Rapids

A RAPID

At breakfast Tom joined the adults, rather than the children. Those bells! The young man seems in turns uncertain of himself and aggressively assured. Vince had been woken ten minutes before the morning ringing by the arrival of a text message on his daughter’s phone. They stood in the mud by the kitchen tent. Who pays the bloke to get up so early every day? Adam was shaking his head. Mandy wanted to know how on earth Michela had learned English so perfectly. She had only been in the UK a few months. She hadn’t even studied at university. With the grass damp, people ate standing up. Tea in the pot! Keith announced. I was born in the wrong country, the young woman laughed. The sun was just touching distant peaks, but the valley lay in shadow. The church tower was topped with a gleaming bronze onion dome, quite new obviously.

Neither of your parents speaks English, though?

I would never have learned if they did. It’s hard to explain, I always knew from as soon as I could think, I should have been English.

Too much of a class act to be a Brit, Tom said earnestly.

Oh thank you so much! Mandy objected.

Michela wasn’t eating. She looked at the young man without seeing him. Too much to do in a world that’s too ugly, Clive had said last night. Once again he had insisted on the sleeping bag on the bare floor. It was a punishment. Again she had walked out after midnight and sat on the roots of the big pine tree above the group’s pitch. In a tent the other side of the track a man and woman were murmuring in a language she didn’t know. She sat with her spine against the damp bark. Why now? Why had he chosen this of all moments?

Again, sometime after one o’clock, she had seen the thin, older Englishman head for the bathroom. He sneezed twice. That was the river in our noses. He is carrying a burden, Michela thought. She drew into the shadow so he wouldn’t see her. She thought in English. She would not use the language of her father and mother. She would not let Clive see her cry. I must be strong, she decided. If you want to go back to your mum, Micky, he said from the darkness as she pulled the door to, I’d understand perfectly. We could sort out the money side. She waited some minutes before answering. She undressed and got into bed. I’d rather kill myself, she told him.

Her man did not watch as she undressed. He knew her body. He knows how avidly she makes love. The room was dimly lit from a lamp outside. It smelled of bare wood and river kit. A good smell. I checked my e — mail this evening, he said finally. He had driven into Sand in Taufers. They’re talking of chartering a plane for Berlin. Will you come?

Of course, she said.

He had not looked as she undressed, but now, over cornflakes, Clive was watching Michela carefully. Vince caught the man’s intense gaze and knew he was in love. For months, he thought, I keep noticing people in love. It was almost the only thing he did notice.

But you have a pretty high position, don’t you? Adam was speaking to him. He named one of Britain’s major clearing banks. The tall instructor was already wearing a wetsuit, the shoulder — straps hanging at his side. I mean, you’re one of the big guns, aren’t you? He seemed extremely respectful of Vince, eager to get to know him. His hair was neatly combed, his receding chin closely shaved. Clipped to his belt, a waterproof case held his mobile.

Well …

I remember your wife saying something.

He only pretty well runs the whole bloody bank! Louise arrived hungry. There was a bag of Chocos she was after, under Tom’s elbow. Move over macho! The girl wore no bra under her T — shirt.

One shouldn’t exaggerate, Vince began.

Oh, come on Dad! You know you run it.

Adam seemed to be expecting a response. I imagine, he insisted, that someone like yourself has to be in touch even while you’re away. I mean at certain levels of responsibility …

But now a new noise captured everybody’s attention. There was a tinny jingle. Oh no! shrieked the young Max, his straw hat tipped back. On the table in the kitchen tent, beside the milk carton, a white hamster, about a foot high on its hind legs, had begun to beat a tin drum. Legs and paws moved with mechanical grace, while the solemn head made slow turns from side to side. A recorded voice in his innards crooned:

I think I love you, but that’s what life is made of.

Amelia and Caroline were bent double with giggles. The big girl grabbed Phil. Was it you? She had to pull off the headphones of his Discman.

And it worries me to say, the voice crooned on, that I’ve never felt this way.

