Rapids

A WAVE

The first thing is padding up. Michela stands beside Clive while he gives his little lesson. The course that they have been advertising in canoe clubs all over England is called An Introduction to White Water: Five Days in the South Tyrol. A year ago, Vince Marshall would never have dreamed of coming.

You have to be tight in the cockpit. Okay? This isn’t the Thames Estuary. Tight tight tight. The perfect fit.

Like sex? ventures a voice. Brian has a fuzz of red hair, a small snubbed nose, droll expression.

Actually no, not like sex at all, says Clive patiently. He is wearing a khaki cap. The girls are giggling. As somebody might know, if he had a minimum of experience.

Cru — el!

With sex, Clive continues in his measured sensible voice, two entities move constantly in relation to each other, n’est — ce pas?

Two what? Phil demands.

Michela’s hand is just touching Clive’s as he speaks. Vince, who hadn’t been paying attention, is suddenly caught by this. He stares.

There is a certain amount of lubricant, Clive insists, with only a faint smile beneath his beard. Of give.

I do beg your pardon, Mr Riley, but what time of day is it? Mandy asks.

Two what! Phil whispers to Amal now.

Whereas if you’re properly padded up in your kayak, kids, there should be absolutely no movement at all. Got that. None. You and the boat move welded together in the water.

May I venture to say, then— Max’s facetious voice pipes up— that this is more like the male member’s relationship with a condom.

Oh do shut up! Adam complains.

Only hazarding an ay — nalogy, smirks Max.

Anal? Phil demands.

I said, shut up! Adam insists. Let’s remember some basic rules of decency.

Well, the condom would certainly be a more accurate description, Clive acknowledges wryly.

Let’s just get on with it, can we? Adam is a scout leader. His son is watching him.

My sentiments entirely, says Amelia. For a second she keeps a straight face. She has pretty freckles round a prim nose, long straight black hair. Then all the adolescents burst out laughing. Even the fat Caroline. Even the older Tom.

Oh, I’m going to pee myself, Louise gasps. Vince now notices that his daughter has the top of her wrist pressed into her mouth.

Kids! Keith steps in. Kids, concentrate! If someone wants their four — star paddler this week they’ll have to do more than crack jokes.

Wally! Phil shouts. Where’s Wally!

Keith is aghast. Oh no! Eternal damnation! Then the older man reaches into his open shirt and conjures the little effigy from his armpit. Fooled you!

Clive invites Michela to sit in a boat on the grass at his feet. They have lifted one of the Pyranhas down from the trailer beside the chalet. She’s wearing jeans. She unlaces her trainers, puts a hand each side of the cockpit and slips in. The boat is a bright new blue. They have bought them with a loan. Clive squats down beside her. His beard, just greying from red, is close to her cheek. His blonde hair flows out of his cap in the manner of the American pioneer.

How are the feet?

Loose.

The footrests— gather round, kids— have to be so tight that the upper part of the thigh is jammed, I repeat, jammed under the cockpit here.

Clive puts a strong hand on her knee and pushes it laterally, then waggles it hard back and forth.

Too much give. See?

Michela shoots a glance at him.

They are a couple, Vince tells himself. He can’t concentrate.

Michela gets out and Clive shows the others how to adjust the footrests. The trick is, set it so it’s as snug as can be, right, then tighten up one more notch. Okay? Tight as possible. And then again one more. That’s the secret. If it’s not uncomfortable, it’s not right. It has to hurt. At least at first.

Michela gets in the boat again. They are in the small clearing in front of the kitchen tent. Now she has trouble forcing her knees under the cockpit edges. She wriggles, smiles, grimaces, eyes closed, eyebrows lifted. Youch! It is another expression she learned from Clive.

If condoms hurt that much, a voice mutters, I’ll do without.

Adam twists his head. He seems to be appealing to Keith to put a lid on this.

Brian’s freckled face assumes a saintly glow.

I believe that’s why the Pope is so against them, Max remarks boldly. The boy is wearing a broad — brimmed straw hat, as if at some public — school picnic.

Rock the boat, Micky, Clive is saying. Please, watch carefully everybody. Rock it from side to side.

