“James.”
He was losing himself. There had been a second kayak, just like this one—the day before, the time before. As this kayak bumped back against the dock, he considered that moment—James, his husband. And the still water, beneath which he’d vanished.
He tried to hold that in his mind. James. The second kayak. Their wedding.
The long paddle through the night, across the lake of stars...
With an effort, he hefted an end of the kayak onto the dock, and hauled it the rest of the way along, until the length of the boat was safe on the dock.
Then, he turned his attention to the rock face.
It was smooth; there didn’t seem to be a way to climb it without gear. But it didn’t make sense that anyone would put a dock here, if there weren’t some way up. Most likely, this was set up to be a portage.
There had to be a reason for the dock. It had to lead to somewhere.
He ran his hands along the stone, and peered into the thinning mist at the base. There was no way up immediately, but there was a slick ledge, at nearly the water’s edge, that fell off into the water. Tentatively, he put a toe on it. Maybe there was some stairs, some kind of a ladder, further along. Tentatively he put a foot on it. He slid into the water, ankle-deep, then came up against a cleft that seemed as though he could balance on.
He put his weight on that foot, and drew the other into the water. It was icy cold, but he endured.
He made his way along the rock face in this way.
And as he proceeded, memory started to become clearer, and his situation clarified—and he thought about James, and the overturned kayak... and how he froze, and sat there in his kayak, as his new husband vanished. Why had he not jumped in? Finished the search? Why had he left... so easily?
He made it a dozen feet along, so disquieted by these new thoughts that he only heard the outboard motor when it stopped.
#
“Well hello!”
Stanley Green waved from the back of the aluminum boat, as his wife Nancy sat at the bow, binoculars fixed on him. They were wearing colored windbreakers—Stanley’s blue, Nancy’s a brilliant yellow. A fishing rod hung over the side of the boat, lure glinting in the mist.
He didn’t wave.
“Where’s your friend?” said Stanley Green, and Nancy clarified: “Your husband?”
He turned in the water so he faced them, leaning against the rock face. The boat was maybe three dozen yards off, and they had to shout to be heard.
He shouted an answer.
“Oh my!” Nancy said, and Stanley shouted: “Where? Where’d it happen?”
For that, he had no answer. He’d crossed the lake at night, paddled through the stars. It was the other side of that.
Stanley and Nancy conferred, and Stanley turned back to him, and shouted that he’d bring the boat in, and get him, and they could go look for his friend together.
He trembled, and slid, and he steadied himself in the water, as Stanley bent over the outboard. What was Stanley doing there, this quiet morning, tugging at a rope on the top of the thing?
There was a terrible coughing sound, and a roar—and it sent his heart pounding... and he spun about in the water, and felt it sheathe off his feet, his long and slender legs—
#
He rested a moment, on top of the rocks, the scoured forest at his back. The view of the lake was more commanding from here; the height made him feel better... safer.
The two in the boat were talking to each other. He couldn’t understand what they said. But they were pointing at the dock as they spoke. They were confused, and frightened. The boat moved close to the dock, and they both climbed out. He craned his neck over the edge of the rock, peered down curiously at them. She looked up, and pointed, and her husband looked at him too.
Their eyes were wide, and wet, and afraid, and above all—guilty.
And he had enough of it. So he spread his arms wide, and pushed down on the heavy morning air, and left them there on the dock.
#
Paul finally found James that afternoon, in the cleft between a small rocky island and the shore. It wasn’t difficult—he had eyes for this kind of thing, and Paul would recognize James anywhere. He circled twice just to be sure, then narrowed his wings just so, and let the earth pull him down. James flashed silver, as though signalling him, making a perfect target... and when the surface of the water broke, Paul took James around the middle, and his gills twitched in recognition, as Paul broke the surface again, and took back to flight.
The two didn’t speak after that. There were no words necessary.
They flew in silence, close to the water this time, as Paul guided them both, by prehistoric instinct, to the camp—the place where they were both expected, where hungry mouths waited.