Who stole my hamster? Mandy demanded. The bristly white muzzle was hilariously wise. The voice was that of some twenties vaudeville entertainer. Picked up in a service station, the toy had been a constant joke on the long journey from England. Amal was grinning broadly.

Do you think I have a case, the hamster sang, won’t you tell me to my face?

Who’s been in my tent? Mandy insisted. This is a happy British holiday, Vince told himself. I must participate. Adam smiled sardonically. Who was it? Mandy shrieked. Everybody was running around, giggling. Who stole my hamster? Guilty! Keith peeped a ruddy face from behind Michela’s pine tree. Was it possible, Vince wondered, that the group’s leader and their administrator had something going together? You cheeky bastard, Mandy made a half — hearted dash. Nosing in my stuff! Oh a serious impropriety! Max shouted in his most camp voice. Photograph! someone shrieked. One for the website! When Vince turned he saw Michela was hurrying away to the trailer where the boats were loaded and locked up. How lithe she was. You are under a spell, he told himself. It was an expression he would sometimes use at work to describe this or that commodity or currency. Coffee is under a spell. There’s no other explanation. The dollar is under a spell. But now Tom was saying politely, Mr Marshall, actually I was wondering—

Vince, I’m called Vince.

Sorry, I was wondering if I might pick your brain on money supply at some point? There are a couple of things they’ve been teaching us at university that I really don’t understand.

Listen, don’t talk about my work, Vince told Louise quietly as they gathered their kit together for the day’s outing. His cag was still damp. She couldn’t find her towel. She was sure she’d left it on the line. Please, he said. They fussed about the fly — sheets. It bothers me. What else is there to talk about with you, Dad? she asked. You never do anything but work. He asked if the message she had received this morning had been from her cousins. No, she said. She smiled very brightly. Adam had promised her she could charge her phone on his car charger.

They already had the boats on the water before the sun climbed over the mountainside and poured its warmth into the valley. This time they ran the section from the campsite to the village of Geiss. Never do anything but work, Vince is thinking. His daughter’s words have soured his morning. Yet he hadn’t called the office so far this holiday, as his colleagues no doubt expected. He hadn’t even read the papers or listened to a radio. Quite probably they are trying to contact him. He hadn’t turned on his mobile. He hadn’t bought a car charger. He had no idea what the market was up to. For thirty years you give your whole life to something, he thought, you build up a solid career; and then in the space of a couple of weeks, it’s forgotten. I have lost my daughter, Vince told himself. This holiday is confirming that loss. First in Florence, now here. I have lost all sense of purpose. All I notice is people in love. From what you tell me you are clinically depressed, his brother — in — law had advised him. Jasper worked in that field. He ran a psychiatric clinic in South London. You should be on drugs, he said. Vince was afraid that drugs would cloud his judgement. It was a difficult moment in foreign equities. It is always a difficult moment. He had stopped performing after Gloria died. He knew it. He knew they knew it. Why had he let Louise go to live with her cousins? I have no home now. Suddenly, Vince feels a grating under the boat. Wake up! The kayak is broadside to a bank of pebbles rising from below the grey water. The river slides forward with a strong steady pull. He should have seen the tell — tale rippling on the surface. It’s too late. Vince finds himself being turned over in only six inches of rapidly flowing water. His shoulder bangs along on the stones. Wally nomination! Phil shouts. Phil has the creature tied round his neck for his behaviour yesterday. What a fool! Vince curses himself. He is livid.

Only a few minutes later, Clive orders: Stop paddling everyone and listen. There are still patches of early — morning mist rising on the calmer stretches of the water. The boys are splashing each other. Listen up! Adam complains. It seems to irritate him that Clive and Keith won’t impose discipline more firmly. Mark, I said listen! he tells his son. Stop paddling.

The fifteen kayaks with their bright plastic colours drift on the glassy surface. The thin mist is luminous and the water wide and apparently tranquil, pressing steadily forward. Three ducks are flapping along the bank in front of them. Faint in the distance from beyond the trees is the repeated beep of a truck reversing, in some quarry perhaps. Brian giggles, Mysterious!

Shush!

