by Tim Parks
It was curious how good—looking the Indian boy was, with bright dark eyes and high cheekbones, and how completely the shrill voice and over—eagerness to please undercut this attraction. My brother Vikram is handicapped, he said. He can’t kayak except in those special day—out things they give handicapped people, you know. Louise is improving, though, Amal said appreciatively. She has a great hip—flick. Vince felt oppressed, the day was really too warm. Everyone was dipping hands and arms in the water to cool off. He couldn’t decide whether to call the office the following morning perhaps. He couldn’t see any way forward, only his old self, his old life. Wally, Amal was explaining, is supposed to be the spirit of a drowned paddler, you know. He protects us, like. But only if we protect him. Is that so? Vince managed. That’s why it’s so important not to lose him, Amal said. The older man wanted to scream.
Then, checking the duty rota back at the camp, Vince read: PIGS, Wednesday, Shopping. See list. In twenty—five years of marriage, he had hardly shopped at all. Perhaps I let Louise go, he wondered, because I was scared of shopping. Team! he called. Hey! Pigs! He assumed the joking voice everyone else was using, the holiday voice. We’re on shopping. In the car, team! We’ll use mine. He had Amelia, Tom and Max.
Do you know where to go? Tom asked. We can’t buy this lot at the camp shop. The list stretched to two pages. Micky! Sitting in the passenger seat the young man buzzed down the window. Michela was standing in the no man’s land between chalet and tents. Micky! Vince moved the car a few yards. She crouched by Tom’s window and gave directions. I can come, if you need help, she offered. Oh, us Brits have a long tradition of bossing about the natives, Max assured her. He was wearing his straw hat, a yellow cotton shirt with button—down collar. As they drove up the rutted track, Vince watched the young woman bob in and out of the mirror. He didn’t like the way she called herself by a boy’s name. It seemed wrong. Nice girl, Tom said. The young man’s powerful hands rested on his knees. For a Wop, Max agreed. She’s Clive’s girlfriend, isn’t she? Amelia reminded them. By the way, can someone give me the shopping list? Sure, Vince said. Am I the only one, he asked, with a pain when they rotate their elbow? Amelia leaned forward between the seats: Tom, why don’t you choose the beer and all the crisps and snacks? That’ll save time. Me the whisky and bog paper, sang Max.
Beyond the campsite, a fast road ran through an area of warehouses and light industry. Timber milling, it looked like, building materials. Ahead, where the valley narrowed above the cluster of the small town, a castle dominated the scene, a schloss, shamelessly picturesque on a tall spur of rock with the dramatic mountain gorge behind. It was hard not to feel you had seen it in some film. How old is your daughter, Mr Marshall? Tom suddenly asked. I mean Vince, sorry. Fourteen, Vince said. I’m almost sixteen, Amelia remarked. You are not, Max objected. Only three months! You could be dead before then! the boy shouted. Max, please, Vince begged. Age is so much to do with how you behave, though, isn’t it? Tom said sagely. Badly! Max shrieked. Shut up, the girl hissed.
Then they were in Sand in Taufers: swept streets and big square Austrian—style houses, all with the same steep roof, the same wide, pine—fronted balconies, the same fierce geranium displays blazing in the early evening light. Everywhere there were Zimmer frei signs and gift shops, a general impression of regimented colour, authorised souvenirs. Posters in three languages proclaimed a festival of traditional horn music. A photograph showed a bearded man in lederhosen blowing into a horn at least six feet long, resting on the ground in front of him. The little supermarket, when they found it, was called EuroSpin, its windows plastered with international brand names, credit card signs. It was curious, Vince thought, how nothing seemed unfamiliar anymore, excepting one’s state of mind, perhaps. He found it strange how at ease he felt with these kids.
A stiff little man in a white coat, his eyes bloodshot, turned from stacking Nestlé’s snacks. Guten abend, he said throatily. Velcum to mai umble ‘ome, Max whispered. Are we in Italy or what? Guten abend,Tom replied politely.
Vince found a trolley. Remember, everything we get is for fifteen, okay? Almost at once the youngsters were giggling at the sausage section. Great curved turgid things wrapped in red and yellow cellophane. You don’t see these in England. Wurst und wurst! Amelia cried, picking up a particularly obscene example and waving it at Tom. The shopkeeper shifted from the doorway to keep an eye down their aisle. You choose, Amelia was telling the boy.
