Reservoir 13

by Jon McGregor

  By April there’d been no proper rain for four weeks and there was a lack of good grass for the stock. The new month brought a warm wind from the south and by mid-morning the village was hung with wet washing. Susanna came in from her run through the woods and rushed to pour herself a glass of water, gulping it down before she’d got her breath back and feeling the cold shock of it wind down through her chest. The Spring Dance was held in support of Water Aid, at the insistence of Mr Wilson, who said that if they thought they were having a hard time with this so-called drought then he could tell them a few things to think on. His thoughts on the matter were known, and the decision was approved without him needing to hand out the information sheets he’d brought with him. Jim Stephenson from the high school brought his brass band for the dance. Rather than the more traditional pieces, they played arrangements of disco classics: Stevie Wonder, Donna Summer, Sly and the Family Stone. When he’d first introduced these pieces to the band Jim had needed to listen to them on CD in order to familiarise himself; but by now, with the performances confident and smooth, he found himself conducting with a movement that was close to dancing. Jim Stephenson was not a young man. Afterwards at the bar Miriam Pearson asked what had been going on with his hips. Some people watching had been amused but Miriam’s response was something else. Slightly flushed but not at all embarrassed, he told her that the music left him unable to keep still. That’s where you feel it when the rhythm’s doing the right job, he said, and Miriam smiled. That’s very true, Mr Stephenson, she said, as he wiped at his bald head with a large white handkerchief. There were St George’s mushrooms up on the bark chippings by the timber yard, and as far as Jones could tell no one else knew they were there. He took pleasure in fetching them since the yard had been sold to the Hunters. Was like taking something that belonged to Stuart Hunter, and he’d never liked the man. One of the protesters up at the camp broke his leg and had to be carried down the hill by the mountain-rescue team. He’d been trying to leap from stone to stone; something which was talked about as an ancient rite of passage but which was clearly impossible when the gaps between the stones were looked at in the cold light of day. The missing girl’s mother was seen with a man no one recognised, walking through the village. In the evening they were in the lounge bar of the Gladstone, sitting closely together and sharing a bottle of wine. She seemed to make a point of meeting the gaze of anyone who looked for too long, and holding the gaze until it was moved away. At one point in the evening they were seen to be holding hands.

  In May the days broke open with light. Breakfast was eaten under the spell of clear sunlight, and tea prepared to the sound of children playing outside. In the horse chestnut tree by the cricket ground the woodpigeons were fighting, rearing up at each other with rattling wings. It wasn’t always clear what kept them from falling out of the tree. The noise of it could be heard as far down the road as the church. Early before school Jones was out at the allotments earthing up potatoes. Clive was on his plot putting out the courgettes from his greenhouse, but Jones didn’t see him and soon headed home, his tools over his shoulder. Later Clive saw Miriam Pearson carrying trays of plants to her plot from a car. She’d bought them in the garden centre, he took it. They’d need a whole lot of water before they even got into the ground would be his suggestion but he wouldn’t give it unwarranted. Her path edges were looking neat. At the parish council Janice Green read a letter from the bus company which threatened to remove the service unless there was an improvement in the car-parking situation. There was general objection to the letter’s tone but it was conceded that they had a point. A discussion about enforcement and pinch points ensued, and when everyone seemed to have finished William Pearson said that really what they were talking about at the end of the day was Martin Fowler constantly parking like a cunt. A number of those present actually turned their faces away. Judith was asked not to minute that last remark, and William was asked to leave, at which time it became clear that the coffee he’d been pouring from a flask all evening had been mainly whisky. Once the door was finally closed behind him it was noted that he did have a point about Martin’s parking habits, and it was suggested that words would be had. In the conifers above Reservoir no. 5, a buzzard sat warmly on her eggs while the wind pulled through the trees. There was rain in the evenings of the sort it was pleasant to be in for a while, taking the dust from the air. Ashleigh Wright friended her father on Facebook. He had found her and sent a message and she was excited to be in touch. She knew not to tell him where they were living, but there was enough in her posts for him to work it out. He dropped the name of the village into conversation and she had a bad feeling she couldn’t tell anyone about. Richard and Cathy took Mr Wilson’s dog in her car up to Reservoir no. 13 for a change of scenery. It was high ground, and the wind cut straight off the edge of the moor, pushing the water in dark furrows towards the top of the dam. They walked along the track around the shore, leaning into the wind and raising their voices as he told her he was thinking about moving into his mother’s house for the long term. He could take on contracts that didn’t require him to travel. He told her he’d enjoyed spending time in the village after so many years away. It had been good reconnecting with people. He asked what she thought and she said he should think about all his options carefully. She asked how his mother was doing, whether she’d had any more falls, and he felt her nudging the conversation away from what he wanted her to say. He let himself be nudged. He said she seemed fine but they were keeping a close eye on her. They reached the head of the reservoir, where the track came to an unsatisfactory end. When they turned and headed down to the car the wind at their backs gave them a sprung posture, their knees braced slightly to keep from running.

