The Last Summer of the Water Strider

by Tim Lott

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, it’s written there.’

  ‘What else is written?’

  Strawberry laughed.

  ‘Shit, I don’t know. What do you want me to do, tell you if you’re going to be a train driver when you grow up?’

  ‘I thought that was the point of the whole thing.’

  She concentrated again.

  ‘You fall in love easily. And you get your heart broken easily. I know that because your heart line touches your life line. And you have a very deep, long head line. That means you’re smart.’

  ‘How many lines are there?’

  ‘Heart, head, life and fate. This here, this is fate.’ She indicated a line running south-west to north-east on my palm.

  ‘What does my fate line say?’

  ‘It’s very deep. It means fate will play an important part in your life.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘There’s not much you can do about anything. So relax. It’s out of your control.’

  Strawberry dropped my hand.

  ‘I guess you think it’s all phoney, right?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She reached out and picked a string on her guitar.

  ‘You were good at the Fayre. Really good. What was that French song about?’

  ‘It was about someone begging their lover not to leave them.’

  ‘That never works,’ I said, although I had no experience whatsoever in the arena of love. I hadn’t even had a proper girlfriend.

  ‘Would you like me to sing you a song?’

  I didn’t say anything. I imagined that it would be embarrassing; it felt too intimate. But it seemed impolite to say so. Taking my silence as affirmation, she picked up her guitar.

  ‘What would you like to hear?’

  I shrugged.

  She strummed a few chords, then started to sing ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’. She looked at me as she sang it, and smiled. I tried to hold my eyes elsewhere – the whole thing was so unbearably intimate – but I kept flicking them back to her face. Towards the end of the song she began to cry. She leaned the guitar against the wall, and began another fit of coughing.

  ‘Why did you cry?’

  ‘When it says: dragons live for ever, but not so little boys. Don’t you think that’s just one of the saddest lines ever written?’

  ‘I’ve never really thought about it.’

  ‘It’s a terribly unhappy song. All about loss.’

  ‘I thought it was a kind of pothead anthem.’

  ‘That too.’

  ‘My mother used to sing it to me when I was a little boy. She could never remember all the words, so she used to hum a lot of it. But it helped me go to sleep.’

  ‘Is it your mother that you lost?’

  ‘I don’t really want to talk about it.’

  ‘Why don’t you want to talk about your mother? What happened?’

  I shifted on the cushion. There was nothing to support my back and I found myself perpetually off balance.

  ‘She choked on something.’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘I was in the room when it happened.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘It’s hard to talk about.’

  ‘It’s not good to keep stuff bottled up. Don’t you think?’

  ‘That’s not what my dad seems to think. It isn’t what my mum thought either.’

  ‘Did you like her? Your mum?’

  Moving branches outside produced shifting patterns of light inside.

  ‘What kind of question is that?’

  ‘I never liked my mother. She was a bitch.’

  I felt shocked. I’d never heard anyone talk about their mother like that.

  ‘My mother was nice. Nothing special. Boring really. But very nice.’

  ‘How was she nice?’

  ‘The usual ways. Fussing over me. Making me cups of tea. Worrying about me. Washing my clothes. Nagging. She was like all the other mums I knew. Just an ordinary parent. All pressed from the same mould.’

  ‘Do you know that poem about your parents fucking you up? Not meaning to, but doing it all the same.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Henry taught me it. My mum fucked me up. She was out screwing men half the time. Or in screwing men. I could hear her making out in the next room. This was like, when I was six, seven? Can you imagine your mum doing that?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘It’s pretty disturbing. I couldn’t work out what the noises were. I used to think there were ghosts in the next room. ’Cause my mum, she always said she couldn’t hear anything. You know, when I asked her the next morning.’

  ‘What about your dad?’

  ‘He wasn’t around so much. Not that he would have minded, I don’t expect. It was the spirit of the times. Yeah. That’s what he would always say, “the spirit of the times”. My dad’s not such a bad guy, though. He just had a habit of choosing the wrong women.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Oh, still around. Somewhere or other. He keeps in touch. When he feels like it.’

