Rapids (11 page)

Where’s Wally? Phil demanded.

Vince couldn’t find the thing. He searched everywhere. He was upset. I can’t believe how seriously you’re taking it, Louise said. It’s only a cheap toy. Mark came to their tent to tell the girl she was supposed to be helping with dinner. The Louts are on. Vince just couldn’t find the stupid puppet. He was sure he had tied it to his cag.

Vincent has lost Wally! Phil shrilled. He ran from tent to tent. Wally missing believed drowned! Re—drowned! Stock market’ll be tumbling, Adam remarked. He was hanging out the wet kit. Wally wasn’t on Vince’s cag, nor in his dry—bag. Enormous fines, the chinless man insisted, shaking his head, smiling wryly, if only to pay the increase in our insurance premium. A grave breach of trust, Max mocked. Unspeakable punishments. There were decades of literature on Wally, Keith said. He was a mythical figure, a patron saint of river communities, the archetypal paddler. Went over Niagara, Mandy joined in. His disappearance presages disaster. Vince looked everywhere. The boat, the minibus, the tent. There’ll have to be a funeral, Amelia announced solemnly. Ask not for whom the bell tolls. Someone who’s lost Wally, Caroline announced, has to buy a substitute and wear it for the rest of his life. She tried to hold a gloomy face, then burst into giggles. It was time to eat spaghetti bolognaise.

We have a new feature on the landscape, Mandy announced as the meal was finishing. Let’s drink to Keith’s Rock, a remarkable underwater geological feature discovered by the Yorkshire man Keith Graham. There was applause, and a toast: To Keith’s Rock! but immediately followed by a chant, from all the children, Where’s Wally, Where’s Wally? They were sitting in a circle on the ground, their plates on their laps. The sun had long since gone behind the mountain beyond the town, but the evening was still bright, the air warm. Then Michela stood up from beside Clive and came round the circle to whisper in Vince’s ear, They’ve stolen it, silly. They’re teasing you.

May I say a word? Vince asked. He cleared his throat. Pigs, Slobs, Louts. He paused. It is with regret that I must inform you that while the eminent discoverer Mr Graham was in hospital after the christening of his remarkable rock, I was unfortunately obliged to go to the police station, to report a, er, serious theft. Indeed a kidnap. Wally, a character, or rather a spirit, a haunting presence, whom we all agree, I think, is the ghostly heart and soul of our commu—nitty, without whom, etc.— Wally, or at least the effigy he is obliged to inhabit following his untimely decease, has been taken from us and is presently being held against his will. Now I must warn you all that the Italian
carabinieri,
if not the Austrian
Polizei,
will be arriving in just a few moments to question everyone and search all the tents. The criminals face summary execution. You have just a few seconds to own up.

His daughter, he noticed, was smiling. Then suddenly Wally was flying up in the air in the middle of the circle. The tiny bear wore a small red and white scarf. Who had it? Who stole it? It fell without a bounce beside a stack of dirty plates. Nobody owned up. The creature was awarded then to Max who had forgotten to replace the drain plug in his boat after emptying it at lunchtime and had almost sunk before he realised what the problem was. I shall cherish our patron paddler and protector, he announced, more carefully than has my predecessor. Oh aren’t we affectionate, Brian said. His prede—what? Phil demanded. As on every evening, the boy had returned his food almost untouched.

Serious note now folks, Keith interrupted. Serious announcement to finish the evening. No doubt word has got around that our two illustrious instructors had a bit of a barney yesterday evening. About politics, would you believe? Politics! Brian groaned. What’s that? They’ve made it up, of course, but from now on, the rule is,
no discussion of politics
for the rest of the trip. Okay? Anyone caught discussing anything that could remotely be considered to be political will be obliged to run round the whole campsite in just their underpants. Yes, please! Max shouted. Oh shut up! What matters here is us, our paddling, learning to help each other, making the group work. Is that clear? Any outside or personal interests, however noble, must be sacrificed to those goals for as long as we’re together. Now, tomorrow will be a half day; we’re going to drive out to a slalom course for the morning and do two or three runs to sort out who will be able to do the tough trip on the last day. Then it’s rest time for the afternoon. You can go into town or take the cable car up to the glacier.

