I stood, wondering what to do next; there was nothing but go back to my room. I drew back the curtains, straightened out the bedcovers, shoved a jumper and some underclothes into one of the drawers and hung up a skirt, a pair of trousers and a shirt in the curtained corner. Why did I bother to look at myself in the mirror? To see if I looked so washed out? But I wasn’t as pale as before; that eased my anxiety, and I didn’t care that my hair looked a mess. Nothing seemed important at that moment, but I rummaged in my toilet bag and found the tortoiseshell comb, which I pushed into a bundled-up knot on the top of my head. And then, of course, I would go to the walled garden for a smoke and take my book, in case anyone came along. At least I could make a pretence of reading.
The rose garden was empty and I chose the corner where the sun had reached and lit my cigarette. Wood pigeons echoed from somewhere, but there was no cuckoo. Nor any sound of water.
We had debated long and hard whether to buy the house with the river at the bottom of the garden. Was it too risky with a four-year-old? But it was such a welcoming old house, and as well as the river, I had fallen in love with the wooden veranda that ran along the back, despite its peeling paint and rotten floorboards. The house had no front garden, just a few steps and some iron railings down to the street, but the back was sprawling and wild with unpruned fruit trees that almost obscured the view of the river. There was one old pear tree and in August the grass was strewn with yellow, rotting pears, which attracted hordes of wasps. But what should we do about the river? Really it was no more than a large stream, for it was only roughly thirty feet across and shallow, three to four feet in depth at the most and in a drought we thought it could dry up altogether, although in fact it never did as long as we lived there. Like old Father Thames, it kept going, somehow. It was always clear and pebbly with weeds and reeds that needed clearing a bit every year, and then you could easily see the slippery brown fish as they glided nonchalantly above the stones. But a child could drown there. I was finally persuaded that it would be all right when Peter described the fence he would build, and the gate that we could safely padlock. Because the garden sloped down to the stream we could still see it over the fence, which was tall enough to deter a child.
The fence was in place before we moved in at the end of August, a week before Dan’s fourth birthday, but even so we both watched him like hawks and if he disappeared behind the trees for more than a minute, one or other of us would run after him. In truth, it was safe and Dan was perfectly content to stand at the fence and look out. In fact, there were, then, far more interesting things to attract his attention in the new house and garden. The river seemed rather tame in comparison with the tree house Peter built with some of the timber left over from repairing the veranda, and the cellar, which could be approached by stone steps leading off the kitchen.
Our first job in the garden was to thin out the trees so that we could enjoy the river and the trees beyond from the house and the veranda. Neighbouring riverside houses had manicured lawns sweeping down to smart landing stages and well-varnished summer houses, but we kept the old wildness and Peter simply patched up the dilapidated landing stage. We bought an orange rubber dinghy to begin with. It was light and unsinkable, a good first boat for any child, and we both spent more time than we should have done either rowing Dan up to the bridge and the public landing stage from where we could walk within a few minutes to the shops, or we simply drifted downstream, trailing fishing nets or lines.
Dan quickly learned to row and all the codes of the river and so for his sixth birthday we bought him a small, light rowing boat. He was so sensible and reliable that we had no fears now for his safety. He developed into a fine fisherman, as Peter taught him how to use a rod and to bait the hooks with bread pellets or worms found in the garden. If he caught a fish he always put it in a bucket so that he could show us before throwing back. We all so enjoyed the river on sunny days when the pebbles glistened yellow and on rainy days when the drops bounced off the water. You could hear it at night; it was the loveliest sound in the world. We had to admit that it would have been nice to have a summer house by the river for cold and bright or rainy days, and Peter often discussed the design with me, but it never happened, of course.
Fleur was born in the November after Dan’s sixth birthday but her pet name was Flower mostly, although like all families I suppose we called her many flower names as family fun. Come here, Buttercup, Lilly, Dandylion, Snowdrop, Daffodil, and she would laugh. But one day she stood with hands on hips and announced ‘I want to be Flower.’ but mostly when she was being particularly sweet, it was Flower. Dan called her Toadstool if she was being difficult and this made her giggle as well.
By the time she could crawl, Peter had fixed wire netting along the fence but even then, we didn’t let her out into the garden on her own if we could help it. It was OK if Dan was there. We knew she would always be safe with him. He taught her what she could and could not do and, because she loved him with such a fierce passion, she never disobeyed him. Often, I would turn to Dan for his help if she was being particularly awkward. ‘Dan, tell her, will you?’
He would call: ‘Toadstool! Toadstool! Do as Ma says. Titch, don’t be naughty.’
As Fleur grew older she would go in the boat with Dan. He taught her to row, although she was always too impetuous and heavy-handed and ‘caught crabs’ endlessly, the oar leaping into the air and out of her control. But he was patient, only laughing where others might have been irritated. He pretended to be cross if she refused to put a caught fish back, and on one occasion actually smacked her behind because she took a fish out of the bucket and ran into the house to show me, saying she had caught it. The fish died, of course, and then she was heartbroken. Sobbing and screaming uncontrollably.
Dan had a small biscuit tin with holes in for his worms and naturally Fleur had to have the same. Often you could see her in the garden hunting out worms for Dan, quite oblivious to any damage she might be doing to the lawn, but she always insisted on keeping them in her own tin. If she found an extra-juicy one, she didn’t wait to put it in the tin but ran to find him with it dangling between her fingers, shrieking out with excitement. ‘Well done, Titch. That is a good one. Now go and find some more.’ He had his own ways of getting some peace.
Dan’s other preoccupations were football and reading. He would kick a ball about in the garden, but more often he would go with his friends to the park. At these times, I would have my work cut out keeping Fleur busy until he returned. Reading was not such a problem, though because Dan wisely made a rule very early on that he would only read to her as long as she did not interrupt with questions, she would listen to anything. Once I came upon her listening to The Life Cycle of the Mexican Lizard! Dan simply read out loud whatever he was currently reading, sometimes Dickens, sometimes Football News. Fleur didn’t care, providing she could sit cross-legged on his bed and be part of whatever he was doing. As a consequence, she learned to read herself very quickly and was reading her own books before she started school.
She was happy to go to school because she was familiar with the building and with the teachers, as she went every day with me to meet Dan and as soon as the bell rang she would run to the school door to find him. Sometimes, impatient as usual, she would disappear inside. I used to laugh. How she found him I was never sure, but they would emerge hand in hand, she skipping and talking, with Dan trying hard not to look pleased. By the time she went though, Dan had moved to the grammar school, which was a short bus ride away. Fleur and I would walk with Dan as far as the bus stop in the mornings and then go on to her school. In the afternoons, I fetched her in the car and then drove to Dan’s school. I needn’t have done this, because Dan was just as capable of coming home from school as he was of going, but Fleur made such a fuss if we weren’t going to pick him up that I generally gave in. If we were early I took her to a nearby park and duck pond and we would feed the ducks with crusts of bread. Meanwhile, in anticipation of seeing Dan, she talked faster and faster – never stopped.
I never quite knew what frame of mind Fleur would be when she came out of school. Always active, always talkative. Sometimes life was wonderful, sometimes ‘vulgar’. Vulgar was a word she used frequently; she meant horrible or revolting. ‘How was dinner today?’
‘Vulgar!’
When the memory was returning, the reliving, I put my hand to my mouth, as if in shock. People must have noticed sometimes as I stood in a queue or suddenly stopped in the street or a shop or café and put my hand to my mouth. Anywhere, anytime, always unexpected, the memories rose up and my hand would go to my mouth.