Undercurrents

The following day was again bathed in warm spring sunshine. Fluffy clouds chased each other across the sky in an array of animals and continents. As they walked along the lane, they compared their findings. A lamb trying to reach Australia, a cat hot on its heels.

‘That vapour trail’s like the fuse line to a cache of dynamite. It’ll be the end of the lot, sooner or later.’

‘Thanks for the cheerful contribution, Bede.’ Fran shook her head at him. He remained deadpan but Elin saw the spark in his eyes.

Where the lane curved sharply towards the river, they turned off along a track into the woods. Elin loved Holtwood, the way a rise in the land created an extensive haven of trees that was different from, but in harmony with, the rest of the floodplain. She often came to sit by the riverbank here, trailing her fingers in the water the way that the trees trailed their twigs. It was all overshadowed now. For one thing, the pheasants in the new pen at the far side of the wood didn’t belong there. She didn’t blame the birds themselves – it was the shoot and its recent expansion that she disliked. But that was as nothing compared to Philip Northcote’s other plans. The bombshell had dropped weeks, maybe months, ago when he submitted an application for a licence on his land next to Holtwood for test drilling with a view to fracking. A lively protest group had formed, centred on the community shop, and Elin sometimes felt their lives had become dominated by meetings, research, formulating and presenting arguments to the planners.

Despite her determination not to let Northcote cast a shadow over their lives – not yet, while there was still a good chance the drilling could be stopped – they’d nevertheless been coming to Holtwood less than they should since the flood two winters ago. Since Joe drowned. Single-handedly, she’d cleared the lower slopes by the riverbank of the worst of the debris, salvaging what she could. She’d even managed to coax Bede to the woods a few times to perform essential maintenance on the storm-damaged trees or to collect firewood. But it had been Joe who had initiated the long-standing agreement with Frank, the farmer who owned the woodland, to manage the trees in return for a share of the timber and the freedom to forage. The woods were one of those pockets of uncertainty where Joe’s spirit still lingered, and when Fran had suggested they come here, Elin had been relieved when Bede agreed. Maybe a morning’s useful activity would help drive away the ghosts.

They lost themselves in arranging logs and branches, lashing them together to form two rafts sturdy enough to get them downriver to the small gravel beach at the edge of the Alderleat land, and finding pieces to use as paddles and rudders to steer by.

After a final check of the knots, they heaved their rafts into the water. She noticed Jeff place a protective hand on Fran’s arm but she shook him off. Elin forgot the moment as soon as they pushed away from the bank, letting the water take hold. The speed felt far greater than it was, the dark threat of undercurrents lurking beneath the river’s innocently sluggish surface giving her a frisson of excitement. She glanced at Bede. If he was afraid, he hid it well.

Perhaps she was worrying unnecessarily. This might be the first time they’d been on the river since the flood had taken Joe, but if she thought about it, how often had they sailed on it, swam in it, before that? Maybe Bede wasn’t silently struggling to overcome some inner turmoil because there was nothing left to overcome. He certainly seemed calm, studying the water in concentration. He flashed her a reassuring smile.

They drifted with the current, occasionally adjusting their line. She and Bede worked in perfect harmony, drawing steadily ahead. Elin glanced back at their two friends, then pulled deeply on her paddle as they rounded the bend towards home.

Bede straightened, flexing his shoulders and gazing downstream as the fields, house and buildings of Alderleat came into view. Beyond lay the smart gardens and roughly- mown lower field of their next-door neighbour Kate’s guest house, Bankside. As they drifted in towards the bank between their flourishing willow plantation and the incongruous neatness next door, they were greeted by a ragged cheer. Elin looked up and saw a trio of men raising their glasses from around Kate’s picnic table. She waved back.

‘Concentrate, girl. Tricky bit coming up.’

They managed to steer themselves to within reach of the bank.

‘Hold tight.’ She reached out, planted her pole into the riverbed and swung them in, timber crunching against gravel.

They hauled their craft onto dry land, then laughed as Fran and Jeff missed, slurping into mud and reeds. Bede made a gentlemanly show of throwing them a rope and hauling their raft in as they picked their way onto the grass. Elin turned to see the three guys strolling towards them. She recognised the lad Silvan, looking much the same as he had the night before, with two slightly older men in smart casual jeans and polo shirts.

