The Stream

by Brian Clarke

  ‘After so many years of decline – most of them, I have to say, a direct result of the policies of the party opposite – the entire region can look to the future with new hope.

  ‘There will be new investment, new jobs, improved road communication from the port to the development complex and from the development to the motorway network.

  ‘A wave of prosperity will roll out from the Broadchalk valley to the communities around it. This is a good day for Stinston, a good day for Farley, a good day for Britain.’

  It was as he said ‘a good day’ for the third time that the piece of silt that had once been part of the shell of one of the snails that used to live above Top Bend, whirled over the head of the young trout in the Cattle Drink and settled behind him. It was so tiny that the little trout did not see it. No silt had settled in that place in winter, since the old man’s son had been a child.

  Year 1, December

  it might have been because there had been no rain and the stream was so low. It might have been because there had been no rain yet and there was less water than there should have been to disguise his outline.

  It might also have been because the water crowfoot had died back as it does in winter and there was less cover to hide him.

  It might easily have been because the stream was so low and the water plants had died back and because he had an ache in his gut. All the fish had aches in their guts, even the ones that the law of continuing had not touched in readiness for spawning. Winter was the time when all the fish went hungry because everything they ate was in hiding or only half grown. So it might easily have been because he was easier to see and distracted by hunger that it happened.

  It might even have been that the kingfisher herself was distracted and misjudged her dive, but when she dived on the fish she could see clearly and yet only glanced it, the trout that had hatched in the womb in the gravels with the grey stones all around and the brown stone on top was given a wound in his flank that burned like fire and a scar that would mark him for ever.

  Year 2, January

  every year a trout spawned, it spawned in the same place. The fish upstream of the falls spawned in the shallow water above Top Bend and most of the trout downstream from the falls spawned close to the Cattle Drink. A few fish used the three tiny streams to the west.

  All of these places were perfect for spawning because the law of continuing had made them that way. The stones in the gravels there were of the right size, which is to say a little larger than a big trout’s eye and the water there was the right depth, which is to say about as deep as a big trout is long.

  The law of continuing had taken special account of the eggs when the gravels were made. It had decreed that the currents should be so fast over the gravels that no silt could settle over them. In the exact places on the gravels where the fish had been told to dig their scoops, the law of continuing had provided springs to well up from the stream bed so that the stones and the eggs could be washed clean from below. In the interests of the fish as well as their eggs, the law of continuing had decreed that the water in the stream should always be cool because cool water could carry more oxygen than warm and the fish as well as the eggs would need a lot of oxygen to survive. There was no small thing, not even the uttermost small detail, that the law of continuing had not made perfect for the fish that needed to spawn.

  It was in the week that shares in Plantains and Greenmount soared because of the contracts they had been awarded for work on the development that the hen fish opposite Longate moved. On the day the old man was worrying about his bank statements again and his son was again urging him to modernise the farm, the hen fish began to swim steadily upstream, following the route that the current had marked out. The hen fish from opposite the shingle banks followed soon after and then the hen fish and the cock fish that had held lies close together near the kingfisher’s nest, moved in behind them both.

  In ones and twos other fish drifted in behind them and followed, sidling through the currents and forging softly through the pools, working their way upstream like aimed shadows, gradually uniting into a threaded queue around the insides of the bends and the outsides of the gravel bars. It was only on the spawning beds that they spread out and paired.

  Some fish found the places they wanted and began to dig straight away. The hen fish from Longate took time. She lay for days over the space she had chosen, seeming to measure and test it, drifting this way and that while the cock fish that had claimed her drove all challengers away.

  It was on the day when the woods beyond the valley were echoing to the high calls of men and the whirr of pheasants’ wings, about the time that the first shot was piercing the crisp, thin air, that the law of continuing rolled the hen fish over.

  The law of continuing gave her no mercy. It thrashed her on the gravels from first light. It thrashed her so hard that her sides became scratched and her scales became loosened and her tail became ragged and torn. Little by little a scoop was dug.

  When the scoop in the gravels was the right size and the right depth, the law of continuing laid the hen fish into the space and laid the cock fish beside her. The moment his flank touched her flank the law of continuing consumed them both. She felt a great tension arise and shake her, then a light fined to a bright point inside her head and she heard a high note singing and singing until it snapped and her jaws were wrenched wide and her eggs spilled out in a rush. As her eggs were taken, the cock fish that had fought away all others for this one moment alone was given a brighter light of his own and his own high note and his milt was removed.

  When the two fish were drained and spent and their high notes had gone and their bright lights were bleached and flat, they separated. The cock fish backed downstream and the hen fish covered her eggs with stones and the President of Cogent Electronics called the meeting.

  When the hen fish was satisfied that her eggs were safe she drifted downstream ragged and spent, then sidled across the current towards the log where spawned fish often rested and rested there.

