Where There’s a Will

by Beth Corby

  Attscombe is a gorgeous village. We drive through it, the river sparkling on one side and shops, tearooms and wobbly cyclists passing by on the other. We skirt around parked cars, taking it in turns with the oncoming traffic to make headway along the crowded street, and drive out of the other side of the village. Just as we’re leaving all the houses behind, Alec tells me to pull into a busy, tree-shaded lay-by.

  ‘We’re heading through there,’ he says, pointing to a farm gate. ‘The river’s at the bottom of that field.’

  Leaving the picnic in the car, we grab our swimming things and stroll across the field to a grassy bank full of people sunbathing. Below us the river has formed a large pool where children are splashing about. Given the amount of ducking going on, their parents don’t seem to be keeping much of an eye on them.

  Alec inspects the ground, spreads out his towel and sprawls on his side. I unroll mine and sit down next to him, hugging my knees.

  ‘Good?’ he asks simply.

  ‘Lovely,’ I agree as he gets up again, and pulls off his T-shirt.

  He’s surprisingly well muscled, and I can’t help staring. I turn slightly so it’s not so obvious I’m looking. My eyes are drawn to his torso, which isn’t quite a washboard, but more like the ripples left etched in wet sand as the tide goes out. The annoying side of my brain wants to run my fingers over them. As he folds his T-shirt and drops it onto his towel, his strong shoulders battle with his torso for my attention. Feeling hot and flustered, I can’t help but watch as he removes his shorts. Luckily he’s wearing swimming shorts underneath. I have to force myself to look at the water before he catches me staring.

  Damn it, I realise with a jolt. I should have changed before we came, too – I hate fumbling about under a towel. I take out my suntan lotion and rub some into my legs, stalling. Alec stretches and, walking over to the edge, climbs down the bank and steps into the water. I watch, trying to gauge how cold the water is. From the way he rushes determinedly forward, splashing squealing children, and plunges straight into a confident front crawl, I get my answer – it’s bloody freezing. After a few strokes he turns and laughs.

  ‘Wow! That’s refreshing!’ He flips his hair off his face like he’s in a Diet Coke advert. ‘I’d forgotten what this is like.’ He waves for me to come in. I smile back, not entirely sure what I’m feeling. ‘Come on,’ he calls. ‘It’s fantastic.’

  I am feeling quite hot, so I struggle into my swimming costume inside the towel Mrs Crumpton lent me – which definitely isn’t big enough to serve as a changing room – and pick my way to the river’s edge. Everyone – including Alec – can see my sun-shy body together with contrasting grazes, but despite feeling self-conscious, I’m still not sure about getting in. The water looks muddy, and my mum, having nearly drowned as a child, always kept us away from any open water not fully patrolled by lifeguards. Though personally, I always found the idea of skinny-dipping by moonlight quite romantic.

  I stare at the murky river bottom, wondering if the reality could ever live up to my cinematic expectation, and slither inelegantly down the muddy bank. My feet disturb the silt as they hit the water and I almost slip over, but I grab at a clump of long grass and just about manage to stay upright. Heart beating fast, I look up to check no one saw. Alec is facing the other way, thank goodness.

  ‘Ugh!’ I whimper as mud oozes up between my toes. No, the reality could never live up to the dream.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asks Alec, looking over at me.

  ‘It’s slimy and slippery. And cold.’

  ‘Get in quickly, then, or it’ll be torture,’ he laughs.

  ‘Great advice, thanks,’ I mutter, and take a few tentative steps. My God, it really is cold! Torture is absolutely the right word, and as the water hits the back of my knees, I yelp. I wrap my arms around myself, feeling the goosebumps prickle.

  ‘Why am I doing this again?’ I ask as something, hopefully just waterweed, tangles around my ankle. I kick it off.

  ‘For Donald,’ calls Alec, swimming to the far bank and turning back to see if I’ve got any further. I haven’t.

  I frown at the water. I can’t see the bottom any more; it’s gone all cloudy. ‘Are there any shopping trolleys in here?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. Eels, fish, maybe the odd crayfish, but they won’t bother you if you lift your feet.’