A Delicate Craft
D.P. Watt
His first months in England had been prosperous, maybe even the first couple of years. There was plenty of work, too much really. He had, regrettably, had to turn people away. If only there were so much now. Early on he had regularly sent money home to his mother in Białystok and even to his sister in Łodz. But, now that he was forced to make do with seasonal jobs picking vegetables on local farms, he could barely pay for his little room, with its increasing bills, in the house that he had shared with his four friends that had come over with him from their homeland, back in 2006.
They were all capable tradespeople. Bogdan was the plumber among them and they always joked that he would be the first one to make his million pounds. For most of those couple of years they had worked on construction sites around Nottingham and across Leicestershire. They were a happy team and the regular money, from a decent employer, provided them a good life.
That all ended with the recession. Then, early in 2009, Tomasz, the plasterer, was caught up in a fight in the city centre, whilst trying to protect two girls from what turned out to be their boyfriends. He ended up with a broken bottle through the back of his neck and would be in a wheelchair for the rest of his days. When his family came over to collect him he asked Bogdan to promise him that when he called, to say he’d had enough, Bogdan would fly back to Poland and put a pillow over his face. Thankfully the call had not yet come, and besides he couldn’t afford the flight ticket anymore.
Piotr, the electrician, was the next to leave, in 2010. His wife, who had stayed at home in Bydgoszcz, was pregnant and he’d decided that he’d rather bring his child up at home, now that the decent work had dried up. “Nie fantazyjne zbieranie kapusty na resztę mojego życia,” he’d said, “pozwól im wybrać własne warzywa, albo głodować, nie obchodzi mnie, który.” Maybe he’d been right, Bogdan often thought.
Viktor was originally from Dresden, but his family had moved to Wrocław for work when he was five years old. He spoke six languages and had helped them all arrange coming over to England—it had been his idea in the first place. He had studied engineering and always got a good salary for his site management skills. He’d gone back to Germany in 2011, as there was a big contract that needed preparing in Dusseldorf before a team of thirty site managers and technicians headed out to Iraq to build shopping centres. Bogdan did not want to go to such a hot country and neither did Michał, the brickie, the last of the others that was left. It would have been better for him to go, for now he spent his days drinking cheap beer and moaning about the lack of work. Bogdan had tried to get him to come to the farms and work with him but Michał said he hated the countryside of “to zielony i pieprzony nieprzyjemne ziemi” and wanted to work in a factory instead—”ale nie kurwa noc zmiany!” He’d been unemployed for two years now.
On Saturday afternoons Bogdan would manage to muster enough enthusiasm from Michał to go down to their local pub and have a couple of drinks. It was unwise to stay out too late, with all the trouble that happened in the city, always with Tomasz in their minds. At least in their local there was more of a family mood about the place in the afternoons, and they kept their voices down in the corner o
f the Lounge area, where a few older regulars enjoyed playing cards.
It was in late October 2012 when Bogdan bumped into Agnes, on his way home, having left Michał with a few friends from Leicester who were celebrating before they went home to Warsaw the following week. It was time he left too, he thought.
Just as he turned into Bottle Lane, his head full of thoughts of home, he bumped into an old lady just coming round the corner. Thankfully she didn’t fall over, but her shopping basket went flying and, amid the few tins and packets of a widow’s groceries rolling about the pavement a reel of white lace unfurled itself. She yelped in horror as it rolled towards a large muddy puddle in the gutter. Bogdan jumped forwards and tapped it back with his foot, saving it from a rather disastrous and filthy drenching.
“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you,” she said, with a childish energy, almost jumping for joy. “Oh, that would have been terrible, you know. I’ve just finished that reel for my friend Nancy’s granddaughter’s wedding dress trim. It’s in two weeks” time and I was just going round to drop it off there now. It would have been ruined if you hadn’t saved it. I could never have made another in time.”