  It was almost dark when she headed back to Longate. It was almost dark when the fox found the scales of her mate glinting on the bank and smelled the smell of the heron that had taken him. It was almost dark before the young man stopped pressuring the old man again and the old man went to his room and looked at the photographs of the farm as it had always been and felt the leaden weight inside.

  Year 2, February

  david Hoffmeyer had listened intently, his deep chair canted back and rocking lightly, his legs casually crossed, his elbows on the armrests and his fingertips together, saying nothing.

  Ron Garnet, Chief Development Engineer for Cogent Electronics, clicked the button on the remote control. The last graph disappeared, the screen went black and the teak doors that thirty minutes before had slid noiselessly open, slid noiselessly closed. Garnet pressed the button under the table. The curtains in the window waltzed to a rhythm of low click-clicks and the New England sunlight flooded in.

  Garnet slipped into the chair next to his boss, Jack Visconti. Hoffmeyer, Cogent’s President, looked down the table.

  ‘Gentlemen?’

  There was a pause. It was as though everyone was waiting for a ball to stop bouncing. Hoffmeyer’s easy dominance of his Executive Board often had that effect when there was a big decision to be made. No one wanted to step in first. No one got to be President of the third biggest electronics business in the US without being able to blow hot as well as cold. They had all been burned at one time or another.

  Hoffmeyer turned. ‘Jack?’

  The Director of Manufacturing and Development pursed his lips and then nodded. ‘Nothing to add to what Ron and his team have just told us.’ Visconti nodded towards Garnet. ‘The M and D perspective is clear. We need a high skill base, reliable suppliers, the right costs. We need a sophisticated infrastructure – especially good roads and access to a port as well as an airport. If we’re going to put this facility into Europe – and we’ve already been t
hrough that – it’s got to be Germany, Italy or the UK.’

  ‘And you want Germany.’ It wasn’t a question.

  ‘Fairway technology has tremendous potential. The Japanese are behind but they’re working on something similar. We need the smoothest fast start we can get. We’ve got the lab and the plant in Germany, lots of skilled people we can pull out temporarily. We can get this programme up and running with them while we train the new staff we need.’

  Hoffmeyer drank the last of his coffee. ‘No problems with infrastructure. No problems with the Government. What about costs? German costs are high. And we can’t have another Milan.’

  Visconti grimaced. ‘David, Milan is fixed. It’s taken care of. Yes, I’m happy about costs.’

  Tom Spicer, Global Director of Marketing, had been leaning back in his seat with his arms outstretched, palms flat on the table. He made a scarcely perceptible movement with his right index finger and drew instant attention. ‘I know what Jack’s saying. From an M and D perspective he has to be right – in the short term, anyway. But if you follow his logic you end up putting everything into Germany.’

  Hoffmeyer gave him a nod. ‘Go on.’ He knew what was coming. Spicer had called him the moment the agenda had gone out.

  ‘From a Marketing perspective – from a whole-business perspective – this is a political decision as much as anything. Italy still frightens me after Milan. I agree the only real choice is Germany or the UK. But we should go for the UK. We’ve got a big piece of the German market already. We’re late into the UK for the reasons we all know. There’s massive opportunity there, huge Government business to be won. If we could get some Government business in the bag we’d have a base. Then we could go after other sectors. But if we want Government business we’ve got to do something to earn it. We’ve got to give them good reason to buy from us. There’s no shortage of competition.’

  Nick Brewster, Director of Corporate Affairs, cut in. Spicer had given him the cue they’d agreed. ‘What Tom’s saying makes sense. Yamahatsu have a plant in Scotland, Gong have pretty well everything UK-based through their ownership of Britcom. They get Government business because they invest in the country. If we can show the Government we’re just as committed to the UK as the Japs are, put down some roots there, create jobs, they’ll have an incentive to deal with us. I think the idea of getting Fairway technology into the UK early would bowl them over. There’d be so many spin-offs. After the recession they’ve been through, I think they’d bite our hand off. They’d push business at us to get us in and keep us in.’

  It was a long time before Hoffmeyer wound things up. ‘All right. I’d like more work done on this. I agree about Italy. Italy’s out. We’re talking Germany and the UK. Jack, I’d like to see more on costs, timings, impact of this new employment legislation the personnel team mentioned. Tom, come back with a clearer view from Marketing – current penetration by product by value by sector, like-for-like potential Germany versus the UK. Anything else you think is important.’

  He turned to Brewster. ‘Nick, get one of your people over to the UK. Go yourself, talk to the Government. Tell them we’ve got the biggest M and D facility this corporation has ever built, to put into Europe. Tell them Germany’s the front runner but we’re looking for a reason to build in the UK. Make clear what this could mean for them in jobs, exports, technology transfer, all of it. Make clear we’d look for a smooth entry, no problems, no small print. Lay it all out. Make them understand we’re looking for co-operation.’