‘Look who it is,’ she murmured to Bede. ‘Doesn’t look like Kate’s usual kind of guest.’

Silvan grinned and waved.

‘That looks fun,’ one of the others called out. ‘Any chance of a ride?’

‘Have we got time?’ The third one glanced at Silvan, who nodded.

‘I’m not sure…’ Bede began.

‘Me and Carl have been on more activity weekends than you can count. We know what we’re doing, don’t you worry.’

‘Guess we can’t complain at you volunteering to do our work for us.’

Elin directed them over the fence and across the stream that ran from their leat down the side of the field to the river. As they approached, Silvan introduced the other two as Carl and Rob.

‘So this is where you live?’ he asked.

‘That’s right.’ Elin waved her arm in the direction of the house. ‘Alderleat.’

‘Nice. So that turbine’s yours? I’ve never seen one like it. You know, wooden.’

Bede smiled like a proud father. ‘We wanted it to look part of the landscape. Built it with my own fair hands.’ His expression suddenly clouded. ‘That is, our fair hands. Me, Elin and…my uncle. He died not long after it was finished.’

‘Sorry to hear it. It’s a fitting memorial.’ Silvan gazed at the serenely-turning blades for a moment then looked back at Bede. ‘Well, shall we…?’

They set off up the field with the three visitors in tow, Elin smiling at her husband expounding about forestry and raft-building as though his innate practicality gave him expert status in all things. At the road they split up and the men headed for the woods while Elin and Fran went up to the house to fetch the trailer.

They were down by the river, dismantling the timber to take a second load up to the yard, when Elin heard raised voices, Jeff’s rising in anger above raucous laughter. She ran down to the bank and grabbed the coil of rope in readiness. As the rafts rounded the bend Jeff was guiding one in to the bank. On his own. She caught sight of a forlorn swimmer hauling himself into the reeds higher up. The next thing she saw was a pair of logs carried by the current, followed at a distance by Carl and Rob clinging to the remnants of lashed branches.

‘Get in to the side!’ she yelled, grabbing the rope and readying herself to throw the loose end out to them. They caught it and began to pull themselves in, another piece of timber detaching itself from the raft as they crossed the faster flow in the middle of the river. She heard footsteps and, before she knew it, Bede was beside her, all heaving breath and cursing, hauling like a demon on the rope.

‘You stupid bastards!’

‘Hey, mate, we were just—’

‘Call yourselves experienced? I was serious about the bloody dangers! This isn’t a fucking playground. Not to mention the timber we’ve lost.’ Bede gazed downstream at the fast-disappearing pieces of wood.

‘These things happen,’ Elin said in an attempt to pacify. ‘I’m sure it wasn’t their fault.’

‘Bollocks! They did it deliberately. These two jokers started ramming the other two.’

‘Oh, come on,’ Silvan said as he walked up and reached to help Carl out of the water. The three of them stood forlornly dripping on the river bank. ‘It was only—’

‘I don’t know what got into us,’ Bede snapped. ‘We should never have agreed.’

‘Hey, hey.’ Silvan gestured as if shushing a crowd of excitable children. ‘Calm down, mate, yeah?’

‘Calm down? It’s such a waste! Not just our work – we sweated for hours to harvest that lot, but do you know how long it took those trees to grow? Perfectly good wood—’

Kip started barking as Bede’s voice rose, and Elin caught hold of the dog’s collar.

‘We’re sorry, right?’ Silvan looked suitably apologetic, but Carl and Rob were closer to laughing.

‘So, what if we’d drowned?’ Rob chipped in. ‘Would that make it OK? A life for a log?’

‘You’d have brought it on yourselves,’ Bede said.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, it’s not the end of the world.’

Elin sighed inwardly as the embers were fanned back into flames.

‘Of course it isn’t! Nothing like!’ Bede glared at him with the blazing intensity of an old-time preacher. ‘You’ll know when the end of the world hits you. And it will, sooner or later. Probably sooner, since most people carry on like you – using, consuming, chucking away without a care! You might bloody realise when it does! Might learn to show some respect.’

‘A-men!’ Carl sang out.

The tension rose a notch further.