Sitting upright, Michela leans to the right. She wears a white T — shirt that leaves a hand’s — breadth of stomach visible. Vince looks away. Above the tents and the coloured clutter of the campsite, he lifts his eyes to climb solid slopes rising steeply through gleaming meadow and dark pine to shreds of bright cloud that drift among barren walls of rock. The instructor’s voice fades. Then, further above, even in this month of August, Vince sees patches of snow shining distantly to cap dizzying cliffs of dark stone, gritty corrugated peaks. He breathes deeply. You’re on holiday, he tells himself. To the north a tiny cable car crawls up the gigantic back of the mountain.

See how the body moved first, Clive explains, before the boat? Did you see that? All at once the voice is louder and insistent. Did you? Vince turns and finds Clive’s eye on him.

It is absolutely essential that you take this on board.

Michela shifts her hips, raises a knee, so that the rounded hull of the kayak gradually tips while her torso remains upright. Clive thrusts a hand between the girl’s thigh and the edge of the boat. That’s the space we’ve got to pad out and eliminate. Okay? Any give between you and the cockpit, and the sheer fact is, as soon as you’re in serious water you’re going to be trashed. Which means of course that someone else is going to have to take time out to rescue you. Most of all, remember— now he raises his voice— please, all remember: to do an Eskimo roll successfully in white water, you and the boat have to be one thing, moulded together. Okay? The boat is your arse.

Oh me dearie! Max exclaims, tugging on the brim of his hat.

Clive upturns a big cardboard box full of black polystyrene blocks in plastic wrapping. Everybody was to pair up, get the boats off the trailer, set footrests, then help their partners to pad up, cutting the blocks to the right width.

You can use an ordinary knife for that. There are tubes of glue when you’re sure you’ve got it right. Oh, and do it in your swimming kits everybody. Make it tight. That way it’ll be even tighter when you’ve got your wetsuits on. I want you to feel like you’re in a vice.

Vice is nice! Brian immediately joked. Nobody laughs. There is a general sense of anxiety. It’s time to choose boats.

Louise was already paired off elsewhere. Vince saw Caroline grab her friend Amelia. Adam was giving his son useful instructions.

Us oldies should stick together, Mandy said, taking Vince’s arm. Keith’s brought his own boat, she explained. A mauve costume clung to her shapeless body. She has a round face, short hair dyed coal — black and carelessly cut. The two joined the bustle by the trailer. As they lifted a boat down, Vince was aware of being physically weaker than he would have wanted. Mandy sat in the kayak on the ground. They worked at the blocks of padding. I’m such a fat old sow, she was saying. She had strong wrists and forearms. And she said: Oh by the way, Adam told me about your wife. I’m so sorry.

Thanks, Vince acknowledged.

How has the girl taken it? she asked.

He pressed the foam block between her thigh and the boat. She pulled a face. For all its rotundity, her flesh was solid. I really wouldn’t know, he said.

Yaiiii! Towards ten — thirty a scream exploded on the water. Even before Amelia had her spraydeck on, Keith thrust her boat off the bank from behind and Clive, standing in four feet of still water, spun her upside down.

The first thing, kids— Keith now shoved Max off before the boy could grasp what was happening— the first thing, once you’ve got yourselves as tight as can be in your boats— I hope your ankles are killing you— is to make bloody sure you can get out of them in an emergency. Right, Phil? Another boat splashed in. Clive promptly capsized it.

From the dark water a red helmet popped up. Yaiii!!! Amelia shrieked. It’s frigging freezing! It’s ice!

You forgot your three slaps on the hull, Keith told her. Nobody comes out of the boat without banging three times on the hull. Otherwise how is a rescuer supposed to know that you’re not still planning to roll up.

Then it was Vince’s turn. The boat slid off the grassy bank and out across the water. It was a quiet spot downstream from the campsite where the river spread out in a slow curve across flat pastureland before taking the next dive. The nose of the kayak hit the water. Even before Clive could grab it, Vince leaned over and capsized. The shock of the cold water on his face was extraordinary. He was suddenly wide awake, forced into presence. Because he had secured the spraydeck and was watertight, he waited a moment, hanging upside down in the cockpit, to feel the full effect of the river’s chill on face and hands. The water was unusually bright and clear after the estuary. He could see his fingers, even the pale gold of his wedding ring, as if in a swimming pool. Okay. He slapped three times without urgency on the sides of the boat, then reached for the tab on the elastic deck. The tab wasn’t there. Why not? His hands felt rapidly round the rim of the cockpit. Everything was perfectly visible. The black deck, the blue boat. But he had secured the stretch — rubber top with the release tab tucked inside. In two years of kayaking he had never made this most elementary of mistakes.