  She got up and opened one of the windows. A slight breeze had arisen and I could hear the branches rustling. She sat back down again.

  ‘I’m glad your mum was nice. And . . .’

  ‘And what?’

  The words came out with an edge. I stared at the floor. I could see splinters in it. ‘I was just going to say I’m sorry that she’s dead.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Do you feel guilty about it?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Guilt’s like poison. You got to get rid of that stuff. I’m sure you did all you could.’

  ‘You weren’t there.’

  My voice came out edgy, harsh. Strawberry flinched slightly. But I couldn’t quite stem the trickle of bile.

  ‘Everyone’s always sticking their nose in. Trying to be “sympathetic”. It’s just about making themselves feel better.’

  As if to pacify me, Strawberry reached out to a white cardboard box sitting on the floor at arm’s length.

  ‘Don’t be angry. Here. I’ve got some of those Greek cakes I told you about.’ She took a dusty white lump about the size of a table-tennis ball out of the box. ‘They’re made of almonds and honey. Too much sugar for me, but I think you’ll like them.’

  She sounded close to tears.

  ‘Look,’ I said, more softly. ‘I know you meant well.’

  ‘Forget about it. I’ll shut up.’

  ‘You see, it makes me . . . Thinking about it. It makes me want to . . . to . . .’

  ‘Cry?’

  ‘Vomit.’

  It felt I had retched the word itself. Or at least that my stomach had rejected it, and it had come out involuntarily, leaving my mouth tasting bitter. I bit into the cake. It was sticky and floury and felt like cotton wool dipped in syrup.

  ‘I know what that feels like. To think of something, and for it to make you ill,’ said Strawberry.

  ‘So maybe it’s better to keep these things to yourself. Maybe it’s better not to talk about them. Not to think about them.’

  ‘You think that’s healthy?’

  The door to the shack opened a crack and Henry poked his head through.

  ‘What in heaven and earth would you know about what’s healthy?’ he asked.

  Fifteen

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘You’re already in,’ said Strawberry.

  Henry pushed open the door, to reveal himself outlined by the timber frame, looking serious and puffing on his pipe. He was carrying a large cream-coloured canvas holdall.

  He took the pipe out of his mouth and prodded the stem in the direction of Strawberry.

  ‘Look at you. You’re fading into nothing.’

  ‘You’re a water sign, Henry. I’m an air sign. I don’t expect you to understand.’

  ‘You’re going to float away sooner or later. A blossom in the wind.’

  Strawberry pulled her legs up under her
self.

  ‘What are you doing here anyway? You’re usually writing at this time of day,’ she said. ‘In fact, come to think of it, you’re always writing at this time of day.’

  ‘I rather felt in the mood for a walk. Maybe to the lake. We could swim.’ He held up the holdall. ‘Towels. Swimsuits. And more. Refreshments.’

  ‘I’d like a walk,’ I said.

  ‘What’s going on, Henry?’ Strawberry looked at him sideways as if suspicious.

  ‘What makes you think there’s something going on?’

  ‘Because, like most lazy people, you’re usually very careful to stick to your schedule. In case you sleep your life away.’

  Henry nodded. He put down the holdall, extinguished his pipe, tapped out the tobacco on to the ground outside, and placed it in the right-hand pocket of his thin cotton pull-ons. Then he pulled the letter I’d seen earlier out of the same pocket and brandished it.

  ‘It’s finally happened. Was bound to sooner or later. They’re trying to throw me off the reach.’

  He stared at the letter, as if not sure what to do with it, then put it back in his pocket. He took a fat roll-up out of his other pocket, lit it and inhaled deeply. The aroma was unmistakable, a pungent reek. Strawberry grimaced and gestured impatiently towards the smoking joint. ‘Not in here.’