Bogdan was crouched down reeling the delicate cloth back onto its cardboard spindle. He could feel its intricate pattern trace through his fingers as he wound. It was not a smooth texture, rather more like fine cotton. There was something earthy and real about it, unlike silk.
“There is no need to thank me, madam,” Bogdan said, holding the lace up to her as he continued to gather her groceries. “I was not being mindful of where I was going and should apologise to you for almost knocking you into the road.”
“Ah, you sweet boy,” she said, offering the basket so he could place everything inside. Her hands were contorted and twisted with arthritis and they seemed to wrap around the handle of the basket like wisteria. “There’s no harm done is there. Now, I know that accent, don’t tell me… don’t tell me…”
Bogdan stood there waiting while she screwed her face up into a very peculiar expression. She stared at him for a few moments and then shut her eyes. He wondered if she might have fallen asleep, standing up with the basket in her hands.
He started to feel a little awkward.
“You’re from Poland,” she said. The words bursting out of her so rapidly that it startled him.
“Well, yes I am,” he said. “My name is Bogdan, and I am a plumber, although now I do not find much of this kind of work anymore. There is not the money for people to afford this so much now.”
He had found himself walking along beside her as she headed off down the road.
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Bogdan,” she said. “I’m Agnes, Agnes Cottar. Do you know how I knew where you were from?”
“Er, no Miss, er Mrs Cottar, I do not,” he said.
“It’s Mrs, although my Alfred’s long gone now,” she said. “It was Alfred’s friend, and his wife, that’s how I knew. They were Poles you see. Came over just before the war. My Alfred met him while he was in the RAF, you know. Zeb and Anna. We used to call him Zeb because we couldn’t say his full name, couldn’t get our tongues round it—Zebigenuf, something like that I think it was.”
“Zbigniew,” Bogdan said.
“That’s it!” Agnes said, stopping abruptly. “We used to go around theirs on a Friday night and drink a lovely cherry vodka he used to make, and play Whist until the early hours. They were a lovely couple. Of course, he had to stay over here after the war because the Russians were arresting all the old officers from before the war and shooting them, or something horrible like that. And their little girl died a year before the war started, so they hadn’t got much to go back for anyway. Him and my Alfred even started a little business up in the sixties, doing odd jobs for folks. Didn’t come to much though and they both ended up at the Waterworks. Good job that though, and a decent pension too.”
They had started walking again halfway through this and Bogdan found he was interested by this old woman.
“So you made that lovely cloth I so nearly ruined?” he said.
“Oh, yes, I’ve been making lace since I were a little girl,” she said, stopping again and turning to him. “My mother made lace and so did my grandmother, of course she used to work in the factories then, my grandmother that is, making it by the yard. But always, as a family, we also did the bobbin work at home. I could show you if you’d like to know how to do it.”
This came as quite a surprise to Bogdan. He had only moments to think about it but, why not. She was obviously very kindly and passionate about her hobby. Spending a few hours helping an old lady around her house, and also easing the loneliness he assumed she must suffer, would be fair for almost destroying her handiwork and sending her flying.
“That is a very kind invitation, Mrs Cottar,” he said. “I should love to learn a little of this skill from you.”
“Oh, none of that Mrs Cottar nonsense, it’s Agnes,” she said, taking a little notebook from her basket. “Now here’s my address. You pop round next Saturday afternoon, and we’ll have a first go. Sorry I can’t do anything before then “cause I’ve got the cleaner in on Monday, my hair on Tuesday, and the girls from the club are taking me out Wednesday for Sue’s retirement do—although she doesn’t half look a cracker for her age, you know. Thursday I’ve got to finish off a lace order for a company in Stow. They always like the handmade stuff! And Friday I always go for lunch with my friend Arnie, from the market.”
“Alright then, Agnes, thank you very much,” Bogdan said. Clearly she wasn’t in desperate need of company then. “I shall call at your house around midday then.”