‘Look, they didn’t mean any harm.’ Silvan glanced at the other two. ‘Got carried away. We’re sorry we lost your timber, aren’t we, guys?’

‘Yeah, guess.’

‘How about we see you down the pub later? Buy you a drink or two?’

Elin had to give Silvan credit for trying.

‘I don’t think so.’ Bede turned abruptly to help Jeff load the wood they’d managed to salvage onto the trailer. He looked back at the three of them hovering uncertainly. ‘You might as well leave us to it. Go and get dry. Haven’t you got shoot business to see to?’

Silvan looked at his watch. ‘Yeah, looks like it’s time we weren’t here. See you around.’

They walked off. Elin frowned at Bede. ‘Shoot business?’

‘Turns out Mr Guitar Man’s really Mr Pheasant Man in disguise. New keeper drafted in by Philip to help with the expansion of the Northcote Jr empire. He’s probably lining up to man Prospect G drill rigs when the time comes, too.’

She thought about the music last night and wished their second meeting with Silvan had been in better circumstances. She might even have forgiven him his job.

The sunset looked promising. After they’d cleared the dinner things and shut the chickens in to roost, they decided to spend their last evening together around the fire pit in the sheltered spot on higher ground between the house and the turbine.

‘I’ll bring my guitar.’ Elin began to pack it into its case. ‘You lot go on ahead – I’ll catch you up.’

Beyond the workshop at the far end of the yard, Bede was waiting for her on the little footbridge over the leat. Elin caught him up and he grasped her in an unexpected hug.

‘Thanks for waiting,’ she said.

‘I wanted to. I’m sorry about earlier, love. I guess I was a bit on edge before they appeared.’ He glanced down at the water. ‘You know… the river.’

‘You don’t have to explain to me. It’s still not fully forgiven?’

‘The river – forgiven? Don’t be daft. You can’t forgive a body of water for going about its natural business. It didn’t kill Joe.’

She sighed inwardly, wondering where this was leading and how many more times he’d play it out.

‘I guess we’ll never know exactly what happened,’ he said calmly. ‘But it’s like we always said – the riverflow. Things change. We move on. I should accept it was an accident.’ He reached out, tilted her head and kissed her. She responded warmly. To hear him finally say those last four words was the best gift he could give her. They stood for a moment looking at the small water-wheel – still, silent and just visible in the dusk, waiting to bring the workshop to life. She loved it and all it represented: the first major change he and Joe had made to Alderleat when they moved here.

Like much of what they’d done, it hadn’t gone entirely smoothly, with hostility from some outside quarters and arguments between themselves. Whether intoxicated by the anarchy of Calsthorpe Wood or antagonised by the cloud under which he’d left the community, Joe had been all for just forging ahead, saying no one could possibly accuse them of causing harm by reinstalling a water-wheel on the rusting old shaft and shoring up an existing water-course. They could always get retrospective planning permission if anyone reported them. But Bede had insisted on doing everything properly, with all the additional expense, surveys and months’ delay that entailed. His obsessive nature meant he enjoyed learning and remembering the minutiae of the regulations and complying with them – in this case at least, since he agreed they made sense. He’d been vindicated in the end: because they’d followed the proper procedures to the letter, they were able to face down the few objections they’d received, and now it meant they were morally better placed to object to Philip Northcote’s plans.

When they arrived at the fire pit with its wide view of Foxover, the river, the flood plain and the hills beyond, Fran and Jeff had already coaxed a small fire into life and they settled down to join them.

A few wispy clouds had gathered to adorn the sunset, swallows swooped for the evening midges and the rushing of the stream formed a constant backdrop. Fran poured out four beers and handed them round. Elin noticed Jeff’s glare and Fran’s answering look of defiance.

They raised their glasses to the accompaniment of the crackling fire.

‘Thanks for having us,’ Fran said. ‘It’s been lovely.’

‘We’re the ones thanking you,’ Elin said.

Bede stopped fussing with the fire and looked up at Fran. ‘Yes, I don’t know where we’d be without you.’

‘Oh, we love what you’re doing here. It’s good to feel part of it.’ Fran smiled at him. It was obvious that she knew what he meant. Not this time particularly, but her extended stays had kept Elin going during the last eighteen months. She raised her glass to her lips. ‘Your beer’s as amazing as ever, Elin. Doing that brew together the other day really took me back to the old uni days.’