  Henry sighed, licked his fingers, extinguished it and stuck it behind his ear. His eyes were already red at the rims.

  Strawberry touched him on the arm.

  ‘Let me see the letter.’

  ‘It’s all in lawyer. You’re not going to make much sense of it. They’ve set a date for a hearing at the end of August.’

  ‘Could they win? What are the grounds?’

  ‘They say I’ve broken the terms of the land lease, because I “concealed my criminal record”. It was fifteen years ago! But they think it will play to the clause that I, quote, “conduct myself at all times with due decorum and appropriate responsibility”. They’re going to need a lot more than that, though, if they’re going to have any chance of success.’

  ‘I guess they don’t think drug smugglers are really of benefit to the local community,’ said Strawberry, waving her hand around again to disperse the residual smoke. ‘Which of course isn’t strictly true.’

  ‘It was one lid of weed. What the hell has that got to do with anything? It’s Wesley Toshack that’s behind it, him and and his greed, all gussied up as piety and community concern. I can’t imagine how he found out about it. He is clearly a very assiduous and determined and dangerous man.’

  ‘You’ll be fine, Henry. It sounds like bullshit. You know your way around the law.’

  ‘It is. I do. It’s not going to wash. Still, I could do without it.’

  ‘Why don’t you just torch the fucking thing, Henry?’ said Strawberry. ‘The Ho Koji. It’s insured up to the fundament. Take the money and run. You don’t need this hassle. Buy a nice bungalow somewhere. You ain’t Peter Fonda any more. Get a rock garden with a few fucking gnomes.’

  ‘I’m not really a bungalow kind of person.’

  He nodded towards the holdall.

  ‘I’m not going to let the casual spite of small-minded people put a dent in this beautiful day. I’m heading for the lake. Coming?’

  Strawberry turned to me.

  ‘Wanna get wet?’

  We followed Henry into the woods, trying to keep up with the long panther-lope of his legs. We walked for ten minutes, largely in silence – an open silence that asked nothing of us. I could hear small creatures, perhaps birds, tussling invisibly in the undergrowth. Tree branches screened out most of the sky, but the heat still penetrated right down to the ground.

  We walked first in parallel with the river, and then veered off into another thicker sector of woodland. There was something magical about the landscape here. Soft green light shadowed the lush, thick grass, which was bedded with all manner of summer flowers growing wild. This part of the woods had a sense of being deserted – for ever untouched. It felt like we three were the only people that could ever possibly be there. I could feel the warm air sweet in my lungs.

  ‘Can you feel it?’ said Henry, stopping for a moment. It was the first thing he’d said since we’d started walking.

  Strawberry and I caught up with him, then we all headed into the heart of the wood. The foliage became denser, and the overhanging leaves thicker. Although no path was obvious, Henry clearly knew where he was going, taking sudden angles of trajectory to the left or right. After we had been walking for maybe twenty minutes, we came to a large clearing.

  ‘We are now precisely in the middle of the wood,’ said Henry.

  There was a pond, or perhaps more accurately a small lake, about a hundred yards across. There were dozens of water lilies suspended on it. Occasionally a breeze that had somehow penetrated the trees corrugated the surface. There were dragonflies punctuating the air, and butterflies.

  Henry chose a soft-looking patch of grass and sat down on it, then beckoned for us to do the same. He reached into the canvas holdall and took out a bottle of red wine and a corkscrew. He opened it and poured it into a metal cup which he had also retrieved from his bag. He handed it to me.

  I took a deep draught. It was thick, almost sticky, and held the tang of liquorice in its aftertaste.

  ‘Aren’t you having any?’ I said.

  ‘I’ll stick with this for today.’

  Henry removed the joint from behind his ear and relit it. I inhaled the fragrant smoke.

  ‘Can I have a toke?’

  ‘I don’t think your father would consider it very responsible of me to offer my nephew marijuana.’

  ‘So when did personal responsibility become one of your guiding principles in life?’ said Strawberry.

  Henry looked at her steadily. ‘People can change.’