Now he banged again on the hull. Another boat must have followed him. Clive was turning it over. He sensed noise and laughter and people scrambling out of the water. He was underneath, unseen, shut away. If he’d come in with his paddle he could have rolled up. But he hasn’t. People can’t hear, they can’t see. I could die, he suddenly thought. He started to claw with his fingers, trying to pull the elastic from the cockpit rim to expose the tab and pull the deck. Nothing. Did they imagine he was showing off staying under so long? He put both hands on the cockpit, tried to pull his knees to his chest to force the deck off. It wouldn’t pop. They are made not to pop. It is new and stiff and tight. Then he threw himself violently from side to side, twisting his head for air, shouting into the water, banging on the side of the boat. There was splashing all around. Firm hands grasped him and turned the boat. As he came up, blue — faced, he was looking straight into Adam’s grey eyes. The man was shaking his head like some disappointed schoolmaster.

Wally! his daughter yelled. Dad’s going to be Wally tonight!

What a fool! Vince shouted. He was furious. I’m such a fool! Damn and damn. He was taken aback by the violence of his own reaction. The youngsters were watching him. Respect, someone said.

Holding his boat on the other side, Michela said quietly, Better in fun than when it’s for real. This was another thing that came from Clive.

The sun was hot, as it had been all summer. They used the slack of the meander to get used to the boats and paddles. Clive had bought good paddles of a new nylon material, light and fast. Altogether it was a big investment. The instructors checked that everybody could roll. Capsize, kids. Go for it. Only Tom had difficulty. It was strange that such a strong, apparently expert boy should be the one to fail. In his eagerness to breathe, he tried to bring his head up too soon. Your head is the last part to come up, Keith repeated. But everybody knows this. Amelia and Louise stationed their boats beside his and gave advice. Tom is so handsome, a slim, straight, powerful young man with a good jaw, deep eyes. He tried again. His head struggled out of the water too soon and sank back. Amelia prodded her boat against the red hull. Tom felt for the bow and pulled himself upright holding that. His strong torso came up, dripping water, his fine face clouded with annoyance. Don’t worry, Louise chirped. It took me ages.

Meantime the younger boys were turning their boats over and over in every possible way. Phil capsized, passed his paddle from one hand to the other over the bottom of the boat, head under water, then rolled up. All the time he was chewing gum. Can you do a helicopter roll, Bri? A reverse screw roll? Mark, Adam’s quiet son, seemed particularly expert. Look at this one, Dad. He rolled up with the paddle behind his head. Adam watched. Anyone can do that kind of thing in calm water, he said soberly. In calm water anyone can be an expert. Amelia knew how to roll her boat with just her hands, no paddle. You sort of sway your body, like, from one side right to the other, she explained to Vince. He shook his head. It seemed impossible. I don’t panic, Tom repeated to Keith. Really I don’t. I used to be able to do it. Swimming away from his boat, his young manliness seemed to be deserting him.

The kayaks spread out across the meander, tipping over and popping up.

What about the other side, Clive approached Vince.

Sorry?

Can you roll the other way round, with your paddle on the other side?

Never tried. As soon as Vince was alone, his mind lapsed back, not so much into thought, but a sort of intense, wordless inner paralysis. There are moments, Clive explained, in white water when it’s only possible to come up on one side of the boat, because of the current, or you’re stuck against a rock maybe. Vince tried it. He tipped over. Under water, instead of thrusting the right hand forward and across to his left side he did the reverse. His paddle felt for the surface. He pushed the arms far up and away towards a glow of daylight. It is strange how different it feels making a movement you know well, but with the other side of the body. He is disorientated. Like writing with the left hand. Or walking arm in arm with someone you’re not used to. Concentrating, upside down in the glacier — fed water, he pulled the left arm through a wide arc and leaned his head back. To his surprise the boat turned, his body came up. For a moment it stopped, it seemed he might fall back. Vince thrashed with his paddle and suddenly he was upright. He felt proud. He had done the right thing to come on this holiday. Clive was sceptical. See if you can do that in turbulence, he said.

