rocks seem precarious. They will tumble down. A buzzard swoops above the tree line and the girl feels as if she herself has fallen from there. She is still falling, the mountains turning. It’s so calm. She doesn’t believe what has happened. She is living an intense swan—song of adoration and denial. She has given herself completely to Clive. My family is behind me. I will go anywhere you go, she told him last night. She lets her hands trail in the water and the chill climbs up her fingers to wrists and forearms. You know I can’t go home.
Then Vince hears it. Beyond the still—beeping truck, a low roar emerges, a dark line floats up on the auditory horizon. At once the water takes on a new urgency. They are gliding past narrowing banks of steeper and steeper stone. Alrighty! Phil breaks the silence. River—left! Clive shouts. He is paddling backwards, facing the others. As he tells them what to do, he is sensible, steady, entirely manly. But Michela recognises the hint of impatience in his voice, the energy restrained. He wishes he were in another era, exploring virgin territory, commanding soldiers. She loves this in him. Kayaks are plastic toys, he complains when he is depressed. There’s nothing
necessary
about them. They’re not natural. One evening he asked over and over, Do you understand, Micky, what I mean by something being
necessary?
Clive is old never to have settled; she knows that. She saw the mad intensity of his eyes at the demonstration in Milan.
Keith is shouting names and numbers. He has to yell now over the roar of the rapid, swollen with yesterday’s rain. Amal five, Amelia six, Louise seven. They must follow Clive’s line. Three boat—lengths apart. Don’t get too close.
One by one the kayaks drop below the horizon. Each hull with its bright colour slips suddenly away, then the helmet. Louise’s helmet is white. Number seven is gone. Next to last, with only the expert Adam behind him, Vince dips into a slalom of rushing water and rock. The acceleration is dramatic. For the first time he finds himself actually looking downhill, in the water. No time to be frightened. The boat is flung to the side. The boulders come very fast. Vince steers and turns and braces. His mind is absolutely concentrated, his body is wired and reactive. Suddenly, a boat is blocking his path. Mark is pinned against a boulder to one side of the narrow central chute. The water is piling on his deck. He’s shouting. Vince crashes into the boat. Mark is bounced free, but capsizes in the rush. Somehow, Vince does something instinctive, some strange banging of paddle on water, an unexpected elasticity of ageing hips, that keeps him upright in the race. Now he is plunging down into the terminal stopper. The water is frothing. Paddle! a voice shouts. From the eddy behind a rock, everybody is shouting. Paddle hard! The churning white water grabs hold of him. The stern is pulled down, as if arms under there had clutched him. They want him under.
Paddle, for Christ’s sake!
Vince paddles and the boat rears and pops out. Safe.
Vince enjoys, then, as on waking every morning, about two or three seconds of complete contentment. He fights his way out of the white water. He sees his daughter’s radiant pink face. She is rafted up against Tom in the eddy. My daughter is bursting with excitement and happiness! Their first real rapid. What a rush of adrenalin! Then after this flash of pleasure, the dark returns, with an awful inevitability. You give everything to work, Gloria would say. You have no other life. Bizarre phrases come to his mind. I am
excluded. He
wants to shout the words. Gloria excluded me. I’m so so sorry, she said. What did she mean? Vince is boiling with rage. Whipping the boat round as he crosses the eddy—line, he sees only now that the instructors have passed a rope across the river at the stopper and Clive is in there pulling out Mark. I forgot the boy. I forgot him! Mark is retching. His face is white
Then Vince hears it. Beyond the still—beeping truck, a low roar emerges, a dark line floats up on the auditory horizon. At once the water takes on a new urgency. They are gliding past narrowing banks of steeper and steeper stone. Alrighty! Phil breaks the silence. River—left! Clive shouts. He is paddling backwards, facing the others. As he tells them what to do, he is sensible, steady, entirely manly. But Michela recognises the hint of impatience in his voice, the energy restrained. He wishes he were in another era, exploring virgin territory, commanding soldiers. She loves this in him. Kayaks are plastic toys, he complains when he is depressed. There’s nothing
necessary
about them. They’re not natural. One evening he asked over and over, Do you understand, Micky, what I mean by something being
necessary?
Clive is old never to have settled; she knows that. She saw the mad intensity of his eyes at the demonstration in Milan.
Keith is shouting names and numbers. He has to yell now over the roar of the rapid, swollen with yesterday’s rain. Amal five, Amelia six, Louise seven. They must follow Clive’s line. Three boat—lengths apart. Don’t get too close.
One by one the kayaks drop below the horizon. Each hull with its bright colour slips suddenly away, then the helmet. Louise’s helmet is white. Number seven is gone. Next to last, with only the expert Adam behind him, Vince dips into a slalom of rushing water and rock. The acceleration is dramatic. For the first time he finds himself actually looking downhill, in the water. No time to be frightened. The boat is flung to the side. The boulders come very fast. Vince steers and turns and braces. His mind is absolutely concentrated, his body is wired and reactive. Suddenly, a boat is blocking his path. Mark is pinned against a boulder to one side of the narrow central chute. The water is piling on his deck. He’s shouting. Vince crashes into the boat. Mark is bounced free, but capsizes in the rush. Somehow, Vince does something instinctive, some strange banging of paddle on water, an unexpected elasticity of ageing hips, that keeps him upright in the race. Now he is plunging down into the terminal stopper. The water is frothing. Paddle! a voice shouts. From the eddy behind a rock, everybody is shouting. Paddle hard! The churning white water grabs hold of him. The stern is pulled down, as if arms under there had clutched him. They want him under.
Paddle, for Christ’s sake!
Vince paddles and the boat rears and pops out. Safe.
Vince enjoys, then, as on waking every morning, about two or three seconds of complete contentment. He fights his way out of the white water. He sees his daughter’s radiant pink face. She is rafted up against Tom in the eddy. My daughter is bursting with excitement and happiness! Their first real rapid. What a rush of adrenalin! Then after this flash of pleasure, the dark returns, with an awful inevitability. You give everything to work, Gloria would say. You have no other life. Bizarre phrases come to his mind. I am
excluded. He
wants to shout the words. Gloria excluded me. I’m so so sorry, she said. What did she mean? Vince is boiling with rage. Whipping the boat round as he crosses the eddy—line, he sees only now that the instructors have passed a rope across the river at the stopper and Clive is in there pulling out Mark. I forgot the boy. I forgot him! Mark is retching. His face is white
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