Leaning back, arching until her helmet rests on the deck behind, Michela gazes upward. Among high white clouds, the tall mountains slowly revolve. It’s dizzying. The current is turning the boat. The high 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 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 dramatic mountain gorge behind. It was hard not to feel you had seen it in some film. How old is your daughter, Mr Marshall? Tom suddenly asked. I mean Vince, sorry. Fourteen, Vince said. I’m almost sixteen, Amelia remarked. You are not, Max objected. Only three months! You could be dead before then! the boy shouted. Max, please, Vince begged. Age is so much to do with how you behave, though, isn’t it? Tom said sagely. Badly! Max shrieked. Shut up, the girl hissed.

Then they were in Sand in Taufers: swept streets and big square Austrian — style houses, all with the same steep roof, the same wide, pine — fronted balconies, the same fierce geranium displays blazing in the early evening light. Everywhere there were Zimmer frei signs and gift shops, a general impression of regimented colour, authorised souvenirs. Posters in three languages proclaimed a festival of traditional horn music. A photograph showed a bearded man in lederhosen blowing into a horn at least six feet long, resting on the ground in front of him. The little supermarket, when they found it, was called EuroSpin, its windows plastered with international brand names, credit card signs. It was curious, Vince thought, how nothing seemed unfamiliar anymore, excepting one’s state of mind, perhaps. He found it strange how at ease he felt with these kids.

A stiff little man in a white coat, his eyes bloodshot, turned from stacking Nestlé’s snacks. Guten abend, he said throatily. Velcum to mai umble ‘ome, Max whispered. Are we in Italy or what? Guten abend,Tom replied politely.

Vince found a trolley. Remember, everything we get is for fifteen, okay? Almost at once the youngsters were giggling at the sausage section. Great curved turgid things wrapped in red and yellow cellophane. You don’t see these in England. Wurst und wurst! Amelia cried, picking up a particularly obscene example and waving it at Tom. The shopkeeper shifted from the doorway to keep an eye down their aisle. You choose, Amelia was telling the boy.

The store had the cluttered shelves of a restricted space trying to satisfy every need. Again the attendant moved as they rounded the end of the aisle. Ve arr being voched, Max whispered. Everything Vince chose— there were sandwich things to get and chicken pieces for this evening’s dinner— Amelia asked Tom if it was right. Don’t you think we’d be better with long — life milk? She had straight black hair clipped in a fringe above a puckered, solemn forehead and at a certain point she contrived to pick up a can of peeled tomatoes that Tom already had his hands on. The young man studied the labels intently, until, to everybody’s surprise, Max walked straight down the aisle and addressed the shopkeeper in fluent German. He spoke for at least a minute, with some expression, gesturing at the shelves. The stiff man smiled, took him to the meat counter, then another shelf. That’s the sauce for the chicken casserole, the blonde boy said. His shirt seemed freshly ironed, likewise the white cotton trousers. The spuds are round the corner. Brilliant, Vince told him. I did French, Tom advised Amelia. He took her by the elbow.

Vince bought sun cream, matches, a roll of duct tape and a second tray of beers. Actually, we don’t need those, Tom said. We’ve already got a tray. But there are thirteen of us, Vince explained, fifteen with Clive and his girlfriend. Seven or eight are under age, Tom pointed out. Oh come on, Max protested. This is piss beer, this Kraut stuff. Most of us were swigging stronger stuff than this before we could walk. Mandy said no, Tom insisted. Amelia couldn’t make up her mind whether to support him or not. I have to get something for Caroline’s chapped lips. Does your dad let you drink? Vince asked the girl. She wore a short skirt over thin, coltish legs. Sometimes, she said. Aping the adult, she folded her arms, shifted her weight. I believe Mandy actually signed something, Tom was saying now. He seemed genuinely concerned that a rule might be broken. We could add a tray of Cokes, he suggested, for the kids.