They picnicked. On the bank people peeled off closed smock jackets with tightly sealing rubber cuffs and necks. Everybody has strips of neoprene hanging off them, or wet T — shirts, or towels round their necks. It is uncomfortable. At the back of the Kent County Council van where the sandwiches have been stored, Vince found himself beside Michela. There are cheese sandwiches and crisps and melting chocolate, bottles of water. To his surprise, the Italian girl came to sit beside him on the grass. She had pulled down the top of her wetsuit so that the shoulder — straps hung round her thighs. Vince felt vaguely embarrassed by the thought that his daughter would see them sitting together. But this was ridiculous because now all the adults came to eat in one group, the adolescents in another. Your daughter is relieved to be out of your company, he thought. I am relieved too. They would never live together again.

Clive said how hard it was to predict river levels with this global warming. The glaciers retreated each year. The hot weather came too soon. This summer more than ever. The full melt was on you before you expected it. By now they were paddling on the snows of centuries back, the blizzards of the Middle Ages. There were more thunderstorms, perhaps, but less of the same steady release of the winter’s snow. The river could be bony or even dry before you knew it. It’s amazing they do nothing about the greenhouse effect, he went on. What was the temperature in Milan during the demonstration the other day? Thirty — six degrees? Thirty — eight? No wonder people went crazy.

He was sitting on a rock beside Michela. She leaned her back against him. I can’t believe, he insisted, how enthusiastic they are when car sales are up. Keith nodded, eating. The world cooks and dries up and they worry about car sales! There was a silence. Mandy was rubbing sun cream into her shoulders. I should take a picture, she said. You wonder, Clive went on, if they will ever really open their eyes before something major simply forces them to.

Like what, Adam asked coolly.

A drought, Michela said at once. A flood.

Well, which? He had a wry smile.

Vince was not following. His eye had again been drawn upward to the hugeness of the mountains above them. The majesty of the place was crushing. It appeased some obscure desire in him. At the same time he was intensely aware of the young woman, of the fact that her belligerence now, saying something about multinationals, was to do with her being together with this bearded instructor, this strong capable man. Suddenly, he was stumbling to his feet.

We’ve bored Vince to death, Keith said.

Hearing his name, he managed to turn. He shook his head. Not at all. He tried to smile. Just need to cool my feet in the water. He had kept his wetsuit on.

The climate changes anyhow, Adam was saying. This whole thing is being exploited by people who have an axe to grind and time on their hands.

Vince sat on the upturned hull of his boat with his feet in the water. It seemed impossible that he would get through these days and months without asking someone for help. He watched the youngsters throwing themselves in the water. You hold an important position, he reminded himself. In a major organisation. For some reason he had a recurrent image of a needle penetrating the skin between his fingers. It would bring relief. It would dissolve the pressure in his mind. Then Tom insisted on swimming right across to the opposite bank. He was a strong swimmer. He had been the weakest in this morning’s rolling lesson. Louise, Brian, Amelia and Caroline were trying to follow.

Your buoyancy aids! Keith arrived at a run. He was yelling. No one in the water without buoyancy aids! The swimmers protested. We must keep an eye on them, the group leader told Vince. There was a hint of reproach. Out! He raised his voice. It’s a question of insurance. There are rapids round that bend.

But we’re here, Amelia complained. You can’t accuse us of being round the bend!

Caroline wallowed beside her. Respect, she said.

Out of the water at once, Keith insisted.

Wally! Show Wally!

I’ll show Wally when you get out.

Only as they came out on the mud did Vince realise that one of the boys had a club foot. The red — haired lad with the sly face. He had trouble getting to his feet. It was a serious malformation. I’ve forgotten their names, Vince told himself. He breathed deeply.

Crazy as it may sound, we now paddle upstream, Clive told them. Remember, no one said this was a holiday. In about quarter of a mile, we get to some white water and we can have our first go at a wave. But getting there is going to be a sweat.

Hear that, Phil? Keith asked. Neoprene jacket unzipped, the man’s paunch was in evidence.

Doddle, the boy said. On the back of his helmet he has a skull and crossbones and the words, Don’t follow me!

Clive smiled. Okay, basically, the thing to do is to use whatever slack water you can find, in the eddies by the bank, or behind the rocks midstream, to keep moving upstream. It’s an exercise in reading the water. Anyone in despair, there’s a path behind those bushes on the other side. You can always carry the boat.