  In June the widower moved in to the old Tucker place. He came up the lane one morning in a hired van, and from his allotment Clive could see him unloading boxes and bags and chairs. It was obvious he was going to need help. Clive waited until he saw the man sitting on his wall for a rest and then went up the lane to offer. There was a sofa and a bed and a couple of long wooden packing cases in the van. The carrying didn’t take long. The widower was polite in his gratitude but there were no introductions and Clive wasn’t invited inside. The weather brightened again and in the sunlight the river was like glass beneath the packhorse bridge, breaking only when it fell over the weir. The keeper went out checking licences. It was known he was thorough so there was rarely anyone fishing without. But the holidaymakers sometimes knew no better. Les Thompson towed the mower around the first of the fields, cutting from the outside in, lifting and dropping the mower at each turn and leaving a broad swathe of grass to wilt in a haymaker’s sun. Brian Fletcher brought a mug of tea and a plate of toast outside and balanced them on the low wall beside his car. Sally had been up and out before he woke, leaving a note on the kitchen table to say she was off for a walk through the old quarries. Butterflies, again. This was her thing now. It was hard for him to see the difference a lot of the time, or to get close enough to tell. A flash of colour, gone in a moment. It was hard for him to take an interest. But she didn’t expect him to, just as he didn’t expect her to take an interest in his cars. No doubt she couldn’t tell the difference either. She probably hadn’t noticed that this was a new one. A 1968 Citroën DS with swivel headlights. He’d been after one for some time. It had taken some discussion before the man would sell. The emails had gone back and forth. But he’d been patient. He had a way with words, he liked to think. He had a way of judging what to say, and when to say it. The whole thing had been reminiscent of when he and Sally had first conversed. The emails that had gone back and forth before they’d even met. He looked at the clean lines of the bodywork, the elegance of the silhouette. He finished his tea and his toast, and went to lift the bonnet. In their nest in the conifers the first buzzard chicks were hatching. The long days raised the hedges high. Down by the river the walkers had already left a network of flatted paths in the meadows. Winnie worked on the well-dressing designs,
the sheets of greaseproof paper spread across her dining-room table. She started with the framing and arches, moved on to the lettering, lined out the sky and clouds and sun and hills, and finally detailed the figures and animals in the foreground. As always, she doubted it was sufficient for the committee’s purposes; as always they assured her effusively that it was. Three young blackbirds appeared on Mr Wilson’s lawn, plump and bristle-feathered, and were taken by crows. In their colonies the bats gave birth and held their pups in the folds of their wings. There was a nightly shift and murmur as the young bats fed and the movement was like a breeze through the trees.