  ‘Wait, what?’

  Alec laughs and does a little duck dive. I inhale sharply as two boys run past, splashing me. Shit, it’s freezing. The only solution is to submerge myself, so I count to ten, take a deep breath and plunge into the water right up to my neck.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ I gasp, much to the children’s delight and the sucked-in irritation of their parents. ‘Sorry!’ I call through chattering teeth, then set off, swimming like fury. Alec swims up beside me, doing a lazy backstroke. ‘Shouldn’t it be warmer?’ I pant. ‘My body’s almost in shock.’

  ‘You get used to it after a while. It feels warm to me now.’

  ‘If there were prizes for being smug,’ I growl, but even as I’m saying it the screaming sensation is wearing off, leaving only numbing cold. I swim further out and tread water, watching some boys failing to climb into a dinghy. After a while I head back, surprised to find that the water is actually warmer nearer the bank.

  I swim a little circuit out and back in again and, now that I’m used to the cold, I start to appreciate how different swimming outdoors is to swimming in a pool. It’s lovely not to taste chlorine, and the wind and sun on my face is so refreshing. I stop and watch the wind blow ripples across the surface of the water, and listen to the birds chirruping in the trees. I lie on my back and float, staring up at the clouds, feeling like Millais’ Ophelia – until a large yellow dinghy bumps into me, the three squealing children inside all trying to turf each other out. Just before they upend it I swim to the bank, and, sitting on a half-submerged rock, I let the sun warm my body and laugh as the kids try to right themselves. Alec is on the far side doing handstands with some of the older children. They accept him without question, and it’s fun to watch him with his guard down, being so easy-going and patient with those around him. It would be great if he could be like that with me, but then I suppose I was foisted on him, and it’s not like he could turn down Donald’s last wishes, though I’m sure a lesser man would have tried. Perhaps I should be thankful to Alec. Even in the mires of grief, he’s sticking by his promise to Donald to help me through all this, and without him, I’d be fighting through these tasks by myself. If I’m honest, I’m not certain I would have made it past scrumping.

  Feeling something tickling my toes, I snatch my feet out of the water, and look down to see hundreds of tiny fish. I slowly lower my feet back in and watch their small bodies converge on them, their scales shimmering in the water. It’s funny to think people pay for this, and here they are, just swimming in the river. But then I guess it’s like so many things that people pay vast sums of money for; going to resorts, visiting spas, always hoping to buy happiness, forgetting that so much can be experienced for free. Maybe that’s part of what Donald wanted me to take from this task . . .

  The fish scatter as a boy runs past with another mud-spattered child in hot pursuit, interrupting my musings. The second boy is holding a handful of gunge to his shoulder.

  ‘Jackson!’ cries a sharp parental voice from above us. ‘Put that down or we’re going home!’

  The filthy Jackson lets the mud dribble away between his fingers. His target laughs and Jackson, his face puce with rage, barrels towards his opponent who’s standing very near me. I escape up the bank just before the splashing starts.

  Wrapped in my towel, I rummage in my bag for my book and roll onto my stomach to read.

  I’m almost asleep when a shadow passes across my page and I peer up to see Alec standing over me looking lithe, happy and – there’s no denying it – completely sexy. I shade my eyes to get a better view.

  ‘Enjoying yourself?’ I ask, pointedly wiping a
way the water he’s dripped on me.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, towelling his hair vigorously and lying down with a thump beside me.

  I can’t help smiling. ‘Are all boys the same when it comes to water?’

  Alec assesses the kids in the river, play-fighting and using their dinghy as a shield. ‘Pretty much. I’m starving,’ he adds after a moment’s thought. ‘Shall I get Mrs C’s food bunker?’

  They’re probably the same about food, too. ‘Sure. Need any help?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Just give me the keys and I’ll get it.’

  I hand them over and watch him set off up the field. He doesn’t look half bad, and I feel myself blush. I carefully bury myself in my book for a few pages, and look up again just as he’s trying to negotiate the hamper over the gate. He balances it on top, steadying it as he climbs over, then lunges suddenly as it starts to slip, rescuing it by the handle. As he strolls back, I can tell he’s struggling not to show how heavy it is. He waves briefly, and I chuckle as he quickly reverts to carrying it with both hands.

