by Tim Parks
Half an hour later he had to get up to pee. This was what he always hated about camping. Two zips to undo, shoes to find, struggling to your feet in damp grass to pick through the guy—ropes. Gloria loved it, he remembered. I always refused. In Florence, he had taken Louise to an air—conditioned, four—star hotel. The weather had been torrid. Here instead the night was chill and smelt strongly of pine resin; the sky was solemn with stars. But he didn’t raise his head. As he arrived at the bathrooms, the urinals all flushed of their own accord under ghostly neon. I hate campsites, he thought. Why had he come?
Then walking back— it must be three a. m. at least— he saw that the young woman was still sitting where they had found her earlier. He hesitated. He had forgotten her name. She was hunched among the pine roots, face in hands. Somewhere nearby a clock chimed. Perhaps she was expecting another late arrival. There was a church tower just outside the entrance to the site. What if I’m not up to it, Vince worried, crawling back into his sleeping bag. He was a weak kayaker. Before the most ordinary outing he felt a shiver of fear. Maybe that was why he had come.
Then four hours later everybody was woken by a wild clanging of bells. For this is how the day always begins in Sand in Taufers. Christ Almighty, Louise yelled.
A WAVE
The first thing is padding up. Michela stands beside Clive while he gives his little lesson. The course that they have been advertising in canoe clubs all over England is called An Introduction to White Water: Five Days in the South Tyrol. A year ago, Vince Marshall would never have dreamed of coming.
You have to be tight in the cockpit. Okay? This isn’t the Thames Estuary. Tight tight tight. The perfect fit.
Like sex? ventures a voice. Brian has a fuzz of red hair, a small snubbed nose, droll expression.
Actually no, not like sex at all, says Clive patiently. He is wearing a khaki cap. The girls are giggling. As somebody might know, if he had a minimum of experience.
Cru—el!
With sex, Clive continues in his measured sensible voice, two entities move constantly in relation to each other, n’est—ce pas?
Two what? Phil demands.
Michela’s hand is just touching Clive’s as he speaks. Vince, who hadn’t been paying attention, is suddenly caught by this. He stares.
There is a certain amount of lubricant, Clive insists, with only a faint smile beneath his beard. Of give.
I do beg your pardon, Mr Riley, but what time of day is it? Mandy asks.
Two what! Phil whispers to Amal now.
Whereas if you’re properly padded up in your kayak, kids, there should be absolutely no movement at all. Got that. None. You and the boat move welded together in the water.
May I venture to say, then— Max’s facetious voice pipes up— that this is more like the male member’s relationship with a condom.
Oh do shut up! Adam complains.
Only hazarding an ay—nalogy, smirks Max.
Anal? Phil demands.
I said, shut up! Adam insists. Let’s remember some basic rules of decency.
Well, the condom would certainly be a more accurate description, Clive acknowledges wryly.
Let’s just get on with it, can we? Adam is a scout leader. His son is watching him.
My sentiments entirely, says Amelia. For a second she keeps a straight face. She has pretty freckles round a prim nose, long straight black hair. Then all the adolescents burst out laughing. Even the fat Caroline. Even the older Tom.
Oh, I’m going to pee myself, Louise gasps. Vince now notices that his daughter has the top of her wrist pressed into her mouth.
Kids! Keith steps in. Kids, concentrate! If someone wants their four—star paddler this week they’ll have to do more than crack jokes.
Wally! Phil shouts. Where’s Wally!
Keith is aghast. Oh no! Eternal damnation! Then the older man reaches into his open shirt and conjures the little effigy from his armpit. Fooled you!
Clive invites Michela to sit in a boat on the grass at his feet. They have lifted one of the Pyranhas down from the trailer beside the chalet. She’s wearing jeans. She unlaces her trainers, puts a hand each side of the cockpit and slips in. The boat is a bright new blue. They have bought them with a loan. Clive squats down beside her. His beard, just greying from red, is close to her cheek. His blonde hair flows out of his cap in the manner of the American pioneer.
How are the feet?
Loose.