The store had the cluttered shelves of a restricted space trying to satisfy every need. Again the attendant moved as they rounded the end of the aisle. Ve arr being voched, Max whispered. Everything Vince chose— there were sandwich things to get and chicken pieces for this evening’s dinner— Amelia asked Tom if it was right. Don’t you think we’d be better with long—life milk? She had straight black hair clipped in a fringe above a puckered, solemn forehead and at a certain point she contrived to pick up a can of peeled tomatoes that Tom already had his hands on. The young man studied the labels intently, until, to everybody’s surprise, Max walked straight down the aisle and addressed the shopkeeper in fluent German. He spoke for at least a minute, with some expression, gesturing at the shelves. The stiff man smiled, took him to the meat counter, then another shelf. That’s the sauce for the chicken casserole, the blonde boy said. His shirt seemed freshly ironed, likewise the white cotton trousers. The spuds are round the corner. Brilliant, Vince told him. I did French, Tom advised Amelia. He took her by the elbow.
Vince bought sun cream, matches, a roll of duct tape and a second tray of beers. Actually, we don’t need those, Tom said. We’ve already got a tray. But there are thirteen of us, Vince explained, fifteen with Clive and his girlfriend. Seven or eight are under age, Tom pointed out. Oh come on, Max protested. This is piss beer, this Kraut stuff. Most of us were swigging stronger stuff than this before we could walk. Mandy said no, Tom insisted. Amelia couldn’t make up her mind whether to support him or not. I have to get something for Caroline’s chapped lips. Does your dad let you drink? Vince asked the girl. She wore a short skirt over thin, coltish legs. Sometimes, she said. Aping the adult, she folded her arms, shifted her weight. I believe Mandy actually signed something, Tom was saying now. He seemed genuinely concerned that a rule might be broken. We could add a tray of Cokes, he suggested, for the kids.
Vince gave the black wallet with the Waterworld kitty to Max and told the boys to carry out the boxes. Then he invited Amelia back into the shop and with his own money bought two more trays of beer and various goodies: marshmallows and skewers, in case they made a fire, and three bottles of sparkling wine. Since we’re the Pigs, let’s be pigs, he announced. He felt cheerful. You’re a tempter, Mr Marshall, Amelia laughed. Vince, he again insisted. Why couldn’t they use his name? You don’t call Keith Mr Whatever, do you? Bags I the front seat, Max rushed. Tom and Amelia were quiet in the back.
No! Mandy said. No drinking! No, no, no! Keith overruled her. The group leader seemed extravagantly, even brutally merry. Suck on that. He gave a can to Caroline, another to Amelia. Adam was evidently irritated. He gets like this, Mandy shook her head. Soon he’ll be flirting with the under—sixteens. It’s only beer, Keith insisted breezily. Drink, he told Mark. You’re not on the river now. A holiday’s a holiday. Even when it’s a community experience, Amelia chipped in. And if you want to be really English— Keith handed another can to Michela— you’ll have to get in training. You know the British government’s thinking of introducing an alcohol test for citizenship: ability to imbibe five pints a day, five days running. A working week, no less, Brian observed. Mark took his beer and sat on the ground beside Amal. The boy had barely spoken after his accident at the rapid. On the table in the kitchen tent, the hamster began to beat his drum. I think I love you. Oh no! the children groaned. Turn the beast off! I think I hate you, Phil laughed. Vince couldn’t help noticing the way he and Caroline leaned on each other as they sat.
At the meeting, after the casserole, Louise nomina
ted her father for Wally and the vote was unanimous. Only an idiot could capsize in six inches of water. Public humiliation! Keith demanded. On his third beer, Vince was nervous and pleased. I am becoming part of the group, he thought. But what was the punishment to be? Something really degrading! Louise shrieked, can in hand. Gloria had never let her drink. Uncle Jasper’s family was even stricter. You decide, Mandy told Caroline. Vince had seen how carefully the older woman brought in everybody. There would be no faces missing from the website. The big girl grimaced and chewed, then looked to Amelia. There was an old complicity between the two. They burst out laughing. The Chicken Song! Both struggled to their feet, stood side by side in the tight circle of the tent, where the gas lamp was throwing shadows as the twilight faded. Caroline was almost a head taller than her friend, her thighs heavy, wrists and ankles thick, her manner timid, but when she began to dance there was a mad energy and unexpected elegance to her. Incongruous together, the two girls kicked their legs, flapped their arms. I’m a chubby chicken, ready for the chop, they’ll cut my pretty head off, stricken, plop, but still I run around and kick ‘em. Hop Hop! The girls pulled faces, lolled their heads, broke one one way and one the other, running round the group kicking at people.
