Reservoir 13

by Jon McGregor

  In July Will and Claire were married. The church was full of people who’d known them since childhood. Jackson was brought down in his wheelchair, dressed in a new suit he’d had bought for him on account of his changing size. There was food at the Gladstone, and dancing in the village hall. Gordon Jackson was seen dancing with Susanna Wright, but nothing seemed to come of it. Susanna and her children had become known about the place. She was volunteering at the playgroup in the village hall, and had kept going with the yoga class. She’d taken on an allotment, and put her name down for the pantomime. She was quick to talk to people, and even Irene had said it was likely she’d settle in. The boy Rohan had made a decent stab at his GCSEs despite the disruption, and had sparked up a romance with Lynsey Smith. They were seen walking together, down by the river or through the beech wood, but more often they were just in the bus shelter by the cricket ground, kissing until their faces were raw. There were jokes made in the Gladstone, and even Susanna wondered when they would find somewhere private. She’d long since put a condom in his wallet to be on the safe side, and happened to know it was still there. Ashleigh had made friends at school but there was only Olivia Hunter who was her age in the village. She spent a lot of time on the computer. At the allotments Martin sat on the bench at the top end of their plot. Ruth’s plot now, although she’d raised no objection to him spending a little time there. She was making a better job of the place on her own than the two of them had done together. He didn’t mind admitting that. It meant something. It said something about the two of them. Or perhaps she was getting help. From someone he didn’t know about. It could be that. It could have been that all along. They could be looking at him now – Mr Wilson stooping over his asparagus beds, Clive forking out his compost – and pitying him for what he didn’t know. This wasn’t a line of thinking that helped, of course. He’d been advised. There were steps he could take, to steer around this line of thinking. He straightened his back and lifted his head and made himself a larger vessel for the difficult feelings. He looked outside himself and took other sensory information on board. He listed the plants he could see. Gooseberries and strawberries and currants; sweetcorn and courgettes and beans; nasturtiums and marigolds, sweet william, sweet peas; spinach, lettuce, kale. Nettles, cow parsley, thistles, bindweed. Plenty of bloody bindweed. Whoever the bugger was he wasn’t much of a gardener after all, leaving all that weeding to be done. He opened the tap on the bottom of the water butt and set off down the hill. He had another go at being mindful but mostly he minded a drink. Tents were seen up at the Stone Sisters, and there was talk of an environmental group setting up a protest camp against the new quarry. Les Thompson walked his fields in the evening while the sun was still warm on the grass. The heads were up and the cut would come tomorrow. In the beech wood the fox cubs were taken away from their dens and taught to find food for themselves. A white hooded top was found in a clough on the top of the moor, oiled a deep peat-brown and fraying at the seams. The make and design were confirmed as a match by the missing girl’s mother. The forensic tests took weeks and were inconclusive. Extensive searches were conducted where the top had been found but nothing further was unearthed.

  Sophie Hunter and James Broad were known to be courting. This was the word Stuart Hunter used, without irony. Everyone had long assumed they would get together, but it was only a few weeks before they realised that something was wrong. They were in the cinema room at Sophie’s house one afternoon while her parents were away, and she told him not to take this the wrong way but sometimes it felt like kissing her brother. James told her she didn’t have a brother and she said that wasn’t the point. He wasn’t annoyed. He was almost relieved. He said that when he kissed her it didn’t feel like kissing his sister but more like kissing her mum. She asked when he’d kissed her mother and he said often. She’s a very liberated woman, he said, and she told him he was disgusting. It takes one to know one, he said. They were still holding each other, and although they knew where the conversation was going they were in no hurry to let go. He kissed her one more time, very softly, and shook his head. We used to run around naked together at playgroup, he said. It doesn’t feel right seeing you naked now. People will be disappointed, she told him. Captain of the rugby team and the head prefect? We’re supposed to be the dream team. This is it then? he asked. I guess it is, she said. That’s okay, isn’t it? He nodded. Mind you, she said, my parents aren’t due back for hours. She watched him as she unbuttoned her top. Well, this is confusing, he said. He shifted on the sofa. But if you’re going to be like that about it. She reached for the button of his jeans and they kissed again, quickly, and pulled off just enough clothes to have sex. He came quickly with a shout and a sigh and afterwards she stayed astride him for a moment, stroking the side of his face and telling him they would always be friends. And once they’d wriggled back into their clothes she told him, as though it was nothing, as though she’d only just thought of it, that actually Lynsey really liked him and he should think about that at some point. He shook his head and told her she was a disgrace. She asked him what the problem was. She wasn’t even at playgroup with us, she said. It would be different. He buttoned his jeans and reached for the remote control. You can choose, he said. The cricket team went over to Cardwell for the annual match and found that Cardwell had only managed to get eight players together. There was some discussion over whether the game should go ahead, and when it did the result was a hard-fought draw. Martin disappeared for a week and when he came back he was limping and there were cigarette burns on the backs of his hands. Woods had a longer memory than expected, was all he would say when Tony asked.