The Pigs were on washing—up duty. Amelia and Tom stood side by side at the big sinks outside the bathrooms. You’ve left a bit, the girl complained. She had tied her hair in a ponytail. It’s a mark on the plate, Tom said. In the plastic, look. They bent their heads over it. No it isn’t. Yes, it is. They nudged elbows and pushed each other and giggled, both clutching the plastic plate. Beneath the inevitable straw hat, Max made faces to Vince. I think I love you, he began to croon, but that’s what life is made of. The boy did an excellent imitation of the hamster’s mechanical movements, imaginary microphone in one hand, drumstick in the other. It’s a manufacturing defect, can’t you see! Tom shouted, but he let the girl hold his wrist. They were tugging, laughing in each other’s eyes. And it worries me to say that I’ve never felt this way. Max dropped his tea towel over their heads. Idiot, Tom yelled, but the economics student seemed perfectly happy with the situation.

Someone tapped Vince on the shoulder. Dad? Louise had put a skirt on, and a short top. She wore earrings. Can I have some money to go to the bar? Just behind her, Mark was hovering nervously, a polite smile on his face. Handing over a note, Vince felt old and disorientated. The Pigs were now occupying three sinks with piles of dirty dishes and the kids doing nothing but fool around. Come on team, he told them, let’s get going and do it properly. Tom. Amelia! Come on now. When Amelia started carrying the plates back to the kitchen tent, Tom suddenly became earnest again and asked Vince how far it was really possible for a government to establish the true volume of the money supply. A professor at LSE had shown them an unbelievably complex calculation. Discovering the exact quantity of the supply was largely irrelevant, Vince said. What mattered was to establish whether it was going up or down, which actually was all too easy. Ooh, I know, Max laughed, I know!

Afterwards, weary of company and conversations, Vince went for a walk around the large campsite on his own. A Jaguar with Dutch plates was parked in front of a luxury caravan. Through the window he glimpsed an elderly couple and, on the table between them, a goldfish in a bowl. He stopped and looked again. Why would anyone drive from Holland with a goldfish? A tiny child on a tricycle circled a waste bin. Somewhere out of view Italian voices were singing to the accompaniment of guitar and accordion, while behind the surface buzz of the site, thunder rolled faintly in the peaks.

Vince looked up. The glacier beyond the castle was obscured by mist. Shining from behind the nearest mountains, a last flare of summer light had turned the vapour to bright milk above the sombre gorge below. It was like some of the skies they had seen in old paintings in Florence, Vince thought: cosmic drama above tortured saints. He stopped. There was no passion between myself and Gloria, he said out loud. To his left was a low tent with a large motorcycle beside it. A haggard woman in early middle age sat cross—legged in black leather pants, smoking, reading a thriller. The thunder came louder. Was that what she meant when she said, I’m so sorry? He began to walk again. The week in London— all work— year in year out; the weekend, full of domestic chores. There was no passion, he repeated. He stepped aside for a car carrying four bicycles on its roof. But does that matter? There’s always something so stupid about passion, Vince told himself. That girl, he thought, is more intelligent than to say those things she said to you. As if the world’s sick could all suddenly be healed. She says those things, he thought, to be in love.

Come on, a voice interrupted: You haven’t got Wally to talk to now, you know. Adam was beside him. Loos are cleaner this side of the campsite, he explained. Want a walk? It’s going to rain, Vince said. So we’ll get wet, Adam smiled. He suggested they climb the hill behind the group of houses at the entrance to the site. There was a church poking out from the woods above, perhaps half a mile away and a few hundred feet higher. There must be a path. But what if there’s a storm? Vince worried. We’ll get drenched, Adam said equably.

They walked quickly, out past the camp shop and bar, the larger church in the valley that rang its bells every morning. Finding a signpost, they struck off up the hill and were soon among thick pine trees. You were talking to yourself, Adam repeated. Getting old, Vince said. The chinless man seemed in good spirits. He said how wonderful the air was here. He worked in insurance, he explained, policy design, risk calculation, dull stuff. What did Vince think about the government’s plans for new banking regulations? Watch it, Vince objected. We’ll be running round the site in our underpants next. He didn’t like the way people kept insisting on his professional life. Oh, I’m not about to whack you round the chops if we don’t agree. Adam stretched the corner of his mouth and touched it gingerly. Bloke’s a primitive. Well—meaning, but primitive.

