with panic.
That evening everybody began to drink. The afternoon had been uncomfortably warm and Keith insisted on splashing and playing the fool and putting everyone in a party spirit. How could the idiot get himself pinned in a grade—two rapid? Adam kept repeating of his son. Three more rapids were run without incident. In the spaces between, Amal insisted on pairing up with Vince and chattering in his queer, high—pitched voice. His father had died ten years ago, his mother was obliged to work all hours in his uncle’s shop. Waterworld is like a family to me, he repeated two or three times. Amelia had been his girlfriend when they were both on the Canadian trip. She was nice. That was open canoes. But they had agreed to split up.
You run a bank, don’t you? he said. They were paddling the last tame stretch to Geiss between high banks of brushwood. Your wife taught me once, he explained. My two—star. She was the one with her hair in a bun, right? And she worked in a hospital. That’s right, Vince said. Good teacher, Amal said. Very strict. Didn’t let you get away with doing things even slightly wrong.
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
That evening everybody began to drink. The afternoon had been uncomfortably warm and Keith insisted on splashing and playing the fool and putting everyone in a party spirit. How could the idiot get himself pinned in a grade—two rapid? Adam kept repeating of his son. Three more rapids were run without incident. In the spaces between, Amal insisted on pairing up with Vince and chattering in his queer, high—pitched voice. His father had died ten years ago, his mother was obliged to work all hours in his uncle’s shop. Waterworld is like a family to me, he repeated two or three times. Amelia had been his girlfriend when they were both on the Canadian trip. She was nice. That was open canoes. But they had agreed to split up.
You run a bank, don’t you? he said. They were paddling the last tame stretch to Geiss between high banks of brushwood. Your wife taught me once, he explained. My two—star. She was the one with her hair in a bun, right? And she worked in a hospital. That’s right, Vince said. Good teacher, Amal said. Very strict. Didn’t let you get away with doing things even slightly wrong.
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
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