  Mr Wilson lived next door to Cathy Harris, in one of a row of old mill workers’ cottages at the end of the lane by the cricket field. He’d moved to the area as a young man to work on the new reservoirs in the hills above the village. He and Jean had met in the drawing office, married within the year, and moved into the cottage together. When Cathy knocked on his door and asked if Nelson needed a walk, he invited her in for a cup of tea, as always. Nelson was running circles in the front room, and she reached down to knuckle him around the ears. He lifted his head and stilled for a moment, and Mr Wilson came through with the teas. He moved slowly now from age, and from his hip in particular, but Cathy remembered him as someone who’d always had an air of slow precision about him. She couldn’t picture him ever having run for a bus. She didn’t think he’d played in the village cricket team, although he’d been known to serve as umpire. He’d been an engineer with the water company until his retirement about five years ago, working on the reservoirs and the treatment plant for most of his career. He was proud of the project’s technical achievements, and knowledgeable on their working detail. His opinions on bottled water were well known. He was a tall man, with long limbs which he always seemed to be arranging carefully as he spoke. She’d never seen him without a collar and tie, although lately he’d been favouring cardigans over the jackets he’d worn before. I’ve made some more of those date slices, he told her, sitting down and smoothing the creases of his trousers as he crossed his legs. In the garden a pair of blackbirds were feeding together on the hawthorn, their young long gone. There was weather and the days began to shorten. At the church it was Maisie Jackson’s turn to put together the Harvest Festival display, and her decision to include a stack of unwashed fleeces alongside the more usual flowers and marrows and corn attracted remarks but nothing was said directly. There were blackthorn hedges on the track to Thompson’s farm that were mostly left uncut. By late September they were heavy with sloes, the black fruits in the sharp air dusted blue. It was a popular spot, and most of them were picked early and frozen to sweeten off, rattling like ball-bearings as they were poured into demijohns and smothered in sugar and gin. Frank Parker submitted his report on verge maintenance to the parish council. It had taken him more than a year to prepare. He was thanked for his work, and his conclusion – that more regular attention needed to be paid to verge maintenance
throughout the village – was duly noted. James Broad’s parents finally separated, and his father moved out to a place in town. The swallows left for the year. There was some confusion at the first Workers’ Educational Association meeting of the term when the book-keeping tutor turned up with a bag of protective clothing and a demonstration hive.

  There were concerns about how Su Cooper was coping with the twins. She was seen arriving at the playgroup in the village hall one morning just as the toys were being packed away. She’d had to unbolt both doors to fit the double buggy through, wrestling it backwards up the step, and as she pulled it into the corner and turned to face the room it took her a few moments to understand that she was too late. Lee ran straight to the toy cupboard and started pulling out the cars, and she had to hurry after him and explain. Most of the other parents had already left. Susanna Wright went over and told Su it would be fine for the boys to play with a couple of cars while everything else was being packed away, and although Su tried to stop him Lee took this as a cue and dragged two cars out for him and Sam. Let me get you a coffee, Susanna said, resting her hand on Su’s shoulder. Su hesitated, and moved away very slightly. Tea, she said. Susanna nodded, and Su followed her towards the kitchen, standing by the hatch and keeping an eye on the boys. They were driving the cars towards each other at great speed, crashing head-on and screaming. Susanna told Su she’d put some toast on. I’m guessing breakfast was a long time ago now, she said, smiling, and when Su didn’t reply she went on to tell a long story about when Rohan had been a toddler and she’d left the house four times in one morning, only to be thwarted by a succession of dirty nappies, spilt food, and a broken buggy wheel. And when I finally got to the bus stop someone told me my dress was inside out and I burst into tears, she said, laughing, buttering the toast and passing it across the counter. Su smiled, thinly. It must have been hard for you, she said; by yourself. Oh, darling, no, I wasn’t by myself then, Susanna said. Things were a lot easier once I was. The boys had started crashing their cars into the wall. It’s always hard, Susanna said, softly. And it must be especially hard with twins. People understand that, you know. No one’s judging you. Everyone knows what a great job you’re doing, okay? She reached across the counter and put a hand on Su’s arm, and again Su shifted slightly away. Her eyes were dry and her mouth was tight and there was a stiffness in the way she was standing. Please, she said.