  A sudden urge to get up and meet him brings me up short, disturbing my composure for a second. I stare at Alec, trying to understand my feelings, but they’re too unsettled. Deciding just to enjoy the moment, I make sure I’m reading my book again by the time he reaches me.

  ‘Lunch is served,’ Alec announces grandly, putting the basket on the ground and opening it up. We gape at the contents. It’s a proper old-fashioned hamper with flatware neatly clipped into the lid and, as we start to open the Tupperware pots, we find Mrs Crumpton has packed sandwiches, a quiche, three types of salad, apples, a large fruit cake, ginger ale, cupcakes, sausage rolls and homemade biscuits.

  ‘Wow!’ says a boy, pausing on his way past to stare. Other children run over to gawk, ignoring the disapproving looks and calls from their parents.

  ‘Wow, is right,’ Alec agrees, and undoes the plates, finding both crockery and paper ones. Glancing up at our increasing crowd of spectators, I suspect Mrs Crumpton foresaw this exact moment. Giving me a grin, Alec hands me the crockery, and starts to share out food to the rabble on the paper plates. I find a knife and chop up the fruit cake.

  The children run off giggling with sandwiches, cake and biscuits, only to be sent straight back by their parents to say thank you.

  ‘Thank you,’ sing-song the younger ones, while the older ones are gruff with embarrassment. Alec’s trying not to laugh, and I bite my lip as I serve out food for us. Once the last child is gone, I hand Alec his plate and we recline on our towels and eat, staring out at the river and watching the children who have finished head back into the water.

  It’s idyllic and, just as Mrs Crumpton foretold (for she is the oracle), all the food is eaten. I pack up the hamper and read while Alec frolics about in the water again, and it’s not long before I notice that the clouds are covering the sun for longer and longer periods, and the people around me are starting to pack up. I watch as they organise their children into carrying their inflatables, and they wave to me as they set off back to their cars. I’m staring up at the sky when Alec comes back.

  ‘Is there anything Donald didn’t organise for you?’ he asks, as the first raindrops dimple the water.

  I picture Donald herding clouds with his stick. ‘It would seem not.’

  We pack up our things, tucking our towels inside the hamper, and take shelter under the trees as the last few people leave. The rain intensifies and the leaves billow, showing their silvery under-sides as the wind gusts across the river. The water darkens, turning pewter-grey and hiding what lurks beneath.

  ‘Time for another swim?’ asks Alec, hanging his T-shirt on a branch.

  I stare at the water. It doesn’t look so inviting now.

  ‘Oh, come on! Poor Donald’s made it rain for you. What more do you want?’ cries Alec.

  I watch him climb down the bank before I strip off my top and follow him down into the water. At least I am ready for my feet to sink into the mud, and this time, Alec is waiting for me with his hand out. As he leads me into the water, it feels softer than before, somehow. It’s still cold, of course, but not so shocking and he holds my gaze, his eyes challenging me to something I can’t quite fathom, as he takes me further and further out, until I am swimming. I count out ten strokes and the cold magically recedes. I turn onto my back and look up at the bank. There are blackbirds searching the grass for worms, or possibly Mrs Crumpton’s cake crumbs, and a few pieces of rubbish are the only sign that there were dozens of people lounging there only half an hour ago.

  It’s funny that it should make such a massive difference, but Donald’s right: the rain has changed everything. It’s stripped away all human intrusion, giving everything back to nature. Also, I’m aware of so much more – how the leaves nod as they drip rain, the force of the river flowing around and past us, and how the wind is turning the air in great folds and brushing the trees and water with its fingers.

  I turn to find Alec watching me. I push my hair off my face self-consciously.

  ‘Different, isn’t it?’ he says, his expression inscrutable.

  ‘Very,’ I agree.

  His shoulders suddenly tense, and he puts a finger to his lips and beckons me towards him. I swim over to him as silently as I can and he pulls me into the shallows under the trees. The warmth of his body radiates into mine, and I have to resist the urge to huddle closer. Alec points: there’s an enormous grey bird stalking about in the shallows downstream. My heartbeat quickens.