The footrests— gather round, kids— have to be so tight that the upper part of the thigh is jammed, I repeat, jammed under the cockpit here.
Clive puts a strong hand on her knee and pushes it laterally, then waggles it hard back and forth.
Too much give. See?
Michela shoots a glance at him.
They are a couple, Vince tells himself. He can’t concentrate.
Michela gets out and Clive shows the others how to adjust the footrests. The trick is, set it so it’s as snug as can be, right, then tighten up one more notch. Okay? Tight as possible. And then again one more. That’s the secret. If it’s not uncomfortable, it’s not right. It has to hurt. At least at first.
Michela gets in the boat again. They are in the small clearing in front of the kitchen tent. Now she has trouble forcing her knees under the cockpit edges. She wriggles, smiles, grimaces, eyes closed, eyebrows lifted. Youch! It is another expression she learned from Clive.
If condoms hurt that much, a voice mutters, I’ll do without.
Adam twists his head. He seems to be appealing to Keith to put a lid on this.
Brian’s freckled face assumes a saintly glow.
I believe that’s why the Pope is so against them, Max remarks boldly. The boy is wearing a broad—brimmed straw hat, as if at some public—school picnic.
Rock the boat, Micky, Clive is saying. Please, watch carefully everybody. Rock it from side to side.
Sitting upright, Michela leans to the right. She wears a white T—shirt that leaves a hand’s—breadth of stomach visible. Vince looks away. Above the tents and the coloured clutter of the campsite, he lifts his eyes to climb solid slopes rising steeply through gleaming meadow and dark pine to shreds of bright cloud that drift among barren walls of rock. The instructor’s voice fades. Then, further above, even in this month of August, Vince sees patches of snow shining distantly to cap dizzying cliffs of dark stone, gritty corrugated peaks. He breathes deeply. You’re on holiday, he tells himself. To the north a tiny cable car crawls up the gigantic back of the mountain.
See how the body moved first, Clive explains, before the boat? Did you see that? All at once the voice is louder and insistent. Did you? Vince turns and finds Clive’s eye on him.
It is absolutely essential that you take this on board.
Michela shifts her hips, raises a knee, so that the rounded hull of the kayak gradually tips while her torso remains upright. Clive thrusts a hand between the girl’s thigh and the edge of the boat. That’s the space we’ve got to pad out and eliminate. Okay? Any give between you and the cockpit, and the sheer fact is, as soon as you’re in serious water you’re going to be trashed. Which means of course that someone else is going to have to take time out to rescue you. Most of all, remember— now he raises his voice— please, all remember: to do an Eskimo roll successfully in white water, you and the boat have to be one thing, moulded together. Okay? The boat is your arse.
Oh me dearie! Max exclaims, tugging on the brim of his hat.
Clive upturns a big cardboard box full of black polystyrene blocks in plastic wrapping. Everybody was to pair up, get the boats off the trailer, set footrests, then help their partners to pad up, cutting the blocks to the right width.
You can use an ordinary knife for that. There are tubes of glue when you’re sure you’ve got it right. Oh, and do it in your swimming kits everybody. Make it tight. That way it’ll be even tighter when you’ve got your wetsuits on. I want you to feel like you’re in a vice.
Vice is nice! Brian immediately joked. No
body laughs. There is a general sense of anxiety. It’s time to choose boats.
Louise was already paired off elsewhere. Vince saw Caroline grab her friend Amelia. Adam was giving his son useful instructions.
Us oldies should stick together, Mandy said, taking Vince’s arm. Keith’s brought his own boat, she explained. A mauve costume clung to her shapeless body. She has a round face, short hair dyed coal—black and carelessly cut. The two joined the bustle by the trailer. As they lifted a boat down, Vince was aware of being physically weaker than he would have wanted. Mandy sat in the kayak on the ground. They worked at the blocks of padding. I’m such a fat old sow, she was saying. She had strong wrists and forearms. And she said: Oh by the way, Adam told me about your wife. I’m so sorry.
Thanks, Vince acknowledged.
How has the girl taken it? she asked.