  On Bonfire Night Irene and Winnie put together a group from the Women’s Institute and opened up the cricket pavilion to serve food. There were baked potatoes and chilli and some of the children poked marshmallows on very long sticks into the blaze. It was a dry night, and at one point the fire burned almost as high as the horse chestnut tree. Away from the crowd, Lynsey and Sophie were sharing a bottle of wine and being sarcastic about the fireworks. Sophie asked what had actually gone wrong with the whole Rohan thing, and Lynsey said it was hard to explain. She wasn’t sure who had ended it, she said. There were arguments and then they just didn’t see each other. But you liked him, Sophie said. Lynsey said yes, she liked him a lot, it was just that he got a bit. She trailed off. In the firelight Lynsey looked at her expectantly. You know, she said. Attentive. He was always doing things for me. Like, always. It was nice at first. It made a change from the way things are at home. But it was like he thought I needed protecting from everything. He was always asking what I was doing. He always looked so fucking concerned, you know? She made a frowning face of concern at Sophie, and Sophie laughed. You can go off a wrinkly forehead, Lynsey said. Sophie asked if she’d basically dumped him for having a wrinkly forehead, and she said she hadn’t dumped him. She’d tried talking to him but he just hadn’t got it. They had these arguments where he wouldn’t argue back. But anyway it was done now. It was over. Sophie asked if he was all right about it and Lynsey said she thought so, she wasn’t sure. Sophie asked whether he might be in need of consoling and Lynsey looked shocked. Don’t do that, she said, come on. He’s cute though, Sophie said. She finished the wine. He’s got a lovely forehead. The two of them were heard shrieking as they walked away towards the road. The bonfire was starting to die down and the crowd was thinning out. The clouds were high and the night was cold and the embers were still smoking in the morning. On the eleventh a wreath of poppies was carried up to the airmen’s memorial, and words said. There were few in the village now who could remember the heavy bomber thudding into the moor, the roar of it carrying across the valley and the awful explosions that followed and the smell of the peat burning for days. The ribs of the fuselage shone silver in the heather, picked as clean as sheep bones by the wind and rain.

  Jane Hughes had started calling in to see the Jacksons regularly, talking mostly with Maisie about the farming and her family and then putting her head round the door to say hello to Jackson. She’d never so much as tried to bring a bible into the house, Maisie told Irene. I think she just likes passing the time of day. Jackson’s even started asking after her, though he doesn’t say much when she’s here. But she needn’t think we’re going to start watching Songs of Praise. She didn’t tell Irene that last time Jane had been there Maisie thought she’d seen her place hands on Jackson’s forehead and say some kind of prayer, and that Jackson’s eyes had closed in what looked like appreciation, and that she’d wondered about all the things she didn’t know were going on inside of that man’s head. At the allotments there was little left to harvest, save the first tender buds of Brussels sprouts. The badger sett in the beech wood was quiet. In the deep sleeping chambers the badgers were keeping still, waiting for the winter to pass. There was low cloud and rain, the sodden fields churned up with the force of it and the sky staying dark for days. The river pushed under the packhorse bridge and carried its rising force to the weir. The reservoirs were high and the water poured over the rim of the spillways, cascading down the steps to the culverts which fed through the base of the dam. The missing girl’s father hadn’t been seen all year. There were reports in the newspapers that he’d been reunited with the girl’s mother. It couldn’t be said that his brooding presence was missed. Late in the month there was snow and the Jacksons went out on the hills looking for ewes. They carried sacks of feed on the back of the quad bikes and brought the flocks down to the lower fields. There were no losses yet but if this weather kept up it was likely. There was carol singing at the school on the last day of term, the hall hung with decorations and the words on a screen and the parents perching on tiny chairs to join in as the sky darkened outside and the weather closed in again. While shepherds watched their flocks by night, they sang, glancing up at the moors; all seated on the ground.