Pathetic! Brian and Max shrilled. Naff!
I have to do that? Vince asked.
You’re getting off lightly, Mandy told him. She smiled indulgently. Everybody was looking.
With the actions or without?
He took his place in the centre of the circle. Michela is watching me, he saw, and my daughter. Vince danced, Vince who never danced. He was wearing corduroys and a thin sweater. I’m a chubby chicken, he sang. He heard his voice singing. He and Gloria had never danced. He tried to do it well. He was absurd. Gloria did every kind of sport, but didn’t dance. It was strange at fifty to be making yourself so ridiculous. I am director of all overseas accounts, he told himself. The kids were giggling. He tried to remember the words. Ready for the chop! The others were clapping and as he made to kick at them, they jumped to their feet and dashed out of the tent. Rise, Sir Wally, Keith said, dropping the creature over his head on a piece of string. Thou must take care of he who protects us. Pathetic! Phil shrieked.
And they went up to the camp bar. On a low stage a local band were playing music for karaoke. There were people of all ages and from all over Europe, Austrian bikers and ageing Dutch nature lovers. The tables were spread over a wide terrace. The kids disappeared, Amelia and Louise dragging Tom with them. It seemed there was an internet café up the road. Everybody has a life elsewhere, a message to send. We’ll need you to order the drinks, the girls protested. Tom turned a lingering glance to Michela, but the young woman never noticed. Mark was boasting to Louise about something he had done on a previous expedition, in an open canoe. He has started to talk again. Only Amal stayed with the adults. The boy seemed eager to agree with everything everyone said.
How the twit could get pinned in the world’s easiest rapid, I do not know, Adam repeated, taking his seat. Leave the kid be! Mandy cried. She ordered a round of large beers from the waiter. And no, I’m not being inconsistent, she turned on Keith. It’s fine when it’s us and not the kids whose mothers I’ve promised. The man brought half—litre glasses. Some middle—aged Germans were trying to sing ‘Maggie May’. Maggie I vish. Drink up, and stop fussing, the stout woman told Adam. My new cag is giving me a rash, Keith complained. Bottoms up.
The music grew louder. A group of Spanish children were playing hide—and—seek among the adults. Vince got the next round. It was years since he had had more than a couple of beers. A strange excitement was fizzing up. Unasked, he started to talk about the man he had seen on the river bank the other day, in the ramshackle hut. Every river has one, Keith said. People who’ve dropped out and they’re just drawn to the river. The river is life, Clive said rather solemnly, sheer life. Michela was beside him. Oh, they’re just alkies, Adam objected. He kept playing with his mobile, apparently sending and receiving text messages. It’s just easy for them to get driftwood and water by the river and you can crap off the bank. They leave a lot of rubbish around. Shouldn’t be allowed. He tapped on the keypad.
The bloke threw a bottle at me, Vince said.
There you are.
Clive began to speak about a man he had got to know by a river in the Canadian Rockies. This guy had lived there for years in brushwood shelters, hunting and selling pelts, sleeping in animal skins. After a rainfall he could tell you exactly when the river would rise and how much. To the inch. He even knew when a tree had fallen into the water upstream or a cow. The birds and fish behaved differently.
Oh I find that very hard to believe, Adam said.
Let’s karaoke, Keith interrupted. Come on. Let’s ask for some oldies. Be sentimental. But Mandy had launched into an intense attack on someone or something. It’s all either technical, she was complaining to Amal, like, we all have to do every stroke in the regulation BCU style; or commercial, you know, if we take an extra instructor, we won’t break even, or if you have an end—of—season party, you’ll lose money. I must have missed something, Vince thought. His eye had settled on Michela’s slim wrist as she poured some of her beer into Clive’s glass. They were sitting round a large white plastic table. Clive was drinking a lot. He had rolled himself a Golden Virginia. They will make love later, Vince told himself. He looked away. Adam was consulting his mobile again. The man doesn’t see, Mandy was explaining, that that’s not really what people are after. They don’t come to Waterworld for that. Or not only that.