‘You remember the looks we used to get taking home-brewed ale to parties?’ Elin was relieved at the change of subject. ‘All those comments about being cheapskate.’

Fran grinned. ‘Everyone complaining at us taking over the kitchen, moaning about the smell? They were more appreciative at Calsthorpe, of course. They knew all about the important things in life.’

Bede frowned at her reference to the protest camp; to Elin’s relief, Fran didn’t seem to notice.

‘I’m definitely going to get back into it once we’re home. Hey, Jeff?’

He held up his glass and critically examined the amber contents.

‘Well, I’d enjoy it,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be—?’

Fran’s slight shake of the head silenced him.

‘What’s this about?’ Elin said.

Fran picked up a stick, leaned towards the bonfire and nudged a branch into position, releasing a display of sparks. She sat back with a barely perceptible sigh. ‘Oh, it’s early days and we weren’t going to tell anyone yet, but…’ She reached out and took Jeff’s hand.

A swallow swooped so close Elin heard its wings thrum. Jeff glanced at Bede who was fastening and unfastening the top button of his shirt, gazing into the fire.

‘We’re expecting,’ Fran announced.

Bede looked round. Elin was surprised to see his expression light up.

‘That’s brilliant news.’ He hugged Fran, shook Jeff’s hand. ‘Congratulations!’

Elin felt a flood of warmth as she embraced her friend. So that explained the non-drinking, and Jeff’s fussing over Fran by the river. She sat back, looking fondly at Bede and wondering whether he’d go all protective around her if she were pregnant. She swallowed hard. Told herself firmly to get a grip, that it wasn’t going to happen.

‘Thanks,’ Fran said to him. ‘I know what you think, but—’

‘Oh, don’t mind what I think. Your choice.’ Bede stared into the flames then looked up as if gaining strength from them. ‘I think you’ll make a wonderful family. And mind you don’t skimp on the visits to Uncle Bede and Aunty Elin.’

‘Quite an education.’ Jeff grinned. ‘Who needs school?’

‘They’ll need more than school to equip them for the way the world’s going.’

‘Bede…’ Elin put a hand on his arm.

‘Sorry.’ He hunched forward, hugging his knees. The air beyond the fireglow seemed momentarily colder.

‘I knew we shouldn’t have said anything,’ Jeff said. ‘I thought you being pleased for us was too good to be true.’

‘I wasn’t the one brought up “what I think”. I meant it when I said I’m delighted for you. Of course I am.’ He reached out to stroke Kip, and smiled apologetically at Elin. ‘Let’s have some music to celebrate.’

She unpacked the guitar and began to play her favourite riversong, the threat of an atmosphere carried away with the soothing chords and the woodsmoke as they sang and talked. After a while Kip stirred, sat up and looked expectantly at Bede.

‘Looks like it’s time for a walk,’ he announced, getting to his feet. ‘Nothing personal, but…you know…’

‘Since when did you need our permission?’ Jeff said. Fran glared at him.

‘Quite.’ Bede squeezed Elin’s shoulder. ‘See you later.’

He strode off over the rise into the night. Suddenly gone.

‘Do you want to go after him?’ Fran asked Elin.

‘He’ll be fine. Always comes back as if nothing’s happened.’

‘I didn’t know anything had,’ Jeff said.

Elin and Fran exchanged a look.

The footpath snaked ahead, barely visible in the darkness. Kip sniffed inquisitive rings around Bede, and the wind ruffled his hair. Any awkwardness he felt about leaving, about all that lay beneath the conversation they’d just had, was soon dispelled by the guilty pleasure of being on his own for a while.

As he reached higher ground, the view opened up. Quiet grey fields stretched beyond the nearby lights of Foxover, with scattered villages hugging the distant hillsides on the far side of the floodplain. He tried to ignore the orange haze on the skyline, reflecting up to the low cloud. All those resources used for little more than light pollution. He wondered briefly about reviving their unpopular campaign to have the village street lights turned off at midnight. So much had been smothered by other concerns recently.