Vince gave the black wallet with the Waterworld kitty to Max and told the boys to carry out the boxes. Then he invited Amelia back into the shop and with his own money bought two more trays of beer and various goodies: marshmallows and skewers, in case they made a fire, and three bottles of sparkling wine. Since we’re the Pigs, let’s be pigs, he announced. He felt cheerful. You’re a tempter, Mr Marshall, Amelia laughed. Vince, he again insisted. Why couldn’t they use his name? You don’t call Keith Mr Whatever, do you? Bags I the front seat, Max rushed. Tom and Amelia were quiet in the back.

No! Mandy said. No drinking! No, no, no! Keith overruled her. The group leader seemed extravagantly, even brutally merry. Suck on that. He gave a can to Caroline, another to Amelia. Adam was evidently irritated. He gets like this, Mandy shook her head. Soon he’ll be flirting with the under — sixteens. It’s only beer, Keith insisted breezily. Drink, he told Mark. You’re not on the river now. A holiday’s a holiday. Even when it’s a community experience, Amelia chipped in. And if you want to be really English— Keith handed another can to Michela— you’ll have to get in training. You know the British government’s thinking of introducing an alcohol test for citizenship: ability to imbibe five pints a day, five days running. A working week, no less, Brian observed. Mark took his beer and sat on the ground beside Amal. The boy had barely spoken after his accident at the rapid. On the table in the kitchen tent, the hamster began to beat his drum. I think I love you. Oh no! the children groaned. Turn the beast off! I think I hate you, Phil laughed. Vince couldn’t help noticing the way he and Caroline leaned on each other as they sat.

At the meeting, after the casserole, Louise nominated her father for Wally and the vote was unanimous. Only an idiot could capsize in six inches of water. Public humiliation! Keith demanded. On his third beer, Vince was nervous and pleased. I am becoming part of the group, he thought. But what was the punishment to be? Something really degrading! Louise shrieked, can in hand. Gloria had never let her drink. Uncle Jasper’s family was even stricter. You decide, Mandy told Caroline. Vince had seen how carefully the older woman brought in everybody. There would be no faces missing from the website. The big girl grimaced and chewed, then looked to Amelia. There was an old complicity between the two. They burst out laughing. The Chicken Song! Both struggled to their feet, stood side by side in the tight circle of the tent, where the gas lamp was throwing shadows as the twilight faded. Caroline was almost a head taller than her friend, her thighs heavy, wrists and ankles thick, her manner timid, but when she began to dance there was a mad energy and unexpected elegance to her. Incongruous together, the two girls kicked their legs, flapped their arms. I’m a chubby chicken, ready for the chop, they’ll cut my pretty head off, stricken, plop, but still I run around and kick ‘em. Hop Hop! The girls pulled faces, lolled their heads, broke one one way and one the other, running round the group kicking at people.

Pathetic! Brian and Max shrilled. Naff!

I have to do that? Vince asked.

You’re getting off lightly, Mandy told him. She smiled indulgently. Everybody was looking.

With the actions or without?

He took his place in the centre of the circle. Michela is watching me, he saw, and my daughter. Vince danced, Vince who never danced. He was wearing corduroys and a thin sweater. I’m a chubby chicken, he sang. He heard his voice singing. He and Gloria had never danced. He tried to do it well. He was absurd. Gloria did every kind of sport, but didn’t dance. It was strange at fifty to be making yourself so ridiculous. I am director of all overseas accounts, he told himself. The kids were giggling. He tried to remember the words. Ready for the chop! The others were clapping and as he made to kick at them, they jumped to their feet and dashed out of the tent. Rise, Sir Wally, Keith said, dropping the creature over his head on a piece of string. Thou must take care of he who protects us. Pathetic! Phil shrieked.

And they went up to the camp bar. On a low stage a local band were playing music for karaoke. There were people of all ages and from all over Europe, Austrian bikers and ageing Dutch nature lovers. The tables were spread over a wide terrace. The kids disappeared, Amelia and Louise dragging Tom with them. It seemed there was an internet café up the road. Everybody has a life elsewhere, a message to send. We’ll need you to order the drinks, the girls protested. Tom turned a lingering glance to Michela, but the young woman never noticed. Mark was boasting to Louise about something he had done on a previous expedition, in an open canoe. He has started to talk again. Only Amal stayed with the adults. The boy seemed eager to agree with everything everyone said.