Who are we talking about? Vince asked Keith. Amal was nodding in agreement. Ron Bridges, Keith told him. District Superintendent, Kent Sports and Recreation. The boss. He lowered his voice: Mandy applied for the job, but they wouldn’t give it to her.
And the thing is— the squat woman was almost shouting— I don’t know how or why, but we never finished a year in the red till he came along. Can you believe it? I remember Sylvia saying, Soon we’ll have lost as much as the film Waterworld, remember? Hollywood’s biggest flop. He’s been a bloody disaster! She slammed her beer down, wiped her mouth. People want to have fun, don’t they, and to feel their life is being given some sense— she was evidently repeating things she had said before— in a group together, you know? Out in nature. They want excitement and friends. You can’t persecute them just because they can’t do a reverse—sweep stroke exactly the way the British Bloody Canoeing Union prescribes.
Keith stretched his arms: Attaboy, Mandy!
You should have seen, she shrieked, the list of instructions he gave us for this trip. The length of that list! We wouldn’t have had any fun at all. We’d have spent the whole time practising low braces in the first eddy.
Adam again clicked his mobile shut. Still, you do have to teach the strokes right, and you do have to break even.
Of course you bloody do, of course— the woman leaned forward across the table. But that’s not the point of it all, is it? It’s not why we do it.
Adam began to object, but a beep indicated the arrival of another message. The missus? Keith asked, with an arching of bushy eyebrows. The mistress? Mandy echoed.
What sad minds! Adam shook his head. He began to tap out a response. Across the table, a dangerous expression of scorn had settled around Clive’s lips. He rubbed the knuckle of one thumb back and forth in his beard across his chin. There is no one way to do any stroke, he began very deliberately. It’s a question of attitude. Vince for example knows the strokes. You tell him what to do and he does it. But his attitude’s wrong.
Vince asked: How?
Clive half smiled. He bit the inside of his lip. Watch Amal, he said.
Me? The dark boy sipped his beer and looked at them over the glass. I don’t know anything.
No, tell me now, Vince said. Explain. Then I can work at it.
Keith chuckled: Clive’s right, watch Amal, then you tell us.
But I only started kayak last year, the boy protested in his
oddly high—pitched voice.
Oh you’ve been on the water since as long as I can remember, Mandy said approvingly. You’re a natural.
I’ll watch him too, Michela told Vince. I’m constantly thinking I must be doing something wrong.
Again Adam snapped his phone shut. Your problem is— he began.
Don’t! Clive cut in. He’ll learn better watching Amal.
Since it’s my problem— Vince began.
Wally! Keith cried. Produce Wally or prepare to face total humiliation.
Present and correct, Vince pulled the little effigy from his pocket. He smiled. He liked Keith.
It’ll all sort itself out, the leader reassured him, in good time. It’s an intuitive thing.
But Adam wouldn’t leave be. This mysticism is silly, he said. It’s a way of giving yourself airs. Like stories of riverside alcoholics with uncanny powers of divination. Why don’t you tell him he sits too far back in the boat? There’s no great philosophical wisdom to kayaking. It’s the same with the anti—globalisation stuff, to be frank. People want to feel they have a good, semi—religious cause— save the planet, and so on— because then they’ve got an excuse for breaking things and causing trouble. They release a bit of energy and imagine they’re saints.
The chinless man said all this in a relaxed, even cheerful voice, as if it was hardly a criticism at all. At once Michela was frantic.
How can you say that? she demanded. Do you have any idea how many people are dying of hunger while their governments are forced to spend the money that could save them to pay back loans to Western banks?
Not the loans, Clive cut in. He was leaning forward on his chair, smoking intently. Not the bloody loans, the interest on the loans. The interest! It’s scandalous. I’d feel like a worm if I didn’t do something about it. I wouldn’t feel human. I’d die of shame if I didn’t get involved. You don’t have to go looking for a good cause these days. The miracle is that some people manage to hide from them. They sit in their air—conditioned offices and pretend the climate hasn’t changed, while the rest of the world roasts.