He pressed the foam block between her thigh and the boat. She pulled a face. For all its rotundity, her flesh was solid. I really wouldn’t know, he said.
Yaiiii! Towards ten—thirty a scream exploded on the water. Even before Amelia had her spraydeck on, Keith thrust her boat off the bank from behind and Clive, standing in four feet of still water, spun her upside down.
The first thing, kids— Keith now shoved Max off before the boy could grasp what was happening— the first thing, once you’ve got yourselves as tight as can be in your boats— I hope your ankles are killing you— is to make bloody sure you can get out of them in an emergency. Right, Phil? Another boat splashed in. Clive promptly capsized it.
From the dark water a red helmet popped up. Yaiii!!! Amelia shrieked. It’s frigging freezing! It’s ice!
You forgot your three slaps on the hull, Keith told her. Nobody comes out of the boat without banging three times on the hull. Otherwise how is a rescuer supposed to know that you’re not still planning to roll up.
Then it was Vince’s turn. The boat slid off the grassy bank and out across the water. It was a quiet spot downstream from the campsite where the river spread out in a slow curve across flat pastureland before taking the next dive. The nose of the kayak hit the water. Even before Clive could grab it, Vince leaned over and capsized. The shock of the cold water on his face was extraordinary. He was suddenly wide awake, forced into presence. Because he had secured the spraydeck and was watertight, he waited a moment, hanging upside down in the cockpit, to feel the full effect of the river’s chill on face and hands. The water was unusually bright and clear after the estuary. He could see his fingers, even the pale gold of his wedding ring, as if in a swimming pool. Okay. He slapped three times without urgency on the sides of the boat, then reached for the tab on the elastic deck. The tab wasn’t there. Why not? His hands felt rapidly round the rim of the cockpit. Everything was perfectly visible. The black deck, the blue boat. But he had secured the stretch—rubber top with the release tab tucked inside. In two years of kayaking he had never made this most elementary of mistakes.
Now he banged again on the hull. Another boat must have followed him. Clive was turning it over. He sensed noise and laughter and people scrambling out of the water. He was underneath, unseen, shut away. If he’d come in with his paddle he could have rolled up. But he hasn’t. People can’t hear, they can’t see. I could die, he suddenly thought. He started to claw with his fingers, trying to pull the elastic from the cockpit rim to expose the tab and pull the deck. Nothing. Did they imagine he was showing off staying under so long? He put both hands on the cockpit, tried to pull his knees to his chest to force the deck off. It wouldn’t pop. They are made not to pop. It is new and stiff and tight. Then he threw himself violently from side to side, twisting his head for air, shouting into the water, banging on the side of the boat. There was splashing all around. Firm hands grasped him and turned the boat. As he came up, blue—faced, he was looking straight into Adam’s grey eyes. The man was shaking his head like some disappointed schoolmaster.
Wally! his daughter yelled. Dad’s going to be Wally tonight!
What a fool! Vince shouted. He was furious. I’m such a fool! Damn and damn. He was taken aback by the violence of his own reaction. The youngsters were watching him. Respect, someone said.
Holding his boat on the other side, Michela said quietly, Better in fun than when it’s for real. This was another thing that came from Clive.
The sun was hot, as it had been all summer. They used the slack of the meander to get used to the boats and paddles. Clive had bought good paddles of a new nylon material, light and fast. Altogether it was a big investment. The instructors checked that everybody could roll. Capsize, kids. Go for it. Only Tom had difficulty. It was strange that such a strong, apparently expert boy should be the one to fail. In his eagerness to breathe, he tried to bring his head up too soon. Your head is the last part to come up, Keith repeated. But everybody knows this. Amelia and Louise stationed their boats beside his and gave advice. Tom is so handsome, a slim, straight, powerful young man with a good jaw, deep eyes. He tried again. His head struggled out of the water too soon and sank back. Amelia prodded her boat against the red hull. Tom felt for the bow and pulled himself upright holding that. His strong torso came up, dripping water, his fine face clouded with annoyance. Don’t worry, Louise chirped. It took me ages.