  The missing girl’s name was Rebecca, or Becky, or Bex. She would be seventeen by now, and the police published a computer-generated image of how she might look. There was something about this approximate-Becky that seemed too smooth. As though the Becky in the picture had been kept in a sterile room and was only now coming out, blinking, unsteady on her feet and with no more sense of the world than the thirteen-year-old child who had gone in. The police said they hoped the increased publicity surrounding the image’s release would encourage people to rethink their movements at the time of the girl’s disappearance. There were dreams about her appearing on television again, gazing at the cameras as she was hurried from a car to a house in a London street, unable to talk about where she’d been. There were dreams about her crawling through the caves, her clothes smeared with mud and tar in the dark. There were dreams about her held captive, in basements and isolated barns, always with something across her mouth or her eyes. There never seemed any way to stop it. She had been looked for, everywhere, and she hadn’t been found. She’d been looked for in every shed and greenhouse on the allotment, doors kicked in if the owners were away, old rolls of carpet and plastic matting lifted, torches shone in behind armchairs and stacks of peat and coils of hose. It wasn’t known what more could have been done. The allotments were cold and bare, exposed on the high ground to the wind which came scouring up the
valley. In his greenhouse Clive was laying out seed potatoes, half-listening to Susanna Wright, who was leaning in the doorway with a seed catalogue. She was telling him about the heritage varieties she was planning to order. It sounded quite the quantity. Her voice kept going up as though these were questions, but he didn’t think she was asking advice. He wasn’t going to offer if it wasn’t called for. He did know that no one had successfully grown globe artichokes on this site yet. Through the iced greenhouse glass he could see the tops of the beech trees bending in the wind. There was Jones leaning over his spade, digging over his entire plot once again. The man had a love of bare soil that was hard to fathom. Jones was keeping his eye on the old Tucker place. He cut the ivy back from the windows and went up a ladder to clear the gutter. It would do no one any favours if the place went to ruin. His sister wanted to know where the Tuckers had gone and who would move in next. He said he didn’t always have the answers. He asked her not to ask so many bloody questions, and when the tears came he said he was sorry. It went on like this. This was how it went on.

  5.

  At midnight when the year turned there were fireworks on the television in the pub and dancing in the street outside. The evening was mild and dry. The village hall had emptied out and when the bells were rung there was cheering for the first time in years. Richard Clark came home on New Year’s Day, and when his mother opened the door he could see all her bedroom furniture crammed into the front room. Jackson’s boys came and moved it for me, she said, as though that were an explanation. It was a shock, he told Cathy later, as they walked by the river with Mr Wilson’s dog. He hadn’t known how reduced his mother’s mobility had become. His sisters had told him nothing. He wondered if they even knew how long it was taking her to get up out of her chair, to walk through to the kitchen and put the kettle on. He wondered how she was managing to get to the shops. There were people who helped, presumably. Neighbours. Irene. Cathy didn’t like to admit that she’d had no idea. She rested her hand on the wall as she squeezed through the gapstone stile, and stooped to let Nelson off the lead. She watched Richard squeeze through the gap. He thought there was something in the way she looked at him but it was probably nothing. That was all a long time ago. They’d both moved on. He understood that. They were different people now. He remembered how restless he’d been then, when they were seventeen and imagined they were in love. He’d been impatient for everything, and all they’d seemed to talk about was getting away from the village; going to university, travelling the world. He’d never disliked the place, or the people. It had just seemed natural to want to leave, and natural to want to talk about it even while they were undressing each other and learning what was possible with the scratch and yield of the heather beneath them. He wondered now whether Cathy really had talked about it in the same way, or whether she’d just let him rattle on. Patrick had never mentioned leaving. Richard remembered that much. He’d never talked about the future at all. There was no need. He just kept working in his father’s timber yard after school, while his shoulders got broader, his hands rougher, his wallet fatter. Everyone knew he would inherit the yard once his father retired. It was the sort of certainty, Richard had realised later, that some people found attractive. He looked at Cathy now, walking on ahead, her stride long and effortless between the trees. He wondered if she was thinking about any of this. It seemed unlikely. She looked back at him, slowing for a moment as she told him to keep up.