How the twit could get pinned in the world’s easiest rapid, I do not know, Adam repeated, taking his seat. Leave the kid be! Mandy cried. She ordered a round of large beers from the waiter. And no, I’m not being inconsistent, she turned on Keith. It’s fine when it’s us and not the kids whose mothers I’ve promised. The man brought half — litre glasses. Some middle — aged Germans were trying to sing ‘Maggie May’. Maggie I vish. Drink up, and stop fussing, the stout woman told Adam. My new cag is giving me a rash, Keith complained. Bottoms up.

The music grew louder. A group of Spanish children were playing hide — and — seek among the adults. Vince got the next round. It was years since he had had more than a couple of beers. A strange excitement was fizzing up. Unasked, he started to talk about the man he had seen on the river bank the other day, in the ramshackle hut. Every river has one, Keith said. People who’ve dropped out and they’re just drawn to the river. The river is life, Clive said rather solemnly, sheer life. Michela was beside him. Oh, they’re just alkies, Adam objected. He kept playing with his mobile, apparently sending and receiving text messages. It’s just easy for them to get driftwood and water by the river and you can crap off the bank. They leave a lot of rubbish around. Shouldn’t be allowed. He tapped on the keypad.

The bloke threw a bottle at me, Vince said.

There you are.

Clive began to speak about a man he had got to know by a river in the Canadian Rockies. This guy had lived there for years in brushwood shelters, hunting and selling pelts, sleeping in animal skins. After a rainfall he could tell you exactly when the river would rise and how much. To the inch. He even knew when a tree had fallen into the water upstream or a cow. The birds and fish behaved differently.

Oh I find that very hard to believe, Adam said.

Let’s karaoke, Keith interrupted. Come on. Let’s ask for some oldies. Be sentimental. But Mandy had launched into an intense attack on someone or something. It’s all either technical, she was complaining to Amal, like, we all have to do every stroke in the regulation BCU style; or commercial, you know, if we take an extra instructor, we won’t break even, or if you have an end — of — season party, you’ll lose money. I must have missed something, Vince thought. His eye had settled on Michela’s slim wrist as she poured some of her beer into Clive’s glass. They were sitting round a large white plastic table. Clive was drinking a lot. He had rolled himself a Golden Virginia. They will make love later, Vince told himself. He looked away. Adam was consulting his mobile again. The man doesn’t see, Mandy was explaining, that that’s not really what people are after. They don’t come to Waterworld for that. Or not only that.

Who are we talking about? Vince asked Keith. Amal was nodding in agreement. Ron Bridges, Keith told him. District Superintendent, Kent Sports and Recreation. The boss. He lowered his voice: Mandy applied for the job, but they wouldn’t give it to her.

And the thing is— the squat woman was almost shouting— I don’t know how or why, but we never finished a year in the red till he came along. Can you believe it? I remember Sylvia saying, Soon we’ll have lost as much as the film Waterworld, remember? Hollywood’s biggest flop. He’s been a bloody disaster! She slammed her beer down, wiped her mouth. People want to have fun, don’t they, and to feel their life is being given some sense— she was evidently repeating things she had said before— in a group together, you know? Out in nature. They want excitement and friends. You can’t persecute them just because they can’t do a reverse — sweep stroke exactly the way the British Bloody Canoeing Union prescribes.

Keith stretched his arms: Attaboy, Mandy!

You should have seen, she shrieked, the list of instructions he gave us for this trip. The length of that list! We wouldn’t have had any fun at all. We’d have spent the whole time practising low braces in the first eddy.

Adam again clicked his mobile shut. Still, you do have to teach the strokes right, and you do have to break even.

Of course you bloody do, of course— the woman leaned forward across the table. But that’s not the point of it all, is it? It’s not why we do it.

Adam began to object, but a beep indicated the arrival of another message. The missus? Keith asked, with an arching of bushy eyebrows. The mistress? Mandy echoed.