There was a minute’s unpleasantness pulling the damp wetsuits back on, a minute’s sleepiness, perhaps. The day was clouding over, as so often in the mountains at noon. It was muggy and chill by turns. There were midges and dragonflies. The air hummed. As soon as Vince was back in his boat, paddle in hand, life seemed possible again.

All right, Mark? he asked Adam’s son, when they were on the water. He knew that name.

Fine, the boy said. He had an earnest, slightly vacant face. Just me feet going numb. Like having your legs jammed up yer arse.

You look good on the water, Vince said.

Tell me dad that!

No sooner had they rounded the bend, upstream, than the river narrowed. The water began to flow more swiftly. The boat wobbled. Wake up, Vince told himself. There was a constant gurgling. He was concentrated, nervous. Lean back when you break into the stream from the eddy, Keith warned. Lean back, you’re crouched! You’re tense. How can your shoulders work like that? Relax.

The kayaks zigzagged, gaining in the slack water behind rocks and spurs, fighting to cross the swift flow in the centre. Show your butts to the stream, everybody. Make the river carry you across! Vince rested behind a boulder. His eyes moved over the water ahead. From brown it had turned black. Perhaps that was the sky growing darker. There was no time for the landscape. He looked for the flat swirling of water that marked the lower part of an eddy.

Break into the current with the hull scraping your rock, Max! Clive called. Scraping it, I said!

I’m Brian, the boy complained. Max is the fairy.

Bugger you, Bri.

See what I mean!

Vince watched. Brian then was the boy with the club foot— concentrate— Max the blonde lad who had worn the straw hat. He was surprised to find how well he was doing. Never in his life had it been so difficult to get through a day, or even a single hour. There had been weeks and months of misery. But now, when you spoke to someone for a moment, or managed to cross a big rush of water and hide behind a low rock, then a little time passed unnoticed. He felt a sense of achievement. Life was flowing again. I’m doing fine, he thought. By the end of the holiday, I’ll be cured.

But now there was a more serious obstacle. They were trapped behind a spur. You fight up the cushion of water, Clive explained, then, at the critical point— don’t worry, you’ll sense it— you throw your weight forward and paddle for it like crazy.

Vince’s paddle caught on the rocky spur. The water rushed towards him. I’m gasping. I’m sweating like a pig. He hung on the surge of the current, fought it, paddled wildly, then was carried down, had to struggle just to get back in the same eddy. Meantime, all the others had passed. He was last.

Try again, Clive told him. The key is the angle when you enter the flow. Vince tried and failed. The strokes weren’t powerful enough. Or weren’t placed right. He sensed the strain in his shoulders.

Just keep working at it, Keith said patiently. He had come back for them. But you have to believe you’re going to make it. Use your shoulders, not your wrists. Punch the stroke through.

The sheer fact is, Clive laughed, there’s a difference in the ratio of strength to body weight between us and the youngsters. We adults sink deeper. We’re heavier. They just try and they fly.

Between me and the youngsters you mean, Vince said grimly. Suddenly he was again telling himself he shouldn’t have come. I’m making a fool of myself. He should have stayed home to wait out this mental state. To wait till he became himself again.

Go for it!

Vince looks hard at the solid curve of water coming down from above the spur and doesn’t understand how all the others have done it. Even tubby Caroline. He throws himself at it again. He gives it everything. The left side of the bow grazes the rock. He lifts the left edge to meet the current. The boat is pushed to the right. Paddle like crazy, someone is shouting. Now! Weight forward! Now! Vince paddles. One stroke goes in with surprising power. It feels different. He’s done it. He’s on top. It wasn’t even that difficult. Now he just has to fight to the slack by the bank to avoid being carried down again.

Mandy is there, her head among the branches of a willow. Waiting for my heart rate to come down a little, thank you very much, she laughs. Even on the water she has the camera attached to her jacket, apparently waterproof. She squints at the little screen. You’re red as a lobster! This’ll be good. Vince’s skull is pounding under his helmet. Did it! he finally finds the breath to shout. Did IT! He punches the air. He is overreacting.