  At the end of his first year of university, James Broad drove his things back to the village and put them in the bedroom that had once been his. He’d been told he needed to do sorting out in preparation for the move. Neither of his parents could afford to buy the other out of the house, so they were selling up altogether. His mother was buying an ex-council flat at the end of the Close, and his father was moving away. James didn’t know what he would do. They’d told him he was free to choose. Sophie Hunter had failed her end-of-year exams, and come home unsure of what she needed to do to even qualify for her second year. Her mother told her she’d be able to resit them, surely, but that it wouldn’t be the end of the world to retake the year. Her father said that no matter what happened they were proud of her and they loved her. It was the obvious effort it took to say these things that stayed with Sophie. She felt as though she was the one who needed to make them feel better. Her mother was under the impression that a year of wild partying had got in the way of studying, but the truth was she had just found the work too hard. I do understand that this is a time for discovering yourself, her mother said; and if you can’t party out when you’re young then when can you? Sophie told her it wasn’t like that. There aren’t even that many parties, she said. I am doing the work, I’m just doing it badly. Her mother dropped her voice, and asked if Sophie was using protection. Sophie held up a hand and asked her to stop. It’s not like it was in my day. Just so long as you stay true to yourself. Sophie put her fingers in her ears and told her loudly that she couldn’t hear. Jess Hunter smiled fondly at her daughter. She could remember doing exactly the same thing to her own mother when she was that age. At the top of the meadows by the river the ox-eye daisies were thick through the knee-high grass. In the long grass around the cricket field the first skippers were emerging from their pupae and unfolding their wet wings. There were second clutches of swallows successfully fledged and their white flashing underbellies curved through the evening. The Workers’ Educational Association group took an IT-skills course. There was some awkwardness when a question was anonymously submitted about how to avoid stumbling on sites with excessively adult content. Brian Fletcher asked what the hell was meant by excessively adult, and nobody wanted to explain.

  Susanna Wright opened a shop in the old Tucker hardware place, selling crafts and gifts and greetings cards. She stocked a good range of pottery and Geoff Simmons was known to have taken offence. His studio shop was further out of the village and he was always struggling for trade. Susanna offered to stock his work but he declined. His reasons were mumbled but she heard him say knick-knacks and took offence of her own. He wasn’t invited to the opening party and he wouldn’t have gone if he was. There was sparkling wine and bunting in the street, and a man in a waistcoat who stood outside playing an accordion and trying to catch someone’s eye. People took pleasure in a new business being opened, although it was assumed that only tourists would buy the manner of thing she was selling. Cooper took a picture of Susanna with Rohan and Ashleigh outside the shop, the accordion man leaning in to the shot and all of them raising their glasses. The picture went on the front cover of the Valley Echo, and Ashleigh posted it on her Facebook page. In the morning the sun was high by the time Thompson’s men had finished the milking and washed out the parlour. They scraped out the muck and hosed down the surfaces, the water running greenish-brown and then clear into the drains outside. They went back to the house for breakfast. They’d been up three hours already. There’d be more money in pouring the milk straight down the drain. If the prices didn’t pick up soon it would be impossible to carry on. But there was nothing else. The reservoirs were like beaten pewter. A caravan appeared in Brian Fletcher’s orchard, wedged between the brambles by the gateway. There was moss in the window frames and silver tape across a crack in the panelling. It wasn’t known what Fletcher had in mind. At the heronry the nests were almost abandoned and the ground was littered with fallen sticks. The heather was in full bloom and the purple of it spread across the hills. There was rain for a week before the cricket match and no chance of play but the Cardwell team were entertained at the Gladstone all the same. A darts match was played to settle the trophy, which Cardwell carried comfortably home yet again. Mike Jackson told his family he was planning to emigrate. This place is never going to split five ways, he said. Maisie waved at him to quieten down and Simon slipped through to the sun room to turn up the TV. Any normal family would have settled this by now, but we’re supposed to just hang on and see what surprises Dad’s got in his will? He thinks he can sit in there and run the farm by remote control, but he hasn’t got a clue. You know that. We should have diversified years ago, expanded, taken on loans. Maisie was watching him talk but she couldn’t really hear. She was thinking about how far Australia was, and the certainty that she’d never go. It’s just for a while then, is it? she asked. They’re crying out for experienced men down there, Mike said. It’s good money. You can save up enough to come back and set yourself up then, in a year or two? There’s cheap land in the northern territories, he said. Grants and everything. But it’ll just be temporary? Mike looked at her. He was her youngest. He was the last. It’s only Australia, Mum. It’s not the moon.