What sad minds! Adam shook his head. He began to tap out a response. Across the table, a dangerous expression of scorn had settled around Clive’s lips. He rubbed the knuckle of one thumb back and forth in his beard across his chin. There is no one way to do any stroke, he began very deliberately. It’s a question of attitude. Vince for example knows the strokes. You tell him what to do and he does it. But his attitude’s wrong.

Vince asked: How?

Clive half smiled. He bit the inside of his lip. Watch Amal, he said.

Me? The dark boy sipped his beer and looked at them over the glass. I don’t know anything.

No, tell me now, Vince said. Explain. Then I can work at it.

Keith chuckled: Clive’s right, watch Amal, then you tell us.

But I only started kayak last year, the boy protested in his oddly high — pitched voice.

Oh you’ve been on the water since as long as I can remember, Mandy said approvingly. You’re a natural.

I’ll watch him too, Michela told Vince. I’m constantly thinking I must be doing something wrong.

Again Adam snapped his phone shut. Your problem is— he began.

Don’t! Clive cut in. He’ll learn better watching Amal.

Since it’s my problem— Vince began.

Wally! Keith cried. Produce Wally or prepare to face total humiliation.

Present and correct, Vince pulled the little effigy from his pocket. He smiled. He liked Keith.

It’ll all sort itself out, the leader reassured him, in good time. It’s an intuitive thing.

But Adam wouldn’t leave be. This mysticism is silly, he said. It’s a way of giving yourself airs. Like stories of riverside alcoholics with uncanny powers of divination. Why don’t you tell him he sits too far back in the boat? There’s no great philosophical wisdom to kayaking. It’s the same with the anti — globalisation stuff, to be frank. People want to feel they have a good, semi — religious cause— save the planet, and so on— because then they’ve got an excuse for breaking things and causing trouble. They release a bit of energy and imagine they’re saints.

The chinless man said all this in a relaxed, even cheerful voice, as if it was hardly a criticism at all. At once Michela was frantic.

How can you say that? she demanded. Do you have any idea how many people are dying of hunger while their governments are forced to spend the money that could save them to pay back loans to Western banks?

Not the loans, Clive cut in. He was leaning forward on his chair, smoking intently. Not the bloody loans, the interest on the loans. The interest! It’s scandalous. I’d feel like a worm if I didn’t do something about it. I wouldn’t feel human. I’d die of shame if I didn’t get involved. You don’t have to go looking for a good cause these days. The miracle is that some people manage to hide from them. They sit in their air — conditioned offices and pretend the climate hasn’t changed, while the rest of the world roasts.

Adam said calmly: If somebody asks for money from a private organisation, what is that organisation supposed to do, give it them for free?

But there are whole continents dying of AIDS, Michela pleaded. She seemed on the verge of tears. Because the drug companies don’t want to lower their prices.

That is true, Mandy observed. She mentioned a TV programme.

What a petty morality! Clive cried. A petty, petty morality! Like the money — lender demanding his pound of flesh when the victim and his children are starving. As if we weren’t all part of the same human family.

Ask the September nth people about that.

All we are saying, Keith began to hum, is give peace a chance! He placed his beer mat on the edge of the table, flipped it in the air and caught it. Chill out, folks. Let’s talk about tomorrow’s paddle.

Why don’t you explain to them? Adam suddenly said, straight — faced. He twisted his lean neck and turned to Vince. You understand it better than anyone here.

I think we could do with an expert opinion, Mandy agreed.

Clive snorted.

Keith sent half a wink that invited Vince to calm the waters. Waiter, he called. He pointed to their beers. It was after eleven now. The three youngsters on stage with their keyboard and rhythm machine were trying to persuade someone to do the Macarena. Two Scandinavian children obliged, then two couples in swarthy middle age. Slavs perhaps. Above the open terrace, the sky had cleared and was seething with stars.

Bit of a far cry, Vince tried hesitantly, from my kayaking problems, isn’t it?

Actually, perhaps not, Clive said in a knowing voice. Maybe not at all.

Oh come on, Adam laughed. If you treat everything as a deep and mysterious secret we won’t be able to talk about anything at all.