As a small boy he’d spent hours at bedtime gazing out of his window at a very different view of densely packed lines of orange lights winding across the hillside opposite. If he narrowed his eyes, the street lights became points of fire, merging to one huge conflagration. Whole streets, the whole district, in flames. He always wondered whether this was the one; maybe this time there was a fire and no one had noticed. He’d send himself to sleep devising strategies to escape from his room should the blaze spread to their street. After his mum married and his stepbrothers came along, he’d made the mistake of telling them. Their ridicule had driven any thoughts of rescue from his escape plans.

Kip came rustling from the undergrowth and he reached down to feel the familiar fur beneath his hand. The clouds shifted constantly, occasional glimpses of moonlight highlighting the contours of the land.

He still sometimes saw the orange glow pooling out of an underbelly of cloud as a warning of some apocalyptic disaster. But it wouldn’t begin with vast orange glows on the horizon. People were that little bit too clever, if not clever enough. They’d always stem the immediate tide without seeing the bigger picture. Each attempt to staunch the haemorrhage was only delaying it, burying it, sweeping it from view. Things would start to fail, like a system’s components, to be replaced individually at first until it became so much that a new system was needed. But you couldn’t build a new Earth.

Despite his anger and helplessness, he derived a perverse comfort from the inevitability that the Earth would continue in some form regardless of what mankind threw at her, and unless people changed their ways – and soon – would become hostile to humans in the same way as a body rid itself of disease. It was all so much bigger than him; his immediate problems hardly seemed to matter in the face of such huge forces.

He called Kip and walked on.

‘I’m sorry about the timing.’ Fran leaned forward and raked the dying embers. ‘I know kids are a touchy subject between you two.’

Elin sighed, gazing across the fire towards the path down which Jeff had vanished, yawning, a few moments ago. ‘All the more reason to share your excitement.’

‘But is that why…?’ Fran waved up the rise.

‘I doubt it. He was feeling stressed after this afternoon’s encounter.’

She looked away from the fire and watched the stars become ever more dense between the ribbons of cloud as her eyes readjusted to the dark.

‘I hope we haven’t overstayed our welcome.’

‘Now you really are talking daft.’

‘You’d said things were finally settling down between you, and it was certainly looking that way. Now he’s gone stomping off.’

Elin shrugged. She understood the need to be alone.

‘You’ve got the patience of a saint.’

Fran seemed to think of their marriage as a perpetual struggle; she’d advised Elin against getting involved with Bede right from the start. But as the years went by and he gained confidence, Fran had begun to admit she’d been wrong: Bede hadn’t been aloof or boorish, but merely shy. Yet although she’d come to appreciate his and Elin’s love for one another, it didn’t stop her referring to him as a moody and difficult man who needed dealing with. Elin and Bede, on the other hand, considered themselves a perfect team – her creativity and home-making provided the heart, while his technical know-how made it possible. It was a crude generalisation; they were each capable of both passion and practicality. But neither would function so well without the other. As proved by nearly fifteen years of marriage. Of course, Elin knew that Fran, her own family and others were only supporting her, seeing things from what they believed to be her perspective. Who did Bede have to take his side, to confide in occasionally? Joe, and Joe was gone. No wonder the last year and a half had been so difficult for them both. She understood, but was relieved that his time for grieving seemed to have passed.

7th April 1999

Today I finally got my chance to give Robert Markham a piece of my mind.

I found out recently that our Bede’s been getting bullied, mainly by his step-brother, the older one, Gavin. He only told me because last time we met, he’d obviously been scrapping and I asked him what happened. He just shrugged it off like it was a fact of life (it is, it seems), or like he’s bloody Jesus or something. He told me he can look after himself and not to worry. But I do. That bloody coward’s three years older than him for a start – should pick on someone his own size. I’ve been dying to go round and teach the bastard a lesson – both of them, seeing as the younger one doesn’t sound much better. If not them, the stepfather, who it seems is only too happy to turn a blind eye.

But I dare say our Bede would be mortified. (Funny the way I can’t help calling him ‘our Bede’ .) Seems it’s not usually physical, more a case of nicking pocket money, pranks, destroying homework, endless drip drip drip. Of course he doesn’t help by insisting on long hair, the way he dresses, pushing the bounds of what’s allowed by school uniform.