Vince said nothing. This is an attempt to make me an ally, he thought. The path crossed a meadow, then was back in the wood again. Odd this thunder, he observed, always there but always far away. It’s up on the plateau, Adam said, at seven thousand feet. You know? Different world. After a while they heard the sound of water splashing on stone. It was getting nearer. In the twilight, beneath the dark—green pines, they stood on a small log bridge over a stream that fell towards them down mossy black rock. Adam chose this moment to say how sorry he had been about Gloria. He really should have come to the funeral. We taught a couple of courses together, you know, a few years back. Then we did the Ardêche trip of course. She was really kind to my wife when she was in hospital.

Thanks, Vince said.

Gloria was a wonderful woman, Adam insisted. So full of energy. She gave her time so generously.

Vince had heard this description of his wife from various sources. We’ll get caught walking down in the dark if we don’t hurry, he said. But Adam wanted to press on. They were almost at the church. Your main problem with your paddling, he began to say, is the way you sit too far back in the boat, as if you were afraid. Apart from breaking in and out, you’re usually safer leaning forward, in the attack position, reaching for it.

The path climbed steeply and was stony now and damp. The air had taken on a cool, sweet smell. Vince was wearing sandals and his foot slipped. Eventually they reached a low wall; a gate led into a churchyard with just a few dozen graves. Neat lines of black wrought—iron crosses stood at the head of thin rectangles of shale. In the centre of each cross was a photo of the deceased, a name, some dates. When they both stopped a moment by a fresh grave, smothered in yellow flowers, Adam rather cautiously asked Vince where he had had Gloria buried. She was cremated, he said. I scattered the ashes in the estuary. Oh. Adam seemed taken aback. I really should have gone to the funeral, he repeated.

The church itself was closed. Opposite the door, beyond the graves, a bench looked out across the valley. They leaned on a low parapet. Down below, the road from Bruneck to Sand in Taufers streamed with headlights, but above, the slopes were already colourless and vague with just here and there, high, high up in the forests opposite, an occasional solitary light: some lonely
baita,a
family with their cattle on the high meadows. Strange being so cut off, Adam murmured. With sudden intuition, Vince announced: You know what the last thing Gloria said to me was? His voice was hard and angry in his throat. I am so, so sorry. He was almost croaking. Those were her last words. She had just a few seconds to speak— she phoned me, you know, she knew she was dying, she recognised the symptoms and managed to phone— and that’s what she said: I’m so sorry. Turning, he found Adam staring at him in alarm.

It had begun to rain. The drops were clattering on the tents when they got back. Vince went to the bathroom then lay on his sleeping bag to wait for Louise’s return. The rain came harder. It drummed on the kayaks roped to the trailer, on the kitchen tent where Phil and Caroline had begun to kiss. Adam was also lying alone, concerned that his son was late, thinking about that moment in the graveyard withVince. I miss you so much when I’m away, he texted his wife. The bedridden woman sent a reassuring reply. Sarah’s baby was doing fine.

The thunder cracked louder now. In the chalet just beyond their pitch, Michela and Clive had been talking round in circles. You just want me to leave, don’t you? she repeated. No, I need you, he said. We’re in this business together. We invested the money together and we’ll have to pay it back together. He began to talk about an e—mail he had received from Diabolik, one of the members in their militants’ news group. There was to be a big demonstration at the American airbase in Vicenza. Some people were going to break in and sit on the runway.

The rain fell harder on the roof. Michela watched her man as he spoke. She had made herself a camomile tea. Her stomach was unsettled. He had insisted on whisky. He was smoking. Come to bed, she said softly. He shook his head. The river will be rising, he said. He picked up the book he’d been reading.
The Case Against Nestlé’s. Then
the thunder cracked right overhead and the rain fell with loud slaps against the windows.

Towards three a. m. those who had managed to sleep were woken by a wild clanging. The church bell, not a hundred yards away, had begun to ring. In boxer shorts, pulling a plastic waterproof about him, Vince ran squelching from his tent and banged into Mandy. Did it mean there was going to be a flood? There was something gothic about the woman in her white nightdress in the teeming dark. She was fighting with an umbrella. The guy—ropes need tightening, he said. She clutched at him and almost fell. The nightdress was soaked. It was odd to feel the embrace of her body, the heavy breasts.