  ‘Can they?’

  ‘Aren’t you trying to change yourself?’

  ‘No. I’m trying to be myself. That’s different.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s true.’

  ‘Shut up, Henry. Give the boy a toke if that’s what he wants. Just stop pretending you give a shit about what other people do or don’t do.’

  Henry passed me the joint. I took a deep hit on it. I had smoked dope before, several times. It wasn’t a big deal as far as I was concerned. I fought back a cough, leaned against a tree and inhaled again, deeply, a few more times.

  I stared at the smooth surface of the pond, waiting for the drug to take effect. I could see a collection of tiny insects on the surface, with four legs spread like an X, and two small ones at the front. In the centre was a body the colour and shape of a canoe. The insects were tiny. What fascinated me was that they were walking on water, tiny dimples made in the surface tension by their thin, spindly legs. Not an easy stride – it was more like twitching, sending out violent ripples, then holding still again, balanced perfectly on the surface. I pointed to them.

  ‘What are they’?

  Henry squinted. ‘Aquarius remigis. The water strider, or the Jesus bug. Quite a spectacle.’

  I watched as they skittered across the water’s surface.

  ‘They communicate with each other by the ripples. At least during breeding season. Those ripples are like our words.’

  ‘I wonder what they’re saying.’

  ‘Probably praying,’ he said.

  ‘What would they pray for?’

  ‘For the water to hold them up, I dare say.’

  I took another toke.

  ‘What do they eat?’

  ‘Dead dragonflies, among other things. Ugliness consumes beauty. A little-known rule of nature. That’s probably enough, Adam. It’s heavyweight shit. Industrial-strength. Lebanese black.’

  Henry took the joint from me, sucked out a final puff and made as if to throw it into the wood.

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ said Strawberry, rising sharply and grabbing the stub out of his hand. She extinguished it in the lake. ‘Haven’t you been reading about t
he forest fires? This undergrowth is like kindling.’

  Now I could feel the dope affecting me. A surge of energy pulsed up my spine. My head was buzzing.

  We sat there, the three of us, staring at the pool. The light had shifted. It was a shade of crystalline grey now.

  Henry was right about the dope. It was far more potent than anything I’d tried before. Waves of disorientation threatened to shift me from my mental pivot. I wasn’t sure if it was enjoyable or not. I felt on the edge of something, or at a crossroads. As if I could go either way, towards a kind of bliss or a state of paranoia.

  The landscape around us appeared to be changing. I felt the ground soft underneath me, and looked down to see grass scattered with daisies. Little yellow faces with white frills. As I stared at them, transfixed – were they smiling? – something peculiar began to happen. It was as if time had speeded up. It seemed that I could see the grass grow, then rot and fall into the earth. From the compost more grass grew and decayed and fell.

  The trees around me were doing likewise – palpably growing. It seemed suddenly as if everything was in motion, all the time, dying and regenerating. I could see the air move, as if in waves, and, high above, the spinning of the sun was apparent. It seemed to be darkening in colour, reaching a deeper and deeper red. I felt it would soon turn to black. I was suddenly anxious.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ said Henry pleasantly.

  ‘But everything’s changing,’ I said, as the rustle and thrum of the endless life and death around us filled my ears.

  ‘Let’s swim,’ he said. ‘It will freshen you up.’

  He rose and I joined him, unsteady on my feet.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I said.

  ‘Where are you going?’ said Henry. ‘We each travel alone.’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ I said, feeling afraid again.

  ‘Me neither,’ said Henry. ‘I’m grateful for that.’

  He handed me my swimming trunks and I tried awkwardly and unsuccessfully to pull off my trousers. I didn’t have any inhibitions about Strawberry, presumably because of the joint, but she had disappeared behind a tree anyway to get changed.

  ‘But surely we’re going somewhere?’ I said, trying to stand on one leg in order to disentangle the other trouser leg from my foot.

  ‘Why?’ said Henry.