Page 4 of Reservoir 13

On the moors the gamekeepers from the estate were burning off squares of heather. It was hot, vigilant work. They’d waited for a day when the heather was dry but the peat still damp, and for a low wind blowing downhill, and then they’d marked out their squares and were walking behind a line of fire, damping it down with flat rubber shovels, pushing the flame down the hill until it reached the break they’d already cut. The smell of the smoke carried down to the village. Cooper opened the windows in the flat above the converted stables and let it blow in. The place was empty. Su had taken the twins to her parents in Manchester. There’d been a lot of talk and when it finally happened she’d made the decision sound mutual. There were practical reasons. It would be temporary. She was exhausted and she needed the rest. Her parents would enjoy spending time with the boys. She had to commit to projects at the BBC before the door closed on her career for good, and this way her mother could have the boys while she worked. Austin was too busy with the village magazine, she knew that, he couldn’t deny that. There wasn’t room for him to stay with her parents as well. They could both do with some space. It would only be temporary. He wanted to believe her but he wasn’t stupid. He stood in the empty flat. She had the boys’ clothes, their nappies, their toys. It was difficult for him to take on board. The flat seemed much bigger. This didn’t have to be about them, she’d said. She wasn’t leaving him, she wanted to see him soon. She just needed a rest. She needed someone to look after her for a while. They would find a way through this. His first wife had said these same things, and she’d never come back. He wasn’t going to let that happen all over again. He knew how much was at stake. He slept very little and in the morning he was outside the estate agent’s office in town before nine o’clock, waiting for them to open.

After a week of rains there were warm still days and the plots at the allotment went wild. The nettles and cow parsley came up in swathes, the bindweed trumpeting through the hedges, and the regulars on the committee took note. In his greenhouse Clive potted courgettes and French beans, and watched Susanna Wright go at her plot with a pair of garden shears. Ashleigh was running round with a stick, scything the heads off the nettles and making more headway than her mother. Susanna stopped often to stretch her back, pulling her hair away from her face and tying it up. She had a very straight back, when she stretched like that. On one such occasion she caught sight of him and waved enthusiastically. He nodded. The greenhouse was hot in the long afternoon sun, and he gave the pots a good misting. Later she came over to say hello and talk about how much weeding she had to do. She was looking for sympathy, it seemed. Last time I was here there was nothing to worry about, she said. And look at it now, it’s like a jungle. She was laughing, apparently with surprise. Clive nodded. Weeds will do that, he said. It’ll not take long. It was two weeks since her last visit and what did she expect. She’d spent that whole afternoon painting a bench. So. Cooper was spending more time in the Gladstone, while Su and the twins were in Manchester. He’d been trying to downplay the situation, saying it was understandable that she wanted to be with her mother at a difficult time, saying there was no doubt they’d be back soon enough, but it was generally understood that the man was in bits. He finally conceded to Tony at the bar one evening that he was finding things tough. There was a constant churning in his stomach, he said, a dread that things might stay like this. Martin asked if he’d tried Rennie’s for the churning, and Tony told him to knock it off. I don’t even know what it is, Cooper said. Adrenalin? I can’t relax. I can’t think of anything else. Have you tried yoga? Martin said, and Tony gave him a final-warning look. That’s very good, Cooper said. Thank you. But really though. This is new to me. I never felt like this with my first wife. When she said she was leaving. I don’t remember feeling like this. I know I just need to give her time, okay, people say that, give her time. But what if the time’s not enough? What if she doesn’t come back? What if she’s already met someone else? Martin signalled to Tony to pour a whisky, and passed it along to Cooper. Get this down you, lad, he said. You think that’s going to help, Cooper asked; honestly? Not really, Martin said. But it’ll shut you up for a bit. There was some laughter, and Cooper tipped the whisky into his mouth, sitting in silence for a few minutes, rubbing at his churning stomach. In the evenings there were showers that came and went, flashing across the valley with the promise of bright sun always behind. There was the sound of a freight train, edging around the bend through the silver birch trees, the empty wagons clattering over the bridge.

The girl had been looked for at the flooded quarry. The fence had been checked for damage or signs of being climbed. The divers had roped up and slipped into the dark. She had been looked for in the caves along the river, and in those cramped spaces only cans and bottles and wadded tissues had been found. On the high embankment the river keeper cleared out a drainage ditch. Where it ran under the road someone had gone to the trouble of bagging up their rubbish before dumping it in. There was the usual mess of brambles to cut back. The rain was heavy and the work was wet, but the sound of the water passing through the pipes under the road was a welcome one. Come summer and the river would be in fine condition. The keeper wasn’t a man for whistling while he worked but his mood was good. In the evening Susanna got the hall ready for yoga. It had taken a while but by now the classes were more popular than some had assumed they might be. She kept saying it was open to everyone, but whenever a man showed up he found himself the only one there and soon decided not to come back. Most of the women were regulars, and after a few months some of them were disappointed by how few poses they could hold. Susanna tried to tell them yoga wasn’t about goals. There are no badges or certificates here, she said; it’s all about finding your own point of stretch. Her voice always softened when she spoke like this, when she moved among them making small adjustments to their arms, their shoulders, their legs. Her touch was gentle and firm. To be adjusted by Susanna meant being the centre of her attention for a moment, and some of the women suspected the others of holding an incorrect posture on purpose. In the woodland by the river there were yellow pimpernels spreading along the banks, their glossy green leaves drinking in the shade and their small yellow flowers like spots of light. At the heronry there were new chicks high in the nests and a flap of parents fetching food back to the gaping mouths. Cooper had spent a lot of time in Manchester with Su while she stayed at her parent

