back, his fingers trailing down along the thin wool of her cardigan, bumping over the bones of her spine. She didn’t stiffen or move away, as he would have expected had he thought about it first. Rather she seemed to soften to his touch, to ease her back slightly towards him. She was old enough for grandchildren now. It should have been too late for something like this. On the roof the men pulled out more broken slates and flung them over the side.

In early May a group of students doing a sponsored walk were lost in a thick fog while coming down from the Stone Sisters. Somehow they ended up around the back of the cement works, and when they were shown where they’d got to on the map they refused to believe it. There were fires started in the Hunters’ haybarns and in the bins behind the tea rooms, but there was nothing to link them with the New Year’s Eve fires. There was still no evidence that those had been started by the same person. By the beech wood the wild pheasant chicks were hatching. They came out in a crouch and scattered from the nest, scratching around for food and ignoring their mothers’ calls. The twins went on a school trip to the visitor centre, and when they came back Lee wanted to know about Rebecca Shaw. He said it quite casually, with his fist in the biscuit tin, and Su had to keep her voice light as she explained. He nodded while she talked, and she guessed he’d heard most of this at school. So what happened to her? he asked. Nobody knows. She was never found. She’s not dead then, Lee said, through a mouthful of biscuit. She might be, Su said. It seems likely. She would have turned up by now. Nobody stays hidden for that long. I could, Lee announced cheerfully. Me and Sam worked it out. There’s all those tunnels under the hill, mines and stuff. You could hide in there, and come out at night for food. You could come out in a different place every time, and no one would know. You could live down there for years if you wanted. You know, if there was a war or something, or if you were being hunted. That’s what she might be doing. Waiting for the right moment to come out and surprise everyone. How old do you think she’d be now, Mum? Su felt cold. She sat down at the table and put a hand to Lee’s cheek so he would look at her and concentrate. She told him very calmly that he must never go into any of the mines or caves. Ever. She asked him to promise. Her expression frightened him. He promised they’d never go in again. There was rain and the river was high and the hawthorn by the lower meadows came out foaming white. The cow parsley was thick along the footpaths and the shade deepened under the trees. The river rushed under the packhorse bridge. Richard and Cathy were both surprised by the lack of urgency with which they took each other to bed. If they’d thought about it at all — which Cathy admitted she had a little, and Richard said only that it had in fact crossed his mind — they’d imagined stumbling up stairs, tangling clothes, crashing into furniture. But there was none of that. There was a question carefully posed, and an answer thoughtfully given, and then there were clothes folded over the back of the dressing chair, the bedcovers lifted back and pulled over them both. More slow awkwardness than ever there’d been as half-blind teenagers rushing through things up on the moor. It was no less lovely for all that. It was as though, Richard thought, they’d waited for so long that there was now no need to hurry. He had no idea if this was also what Cathy thought. When she came it was with a low murmuring chatter whose repeated words he couldn’t quite make out, her face arched towards the dusty light from the window. Afterwards when he tried to speak she put a finger on her lips and smiled and looked back to the window. There were swallows or house martins restless in the air outside. He realised he should know which they were by now. He knew that she would know. He didn’t know if he should ask.