Meantime the younger boys were turning their boats over and over in every possible way. Phil capsized, passed his paddle from one hand to the other over the bottom of the boat, head under water, then rolled up. All the time he was chewing gum. Can you do a helicopter roll, Bri? A reverse screw roll? Mark, Adam’s quiet son, seemed particularly expert. Look at this one, Dad. He rolled up with the paddle behind his head. Adam watched. Anyone can do that kind of thing in calm water, he said soberly. In calm water anyone can be an expert. Amelia knew how to roll her boat with just her hands, no paddle. You sort of sway your body, like, from one side right to the other, she explained to Vince. He shook his head. It seemed impossible. I don’t panic, Tom repeated to Keith. Really I don’t. I used to be able to do it. Swimming away from his boat, his young manliness seemed to be deserting him.
The kayaks spread out across the meander, tipping over and popping up.
What about the other side, Clive approached Vince.
Sorry?
Can you roll the other way round, with your paddle on the other side?
Never tried. As soon as Vince was alone, his mind lapsed back, not so much into thought, but a sort of intense, wordless inner paralysis. There are moments, Clive explained, in white water when it’s only possible to come up on one side of the boat, because of the current, or you’re stuck against a rock maybe. Vince tried it. He tipped over. Under water, instead of thrusting the right hand forward and across to his left side he did the reverse. His paddle felt for the surface. He pushed the arms far up and away towards a glow of daylight. It is strange how different it feels making a movement you know well, but with the other side of the body. He is disorientated. Like writing with the left hand. Or walking arm in arm with someone you’re not used to. Concentrating, upside down in the glacier—fed water, he pulled the left arm through a wide arc and leaned his head back. To his surprise the boat turned, his body came up. For a moment it stopped, it seemed he might fall back. Vince thrashed with his paddle and suddenly he was upright. He felt proud. He had done the right thing to come on this holiday. Clive was sceptical. See if you can do that in turbulence, he said.
They picnicked. On the bank people peeled off closed smock jackets with tightly sealing rubber cuffs and necks. Everybody has strips of neoprene hanging off them, or wet T—shirts, or towels round their necks. It is uncomfortable. At the back of the Kent County Council van where the sandwiches have been stored, Vince found himself beside Michela. There are cheese sandwiches and crisps and melting chocolate, bottles of water. To his surprise, the Italian girl came to sit beside him on the grass. She had pulled down the top of her wetsuit so that the shoulder—straps hung round her thighs. Vince felt vaguely embarrassed by the thought that his daughter would see the
m sitting together. But this was ridiculous because now all the adults came to eat in one group, the adolescents in another. Your daughter is relieved to be out of your company, he thought. I am relieved too. They would never live together again.
Clive said how hard it was to predict river levels with this global warming. The glaciers retreated each year. The hot weather came too soon. This summer more than ever. The full melt was on you before you expected it. By now they were paddling on the snows of centuries back, the blizzards of the Middle Ages. There were more thunderstorms, perhaps, but less of the same steady release of the winter’s snow. The river could be bony or even dry before you knew it. It’s amazing they do nothing about the greenhouse effect, he went on. What was the temperature in Milan during the demonstration the other day? Thirty—six degrees? Thirty—eight? No wonder people went crazy.
He was sitting on a rock beside Michela. She leaned her back against him. I can’t believe, he insisted, how enthusiastic they are when car sales are up. Keith nodded, eating. The world cooks and dries up and they worry about car sales! There was a silence. Mandy was rubbing sun cream into her shoulders. I should take a picture, she said. You wonder, Clive went on, if they will ever really open their eyes before something major simply forces them to.
Like what, Adam asked coolly.
A drought, Michela said at once. A flood.
Well, which? He had a wry smile.
Vince was not following. His eye had again been drawn upward to the hugeness of the mountains above them. The majesty of the place was crushing. It appeased some obscure desire in him. At the same time he was intensely aware of the young woman, of the fact that her belligerence now, saying something about multinationals, was to do with her being together with this bearded instructor, this strong capable man. Suddenly, he was stumbling to his feet.