At that moment a red hull swirled by, a kayak floating upside down. Immediately alert, congratulating himself on the fact, Vince broke from the eddy to meet it. They must look out for each other. That was the rule. But even as he pulls into the current, swept back towards the rush he has just climbed from, a paddle breaks the surface beside the hull and in a second the boat has flipped right side up. Phil is grinning gormlessly, chewing, nose dripping under a green helmet. Vince crashes into him as they go down the rush by the spur together. See that! There’s a flurry of water and paddle strokes. The boy seems to do everything instinctively. See that tail squirt I did! I was bloody vertical. No sooner are they back in the lower eddy than Phil climbs the rush again, apparently without effort, and is gone. Vince is exhausted. After one failed attempt to get back to Mandy, he paddles the boat the other side of the rock and over to the bank.

There’s a heavy smell of dank vegetation here, exposed willow roots with water flowing through them, a buzz of flies. Vince pulls his boat up on the bank, then flounders, looking for a break in the nettles. Now there are raindrops pattering all around. His foot sinks into black mud. Hey! Clive reappears in the eddy behind the rock. You should tell me if you’re getting out. He’s irritated. Otherwise I’ll be worried we’ve lost you. I’ll go searching downstream.

But how could Vince have told him, if the others were all ahead? The path squeezes through dense woodland. On his shoulder the heavy kayak knocks against trunks and branches. It’s dark here among the trees and there’s a dull roar of water coming from up front. Or is it traffic on some road? Now the rain pours down. Summer storm rain. The boat knocks against his head. He has to crouch to get the thing through a thicket. The ground is broken. The earth smells strangely warm and resiny. Stumbling into a small clearing, he almost bangs into a low makeshift hut put together with blankets and tarpaulin, blue nylon string and hunks of driftwood. On a sheet of cardboard in the mud by the entrance, a thin, heavily bearded man jumps to his feet. Vince stops. Immediately, the man waves a bottle and begins to speak excitedly.

Capisco niente. Vince says. Verstehe nicht.

The small man is gesticulating, perhaps warning him. His eyes are red. There’s an unpleasant smell. His jacket looks as if it too might have been pulled from the water, like the driftwood of his home. There are fish — heads lying in the mud. The man goes on shouting. In his early forties maybe. Or older. His eyes are fierce.

Verstehe nicht,Vince repeats. He turns and pushes on. The man screams after him. He hurls his bottle into the bushes over Vince’s head. Vince finds the path, and after five or six paces the trees open up on the river bank. He sees the rapids and again the hull of a boat floating upside down. Blue this time. The boys are playing at breaking into the stream with the tail edge dipped towards the current. The back of the kayak is forced deep into the water, the nose lifts in the air. Tail squirts. Phil’s boat rears up like a mad horse, or a motorcycle raised on its rear wheel. For a moment, the boy holds it there, yelling Yahoo, alrighty! The boat collapses back on top of him.

Vince watches, his face tense.

The river here is squeezed through a gap of only four or five yards then immediately opens out with big turbulent eddies swirling against each bank. A stone ledge stretching halfway across the flow at its fastest point causes the water to drop in a deep trough that then curls up into a tall, steady wave. Adam is showing the girls how to break from the side of the river and surf on the crest of the wave. The water is high and fierce and Caroline refuses to try. She has hooked an elbow round a sapling on the bank. Not my bag, she says, chewing. Adam repeats the same movements, simple and mechanical. Unlike the boys, he seems to take pleasure not in the thing itself, but in knowing how to do it, the control, the communication of technique. He is reassuring, but cold. Amelia ventures into the trough of the wave. The little girl seems so small in her long green boat, so hesitant. For a few moments the wave holds her, then the boat is tossed out like a cork.

Too cautious, Louise misses the trough altogether, spins round when the bow hits the crest of the wave, almost capsizes but, seemingly unconcerned, regains the bank. Vince is proud of her.

At the same time, over and over, the boys throw themselves into the turbulent stream, pushing to the front of the eddy, ignoring any queue the others have formed. Brian with his club foot has an uncanny balance in the boat. He never capsizes.

You selfish brats! Mandy yells. She is dragging her boat out of the water having failed to roll up. She shouts at Max and Phil as if it were their fault. You’ve got to watch out for each other!

Clive and Keith are sitting a few yards down from the action, ready to help any swimmers. The Indian boy Amal is also playing helper. He has an air of pleased diligence about him.

Try it, Mark, Adam invites his son.

Me arms are aching, the boy complains. I need a rest.

It doesn’t require any strength, Adam insists.

I’m well tired, the boy repeats. I got pins and needles. He won’t do it.