Vince saw Michela’s hand gripping Clive’s now. He sighed. He pursed his lips. I’ve been involved, of course, in negotiating and renegotiating loans to Third World countries. What can I say? Actually the bank directors do think a lot about the human consequences of their decisions. It’s a complex situation.

What’s complex, Clive cut in, about people dying of hunger? You should be ashamed of yourself.

Ease off, Clive, Mandy said.

By the way, Keith put in, check out those Wops! A pair of young Italian women were wriggling back to back. The band played with more enthusiasm.

On the other hand, Vince went on, as a bank, our primary responsibility, inevitably, is towards our shareholders. He stopped: I wish we were discussing my paddling problems.

Perhaps we are, Clive said.

Oh come on! Adam looked up from his phone. Michela was grim. She took the tobacco herself now. Her fingers were trembling.

When we’ve finished, I’ll explain, Clive insisted.

Okay, Vince said. I’ll give you a typical example. So, a large organisation, maybe even a country, asks us, in consortium with other banks most likely, to extend them a loan. A big loan. We know that this country needs money to develop its economy and improve its people’s lot. So we agree, having negotiated certain collateral of course and despite the fact that we are accepting a lower rate of interest than usual. The client is creditworthy we tell the shareholders. Then something happens. The government changes. There’s a drought. They start a war. They make a disadvantageous contract with some multinational commodities set — up. The currency market shifts. They spend the money on arms. All of a sudden we have a debt crisis and our shareholders are looking at losses. Now the question is, how far can we be charitable on their behalf? That’s not why ordinary people invested their money in our bank.

All you’re saying, Clive said. He had to raise his voice because the music was louder now. All you’re saying is that the normal, comfortable mechanisms for accumulating fortunes have broken down. Tough bloody luck. But when you’re looking at kids with swollen bellies and maggots in their lips, there’s only one real question: How can I help?

Vince hesitated. A fourth beer was before them.

And how have you helped, Adam cut in. He had a light, sardonic smile. What have you ever done?

Come on, Adam, Keith said. Chill.

From what I gather you go to a demonstration and shout your head off, but then at the same time you’re setting up your own little business in the tourist trade, which is what kayaking is in the end.

Adam’s even voice was barely audible above the throb of inane music. The Italian girls had attracted others to the dance floor. The instructor had a hint of a smile at the edge of his mouth, as if what he was saying were not offensive at all. When I teach kayak, he went on, two evenings a week on the estuary, I do it free, for underprivileged kids, in my spare time. You’re making money and pretending you’re involved in some cause to save the world.

There was a very short pause. As in a collision on the road there was a split second in which everybody realised that they were involved in some kind of accident, without yet knowing how serious.

Enough, let’s talk about tomorrow’s paddle, Keith said determinedly. I was saying to Clive, I think it might be time to split up into two or three groups around ability levels.

Clive had climbed to his feet. He reached across the table and slapped the chinless man hard across the face. Clive has a knotty, powerful arm, a solid hand. Adam fell sideways against Amal. The boy held him. Something clattered to the tiled terrace floor. The phone. A beer glass had gone over.

Prick!

Michela stood and pulled him back, put her arms round him.

Clive! Mandy shrieked. For God’s sake!

He pushed the girl away, stepped backwards knocking over his chair, and walked off. Michela fell back and burst into tears, crouched by the table. Stupid, she was shaking her head. Stupid!

From their scattered tables the other campers were watching. One of the Spanish children was hiding behind Mandy’s chair. Amal picked the phone from the floor and wiped the beer off it with the front of his T — shirt.

Since those people were killed, Michela got out, in Milan, he’s been so tense. She stifled her tears, sat on a chair. Vince was in a trance. He felt exhilarated, upset. Only now did he notice there was beer dripping in his lap.

If he’s broken my phone … Adam began. But the mobile was already beeping with the arrival of another message.

I’d better go and talk to him, Keith stood up.

Later, it turned out that Adam’s sister — in — law in Southampton had given birth to a healthy little boy. They should have been celebrating.