  ‘Heron,’ he mouths.

  The heron halts and stares into the water, poised on one scrawny, stilt-like leg. It’s perfectly still; a living statue. I stare at the bad-hair-day feathers that bristle on the top of its head, bouncing slightly when raindrops catch them. I hardly dare breathe. The bird suddenly stabs the water and its beak emerges clasping a small fish. It raises its head to swallow it down and then resumes its vigil, clearly not satisfied. It stabs again. The bird’s beak opens wide to accommodate this much larger fish and, lifting its head to the sky, its throat undulates as it swallows. It’s nature at work right in front of me, and it’s beautiful.

  I don’t think I’ve moved – in fact I’ve hardly breathed – but the heron notices us and gives us a hard stare. It crouches and springs into the air on heavy wing-beats, heading further downstream, and I experience a pang of loss.

  I let out my breath and laugh, and Alec looks down at me, his eyes reflecting my delight. As I look into his face, his expression changes until he looks almost stern. He takes a step towards me in the water, slides his arm around my waist and pulls me to him. His hand pushes my hair off my face, his eyes on mine the whole time, and he slowly leans in until his lips meet mine.

  His mouth is warm and almost hard as it collides with mine, but as the initial shock dissipates and the blood surges through me, his lips soften, and we are kissing more passionately than I have ever kissed anyone in my life. My head is swimming and there’s none of the awkwardness of my previous kisses. It’s like a movie kiss, all sensation and hunger, and as our lips part I feel no hesitation in wrapping my arms around him and pulling him closer so that every part of me possible is touching him, everything burning, everything swirling—

  He freezes.

  It’s like I’ve wrapped myself around a tree trunk. I remove myself from his suddenly unyielding body and look up at him. He is staring at me, his eyes wide with alarm. I stare back, unsure what to say, waiting for his reaction, an explanation, anything that might give me a clue as to what just happened – but there’s nothing. Nothing except a look of utter horror on his face.

  Dropping my arms, I take a step back. Alec forces a smile.

  ‘Another task complete,’ he says too brightly, and before I can say anything he turns and swims back towards the bank as if a shark were after him. Perhaps I’m the shark. I stay very still as he gets out of the water, and can just about hear him muttering, ‘Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit . . .’

  What? Why ‘shit’? Su
rely I wasn’t that bad? I thought it was amazing . . .

  He climbs up the bank, shoulders slumped. Then he straightens up, takes a deep breath and turns around with another forced smile. ‘Cup of tea?’ he calls.

  Are you fucking kidding me? Tea?

  I stare at him across the water, completely lost for words.

  ‘I left a flask and some biscuits in the car,’ he says, as if this explains everything.

  What does he expect me to say? ‘Oh yes, tea would be lovely, thank you’? I don’t think so. I can’t forget what just happened. I can’t pretend he didn’t just ‘shit, shit, shit, shit, shit’ all over our kiss. But he’s waiting for an answer.

  ‘OK.’ I swim slowly back across, my mind as numb as my body in the freezing water. He helps me up the bank, dropping my hand as soon as I have a safe footing, as though he’s worried I’ll ravage him at the first opportunity. He should be so lucky.

  He towels himself roughly, but I can’t see his face. I touch my lips, which are still tingling. He glances at me, his slapped-on smile faltering, and starts to throw on his clothes. I pick up my towel and start drying myself, but quickly give up as it’s still raining. I struggle into my damp T-shirt, my skin catching on the fabric, and stuff the rest of my clothes into my bag. He watches me for a moment, but if he’s about to say something, he clearly thinks better of it. He grabs the hamper and sets off across the field. I stumble after him, hopping briefly to pull on each shoe, and only catch up with him at the gate.

  I open the car boot so he can put in the hamper and, while he pours the tea, I pull on my shorts in sharp movements. Neither of us says anything, and I get in the driving seat and stare resolutely ahead. He gets in beside me and the steaming cups of tea he puts on the dashboard mists up the windscreen. I crack open a window.