Vince reaches the top of the eddy. So how do you do this? he asks the instructor.

Okay. Adam holds his boat. You put your nose in the current, pointing upstream and just a little across. You break into the flow and lift your right knee to give a hint of an edge. You shouldn’t even have to paddle if you get it right.

Vince is nervous. He is facing a rush of water such as he hasn’t seen before. It foams, silver and black, over the stones, moss — green here, marbly grey there. He recalls the bearded face of a few moments before, the alcoholic shouting in German, throwing his bottle. What if I get it wrong, capsize, hit my head on a rock?

Go, Adam says. Don’t shilly — shally.

As he shifts his boat out of the eddy, Vince finds it suddenly drawn towards the submerged ledge over which the water is surging so powerfully. He is being sucked upstream and under. This is quite unexpected. How can I be pulled upstream?

Lean back! Adam shouts.

Vince tries to correct, back — paddling, but this has the effect of sending the boat careering sideways, rocking violently. A mountain of water piles down on him. Vince tries to raise the edge of the kayak to meet it, but it’s too late, he is down. His head hits the foam.

The experience is quite different from any other capsize he has known. You are no longer in slow water with time to reflect. You are in the quick of it— this is life— eyes open but blind. An icy flood rears and tugs and swirls. The paddle is being dragged away from him. He can’t push it to the surface. It won’t move, it’s trapped against the boat. He tries the rolling motion anyway. The boat half turns. His head breaks the surface. For a split second, comic no doubt to the onlooker, he can catch a breath. He has a vague impression of the world rushing by. Someone’s shouting. Then he’s down again. Now the helmet scrapes, again he fights with the paddle, again fails to right the boat. This time his fingers find the release tab. The spraydeck pops. The freezing water floods the cockpit and he swims out. Hold on to your paddle! Don’t let go of the boat! Turn it upright. As his head breaks the surface, Keith is already there with a tow — sling and a clip. And you forgot to bang on the sides!

All afternoon they keep at this. It’s today’s lesson. Very soon they are in three groups. There are those who take few risks, happy with what they can do; those who seem to have no trouble with anything— the elect— and then those who will keep trying and trying though almost always beaten.

Time and again Vince approaches the top of the eddy. Fascinated, he watches how others— Michela, Amelia and Louise now too— penetrate the current and glide across to the wave apparently without expending energy or taking risks. How is this? There is some hidden place, it seems, between eddy and flow, between the soft grey water milling on shallow stones and the fast dark stream pouring into the wave, some place where the river can be unlocked. A secret entrance. You’re admitted directly to the heart of things. You’re privileged. You can sit on the wave in a miracle of exhilarating speed and reassuring stillness. This mystery is denied to him. The entrance isn’t there when he approaches. The explanations— do this, do that— don’t seem to correspond to the experience.

In the eddy, Michela brings her boat alongside his. She is laughing. She seems happy. She shows Vince exactly the point of entry, the movement of the paddle and hips. Clive will come round, she has decided. It’s so fine to be near him. He is so strong. Those deaths in Milan have brought on a crisis. It will pass. Speaking English makes her feel cheerful. He gives me strength too. Relaxed and determined, she tells the older man to go with the flow. Don’t fight it, she says.

Vince grips his paddle. The rain pours on the rushing water. Unnoticed above, the mountains have dissolved in cloud. And take it easy when you capsize, Michela repeats. You’re hurrying. There’s always more time than you think. Imagine you’re in a swimming pool.

Dad, don’t overdo it, Louise shouted. You’ve got to drive me home, you know.

On the fourth attempt, having once more capsized without reaching the wave, Vince rolls his boat upright in the worst of the turbulence. The paddle is suddenly in the right place. He arches the arm, moves his hips and with no effort at all there he is, tossed out on a boil of water, disorientated, floundering, but up, breathing. Things could still go right.

Last night, Keith was saying later, I asked everybody to introduce themselves. But then, as you know, there have been two late arrivals.

It was raining still, but uncannily warm. They had trailed the boats back to camp. They had strung up lines between the trees to hang the equipment. At least if it doesn’t dry, the rubber won’t stink. They had showered. The Louts had cooked. The three teams are the Louts, the Pigs and the Slobs. This had been young Max’s idea during the trip out. A spirit of healthy emulation, he said in his precocious little lawyer’s voice from beneath the straw hat. Now they were all crowded into the kitchen tent in the light of the gas lamp. Across the site the French boys were drumming under their awning. Occasional thunder rumbled over their heads. The church clock has just chimed eight. It was time for the evening meeting. Sitting in his canvas chair again, Keith wears a permanent smile of self — congratulation.