“That’ll be lovely, Bogdan,” she called back at him, having already set off at quite a pace.
“Sorry again for the accident,” he called after her. She waved it away in the air as she darted around a corner.
Bogdan looked about him and wasn’t quite sure which street he’d ended up in. He soon found his way back home though, smiling to himself about Agnes. It was one of those uplifting encounters that brightens any day.
∞
The next Saturday found him in Agnes” little front room, in a row of old terraced houses, surrounded by the clutter, souvenirs and inscrutable memorabilia of a long life, filled with loves and losses. He’d already been shown the photograph of Alfred and Agnes with “Zeb” and Anna down at “the club” on New Year’s Eve 1974. It was thrust upon him almost as soon as he entered the door. He’d also been shown the award Agnes won five years previously for her embroidery—it seemed any work of thread and stitch came naturally to her. Conversation flowed almost as though no time had passed since they had met in the street and he soon found himself in a crumbling paisley chair whose seat was disintegrating and, he thought, barely capable of supporting his weight.
Agnes had prepared scones and jam for him, and even bought a pot of clotted cream which, she said, she usually only had in summer. But he was a special guest, she said, and so she had to get him something nice, “as a treat”. He didn’t want to tell her that cream, or dairy products of any sort, made him feel sick.
“And my grandmother knew Rose and Lucy Hubbard, when they set up their little agency to help all the homeworkers,” Agnes said, apropos of nothing, pouring out some tea through a beautiful silver strainer. “Oh, yes, my grandmother knew them very well indeed. Most of her work came from Rose, you know—beyond the factory hours, you know.”
Bogdan didn’t really know whom these people were that she spoke of, or what the factory hours were, but he just nodded. Agnes had a beautiful, melodic voice that was just betrayed, with a slight fracture, now and again, due to her age.
“It was a good job too, an” all. What with six children on her hands by that point, and two more to come. Do you take sugar?” Agnes ran the sentences into each other and it took a moment for Bogdan to realise that he had been asked a question.
“Oh, yes, thank you, two sugars,” he stuttered. “And I don’t take the milk, if you pleas
e.”
“Oh really, no milk. That’s just like my Alfred. He liked it almost as black as coffee, also with two sugars.” She ladled two heaped spoons into his cup, her arthritic fingers did not allow her to stir with any precision though and a few slops of tea gushed into the saucer with each stir of the spoon. “Now, there I go again, what a messy pup! I’ll get a cloth.”
“No please do not trouble yourself,” Bogdan said, jumping to his feet. “You tell me where it is and I will fetch it for you. It is very kind of you to invite me here and I must help, if I am able.”
“Well, what a polite young man you are, Bodgarn,” she said, with a little smile. “There’s a tea towel through on the side table in the kitchen.”
The kitchen, if such it was, was an education. It belonged in a museum. There was no fridge, or indeed any ‘appliance’ that might be termed modern. An ageing gas cooker, with an eye-level grill was the only concession to anything like the age they were actually in. An old Belfast sink, set low, had a few plates and saucers in it. A rickety tap dripped into it, perched on the end of a copper pipe caked in verdigris. It’s only days before that blows, he thought, I could fix her up a new one some time. But the tap had been there forty years, its demise was either unlikely or imminent.
He found the tea towel and took it back to the lounge. As he handed it to her their forefingers touched and a little electric shock passed between them.
“Oh,” Agnes yelped, but began laughing almost instantly. “That’s what my dad used to call the “shockers”. He had a new jumper from my mother, from Woolies, one year—God, their clothes were terrible, I don’t know why she got stuff from them, she could make much better herself—and he would rub his hands on it and creep up behind us kids and just touch the back of our ears, and do the “shockers”. He only did it to mother once, she clipped him one and split his lip. I used to hate it but my brothers loved it and he’d always end up in a rough and tumble with them afterwards. He was a lovely man, my father. Do you have a name for it, the “shockers”—you people, I mean?”
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