  The summer had been wet but in September the skies cleared and the mud in the lanes was baked into thick-edged ruts. There were springtails under the beech trees behind the Close, burrowing and feeding on the fragments of fallen leaves, and somewhere deep in the pile a male laid a ring of sperm. A blackbird’s nest was blown from the elder tree at the entrance to the Hunter place, the mud mortar crumbled and the grasses scattered as chaff. Tony produced an arrangement of hops for the Harvest Festival display, and it was certainly striking but there were some who felt the pungent smell was out of place in a church. Jones’s sister was seen at the post office, buying packaging paper and string, and this was understood as some kind of a breakthrough. Irene sometimes told people that Jones’s sister had been at her wedding, and had been the very life and soul. Such a shame, what happened, she would say. As though anyone actually knew. On Sunday in the evening Brian and Sally Fletcher ate a meal together. Brian grilled lamb chops and boiled potatoes while Sally made a salad. It was a rule they had, to make sure they did this. For most of the week they kept different hours, and communicated through notes on the kitchen table. This suited them both. They had come to marriage late, and were each comfortable in their own company. But they’d decided they should always eat together on a Sunday night. I don’t want to go forgetting what you look like, Brian had said. A meal, and a conversation, and then settling down together to watch whatever was on television. It was something about a murder, on the whole. At the allotments Ruth was seen working alone, pulling handfuls of beans down from the overloaded canes. The leaves were covered in blackfly but this late in the season she wasn’t concerned. It was food for the ladybirds at least. She was letting the courgettes mature to marrows because even if no one really liked cooking them they did look good in baskets outside the shop. They made people think of harvest festivals, and that made them come into the shop and spend money. The blackberries were thick on the brambles growing up around the greenhouse, and she thumbed a few into her mouth each time she went past. There had been words with the allotment committee about the brambles. The matter was not yet settled. Her phone beeped, and when she read the text a smile opened on her face that she found herse
lf hiding behind a berry-stained hand. She sat on the bench for a moment, watching the shadows lengthen across the valley and feeling the warmth and thinking carefully about her reply.

  On Mischief Night there were stink bombs down every side street and passageway until the supplies ran out. Irene was heard grumbling that if they thought that was mischief they were leading very sheltered lives indeed. She asked if she’d ever told the story about her late husband hiding an entire dairy herd, and was told that indeed she had. There were costumes from popular horror films, and pumpkins with carved, glowing faces. Few turnips now. The stubbled fields on the south side of the church were thick with fieldfares feeding. In the pub while Irene was cleaning there was talk of a Bond film the cinema club was putting on. Someone said it wasn’t one of the better Bonds, and Irene said if it was the one with Daniel Craig in then it was the best. Now there’s a man, she said. I’d pay good money to watch that man in a documentary about paint drying. She had expected laughter but there was silence. She carried on mopping, and told them to lift their feet. She didn’t know why she’d said anything. People were surprised. Thought if you were sleeping alone that your blood had stopped circulating. Thought if you were not capable of exciting a man’s attention there was no excitement left in you. People were surprised by the most obvious things sometimes, it seemed. You only live twice, Tony said, from behind the bar. Classic Connery, Martin chipped in. There was a debate. Irene put the mop bucket away. At the school there was a row when Mrs Simpson brought in some heating engineers to inspect the boilerhouse and Jones refused them access. You can’t do this kind of thing without notice, he said. It’s not your boilerhouse, Mr Jones. I’ll not be pushed, he told her, and the engineers said they’d come back another day.