Louise?

Yeah, I’m Louise, Vince’s daughter said. You all know me anyway. Fifteen. Chatham Grammar. Not cool, I know, but there you are. I’m here because I love the water and the company.

All right, Brian clapped.

That’s all. She was trying to catch Tom’s eye.

Verdict on today? Keith insisted. There was something evangelical about the man.

Great. Really. Learned a lot. Apart from having Phil push in front of me about every two seconds in the eddy by the wave.

Yes, a Wally nomination coming up there, I suspect. Vince?

Sorry?

Could you introduce yourself?

Vince still doesn’t understand. His mind has been captured by the drumming.

Let people know who you are. A few words.

Someone sniggered. It was a beat that seemed to go round and round in rapid circles.

Yes, of course.

He was standing by the entrance of the tent. Michela noticed that his eyes were clouded, his mouth always slightly open.

Well, I work in a bank.

There was an adolescent groan.

Vince smiled. Right, he agreed. Very boring. Anyway, probably some of you will have known my wife, my wife Gloria, since she was an instructor with Waterworld until a year or so ago. He took a breath. Anyway, after … after what happened, well, she had booked a place on this trip, and I just thought I would … He couldn’t go on. The drums pattered.

Vince’s wife, Keith cut in, was national sprint champion in her age group at Henley, when was that, Vince?

Vince was staring at the lamp — lit faces under canvas.

1998, Adam said.

In the night, he opened the fridge and she was crouching there inside. He wasn’t surprised. The fridge was her domain. I can live for ever here, she told him. He was looking for eggs to scramble. What else can I cook? He took them from her hand and closed the door, then went back and opened it again. There was something I should have said. She didn’t seem cramped. She was in her gym kit. No need, she said. Her smile was condescending, like a mother’s. There’s something I want to ask, he insisted. Don’t keep the fridge door open, love, you’ll waste the cold. She smiled. You’re wasting electricity, love. There’s something … It’s precious. Close it. He closed the door. But he was in the flat in London, not at home. Gloria never comes to his London flat. The fridge is tiny. There’s something I have to ask. He rushed across the room to tear the door open. The fridge, as always in his flat, was empty. Gloria! He shouted. Gloria!

Dad, you’re snoring! From her sleeping bag, his daughter woke him. The girl was sitting up. They were unnaturally close in the tent. She seemed eager to turn away.

I’m sorry. He lay still on his back. The ground is uneven and uncomfortable. But it’s not that. The blue canvas flickers from time to time with the torchlight of people heading for the bathrooms. Did I make myself come camping as a punishment? he wondered. Vince put his hands behind his head. His body ached. The day on the river has exhausted him. Then, as always after these nightmares, in the alert, sleepless mood they induce, he played over the sudden last moments of his marriage, the end of life as he had known it. Vince, I’m dying, her voice says. She has called his mobile. He is just climbing the stairs from the Underground at St Paul’s. I’m dying. I’ve phoned nine nine nine. I’m paralysed. It’s a stroke. I’m sure. I know the signs … It must have been at that point of the call that he had shouted, Gloria! He had stopped in the crowd. People were pushing past. It was early morning at St Paul’s. He was standing still, rigid, in the hurrying crowd. Gloria, for God’s sake! My head is filling with blood, she cried. Oh, I’m dying Vince. I’m so, so sorry.

The curious thing, as he let each evening’s tears fill his eyes, was the clarity of her voice in his head. Freed from the crackly quality of the mobile on the stairs outside the Underground, it spoke directly in his head. I’m paralysed. It’s a stroke. The change of tone from her normal matter — of — fact, rather bossy self to something piercingly intimate could not have been more marked. Oh, I’m dying Vince, I’m so so sorry. It was as if right at the end it hadn’t been her, or rather it had been her at last, someone he had never known. My wife. His mind was caught there, turning and turning in this unexpected maelstrom. Why had she said she was sorry? Why did he feel so ashamed?Very soon, I must become someone else; Vince knew that. He couldn’t break out of this churn of thought. After six months, it was a wonder he hadn’t already drowned.