  It was not until Brewster had got through to London and spoken to the Minister’s office and the surveyors were packing up for the day at Stinston Bridge that the old man noticed the silt behind the island and the white rings around the three old posts. It was only when he turned on the news that night and heard the statistics that he realised just how dry the winter had been.

  Year 2, March

  the heron in the beech tree felt it first. He had been watching the fox trotting by the Oak Stream, following the line of scent that the rabbit had left, when the branch beneath him moved. It was as though he had been standing on a sleeping creature that had stirred. The heron half-lifted his wings, took his weight on the air, regained his balance and settled again. The branch eased forward and back.

  Upstream, the sky was as clear and blue as it had been all winter. Overhead, two ostrich plumes of cloud, high and thin, were reaching forward. There were more high clouds behind them, flat and white. Downstream, the clouds were low and bruised. Rain was hanging under them like torn rags.

  The heron felt another breath and the rushes shivered. A duck flew upstream like an arrowhead homing. The moorhen that had been under the tree at Top Bend ran back to her nest, her head tilted forward and her long legs striding, her feet leaving a chain of rings ebbing out.

  When it came, the rain advanced up the valley like a grey wall. It seemed to fall in single pieces, smacking and thwacking. Then it drummed and roared. In no time it was cascading from the farmhouse gutters and leaking through the crack above the door to the stalls. The cattle on Five Acre stood in conference and endured it. The mares kept their heads down but it seeped into their eyes.

  The rain that fell all day and almost all night and part of the next day ran down the wooded slopes and gathered at the bottom. It ran from one hollow to another and joined them up. The Tussock Stream and the Oak Stream and the Barn Stream turned brown. The grannom fly behind the island was crucified on an eddy and drifted in circles with her legs hanging down.

  The trout that the kingfisher had scarred felt the water lift and its lightness go. He felt a low strength rising and an unsettling push. The trout edged nearer the bank and hugged the bottom. The mayfly nymph beneath him backed down her burrow and lay still. The patch of chokeweed that had held on all winter at Middle Bend lifted and turned downstream, dark as an old coat. The willow tree behind the Otter Stone fell into the water when the bank beneath it collapsed.

  When the stream flooded Hinters it raced straight for the mole’s tunnel and headed down it. The push of air in front of it seized the mole’s brain and held him; then the water rushed up behind him and caught and consumed him in a torrent of mud and dust and grass and seeds and small stones and cockroaches and ants and half-eaten worms and his own dried droppings. It pushed and bundled him until he wedged at the place where the big stone jutted out and the claws of his foot became trapped in the root. The mole struggled briefly then he hung there limply, jostling and swaying with his eyes wide open and his throat clogged up.

  So much rain fell on the day that Nick Brewster had lunch with the Minister’s number two and the day after that when he met the officials, that all work on marking out the route of the road had to stop.

  Then the sun came back just as hot as before. By the time the first of the swallows was lifting and soaring and sculpting the air, the stream was no higher than it had been since the summer and the white rings were showing again around the three old posts.

  Year 2, April

  it was in the week when the city of workmen’s cabins was completed at Stinston Bridge that it arrived. In some ways, the old man thought, it was worse than if it had come out of the blue. At least if something came out of the blue it was because you had no inkling of it before. But, of course, he had known there was a problem. He had tried to push it to the back of his mind but little by little it crept further to the front. A bit like a gathering storm, really. Like that or an illness. At first, nothing. Then a change, a change so subtle that by the time you realised it was there you knew it had been there a while. You tried to ignore it or hope it would go away. Some symptoms and omens. A low gnawing, maybe. Or a sudden stab of pain. Diagnosis.

  That was how it had all built up. For years, everything had chugged along. Then things were okay, then a bit of a struggle, then a worry. Costs up, income down. Making do. Suddenly patching and fixing. Putting off till next month when that cheque comes in. The roof, the tractor, the ditches. The land itself.

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sp; Pressure from his son. Worst of all, pressure from his son because there was no escape from that.

  Now the letter. The old man read it again, pulled the drawer open and pushed the envelope to the back. A warning, however he read it. He would have to answer it sooner or later but he could hold out for a while. Which, of course, he would do. To the very last minute. To the very last second. No, the bank could wait.

  Year 2, May

  it was a tiny movement, a tease in his eye, a smudge on his vision, no more. The trout that the kingfisher had scarred whirled, curved himself so that the current swept him downstream and then edged forward. He saw the movement again and stopped, riding the water like a sleek, tethered kite, lifting and sliding, soaring and dipping. The puffs of silt were rising behind the flat stone, lifting like signals as though to attract him. The trout moved nearer. He saw the burrow in the stream bed and the mayfly nymph in its entrance. He saw her edge forward as if to emerge and then suddenly retreat. Another puff of silt she had disturbed, drifted out. The trout turned on the water, edged downstream again and approached at a shallower angle. In the time the small movement took, the mayfly nymph seemed to throw all caution aside. She braced her legs against the burrow entrance, pushed hard behind her and scrambled out.