I tried to find a way to tread carefully and asked why didn’t he just get his hair cut for an easier life? And he tells me to shut up, his mum never used to nag him about it. He suddenly gives me this look, confiding like, and said he wondered if maybe she’d let him get away with it because his dad had hair like that and it was some kind of remembrance? I was floored, first time he’d asked me about his dad, and I struggled for a moment to remember what the guy looked like. Where on earth did he come up with a notion like that?

Well, to Robert Markham.

It was a presentation evening at our Bede’s school, for the Design & Tech pupils who’d entered some local industry-sponsored invention competition. He’d put together a solar-powered electric bike contraption – panels all over the panniers, a complicated gizmo to switch in when an energy boost’s needed. More clever than effective and hardly practical or stylish – let’s just say I doubt he’s going to become one of these teenage millionaires on the back of it. But what do I know? I was well impressed by his research and ability to put it all into practice.

Anyway, I walked in and saw him standing behind his table, looking generally chuffed but with a big dose of his characteristic awkwardness, and a woman with a name badge who looked like his teacher was there chatting away to a fella about my age, one of the judges I assumed.

Bede mumbles an introduction – his teacher, Mrs Harris I think it was. I shook her hand and said something about how proud I was of our Bede and he told her I’ve been such a help to him. At this the other fella turns his plastic smile to me and tells me he’s Robert Markham, Bede’s dad.

‘Good to meet you at last,’ he says. At last!! As if I should’ve asked his permission to get involved in my nephew’s life! Bede’s out of Markham’s line of sight and he mouths STEPdad at me, but I ignored him and quickly said something like, you must be proud too, and shook his hand. As Markham blathered something about giving him every encouragement with this project, I remembered what our Bede had told me about Gavin breaking some intricate component that took ages to repair, and then ‘losing’ the folder all his early designs were in so he was up all night writing the portfolio out again to hand it in. His stepdad hadn’t believed him, of course. Not even when Bede found the original folder – badly disguised, contents gone forever – in Gavin and Sam’s room. He just got told off for snooping through his brothers’ things.

We enjoyed the prizegiving. Our Bede won the under 16s, so he got tied up talking to the local paper, and there was my chance. Over a coffee that tasted like cat’s pee, I got Robert Markham on his own and asked straight out if he was aware of all the grief his sons, Gavin in particular, were causing Bede. He just looks at me with this disbelieving face on and says, ‘I might have known.’

I said he could hardly blame the lad for telling me.

‘Telling you what?’ His voice was raised, making me glance round. ‘How much I’ve gone out my way to treat him as my own son? Kids, boys in particular, are always arguing and I’ve taken Bede’s side more than I should. But he rejected us from the start.’ I think I was shaking my head in disbelief. ‘And he’s getting worse,’ the hard-nosed bastard goes on.

‘Give him a break. Lad’s not long since lost his mother.’

‘My boys lost their mother, too, but when I married Lydia they didn’t go round looking for someone to blame. They came to love her as much as their own mum, and they’d have loved Bede as a brother if he’d have let them. He’s made a career of tale-telling, setting things up, lying to get them into trouble.’

I made it clear that’s not what I’d heard.

‘You’ve got his word for it,’ he says. ‘I’m giving you mine.’

He suddenly shut up. I glanced to the side and saw our Bede standing there. For how long? I made some comment about the newspaper interview and rambled on about getting a copy. He nodded to me, then turned to Markham.

‘Trying to take Joe away from me too, are you?’

‘Don’t be daft.’ Markham does a kind of half-laugh like it’s all a big mountain out of a molehill. He points at me and gives it, ‘He was the one started shit-stirring.’

Whatever the rights and wrongs, did he look the tiniest bit embarrassed? Did he make any attempt to explain to the lad, or reassure him, claim that he’d misheard?

No. ‘He started it.’ For fuck’s sake.

Markham turned to me, still with that jovial just-family-banter-we-don’t-really-mean-it air. ‘I don’t know about Design & Tech, he should be up for the drama prize.’ He gives this award-winning melodramatic shrug of his own. ‘Know what I mean?’

Our Bede’s sleeping at my flat, on the sofa, for tonight. To be honest, it feels good to have someone else in the bloody soulless place.