s’, and after two months of driving backwards and forwards he persuaded her to come home with the boys. From the way Su talked about it later it didn’t sound as though he’d persuaded her so much as that he simply hadn’t given up. Sometimes reliability can be very attractive, she told Cathy. And my mum was doing my nut in to be honest. They found a buyer for their flat almost immediately, but had trouble finding a place they could afford. In the end they went for an ex-council house on the Close, which had none of the character of the stables but did have an extra bedroom and a garden with a swing and a washing line and a gate opening into the woods. They borrowed money from her family to make up the difference, and Cooper moved the magazine office into a side room at the church. By the river the bright young leaves of the willows flashed with light.

James Broad finally told Rohan what had happened with Becky Shaw. They were up at Reservoir no. 9 in Sophie’s car, hotboxing. James had driven and Sophie was already pale and shimmering in the back seat, and although she seemed half asleep she kept joining in with what he was saying. The car was milky with smoke. Lynsey was asleep beside her, but she kept waking up and talking about going to university. Rohan hadn’t asked about Becky but James had decided it was time to tell. They’d all met her the summer before she disappeared, he said. Her family had come up for a fortnight and they’d started hanging out together. Not doing much. Kid stuff. Building dens. Swimming in the river. Going into the caves. She’d always wanted to do a bit more, push things further. She wasn’t much older than they were but she’d seemed a lot more mature. She was so pretty, Sophie said, lighting the pipe again. Wasn’t she pretty, James? James glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were closed and she was smiling. He looked at Rohan, and nodded. They’d all fancied her, he said, even if they hadn’t admitted it at the time. There was something exciting about her, he said. She talked us into climbing the fence round the quarry, and she was the first one to jump off the rope-swing. She was hardcore. And she was smart, Sophie added, from the back seat. Lynsey sat up straight again. We should all go to the same uni, she said. Shouldn’t we? We could live in the same halls and everything. James passed her the pipe, and they listened to the click and draw as she smoked it, the long pause before she sighed out the smoke. James and Sophie were both picturing Becky launching out from the rope-swing, this girl who none of them really knew, the light catching on her long bare legs as she fell through the air and something new stirred in them all. I was the only one who kept in touch with her, James said, after she went back to London. Emails, postcards, nothing much. I didn’t have a phone and there was no Facebook in those days. But we kept in touch. We – fuck it. We liked each other, okay? We liked each other. He turned round and took the pipe from Lynsey, who was falling asleep again. He thumbed it full of skunk from the bag on the dashboard. Becky was the one who talked her parents into coming here again for New Year, is what she reckoned. He toked hard on the pipe, and coughed as he let the smoke go. So there’s that for a start. Rohan took the pipe. And then when she was here we all met up and hung out for a bit, except it was cold and there wasn’t really anywhere to hang out. It was nice seeing her though. We had a little bit of a connection or something. And she’d grown up a lot since the summer. He’s talking about her being physically mature, Sophie said, sleepily. Don’t be coy, James. You mean she had tits, yeah? Me and Lynsey were well jealous, weren’t we, Lyns? Lynsey opened her eyes and looked at Sophie. Edinburgh, she said. We’ll all go to Edinburgh. I’ll do English, you guys do whatever. It’s cheap up there. Sophie stroked her arm and said yes, we’ll definitely all go to Edinburgh, we’ll all go together, if we get in, we’ll be a gang up there. Lynsey closed her eyes. I didn’t just mean that, James said. But it was part of it, Sophie murmured. The car was quiet for a moment. When they talked about Becky now it was hard to actually picture her face. The photo on the news had never looked right, but it had replaced the image of her they’d held. She was being lost all over again. Outside the car the evening was still and the light was softening over the reservoir. Anyway, James said, we were all heading home one time and she held me back and we like kissed or whatever and then we arranged to meet up just the two of us, the next afternoon. Rohan looked at him. Sophie asked if she’d been a good kisser. James said he couldn’t remember. That wasn’t really the point. You mean no, then, Sophie said. Rohan asked what had happened, when they met, whether anything had happened. Sophie sat forward and put her hand on James’s shoulder. She never turned up, James said. That was it. That was when she went missing. She must have been on her way over to meet me. Something must have happened. I was waiting for her at the old water-board buildings by Reservoir no. 7, and she never turned up. There was a silence in the car and then the long sigh of smoke streaming out of Rohan’s lungs. The car was fogging and the windows were wet with condensation. Outside the wind was picking up and the rain was moving in. Sophie was turning her hand in front of her face, looking puzzled. I think we should go now, she whispered. Rohan lowered the window and the smoke poured out into the night and was gone.

Ashleigh Wright was seen up at her mother’s allotment, hoeing along the rows the way Clive had shown her a few weeks earlier. When she was done she earthed up the potatoes, pulled slugs off the courgettes, and planted out some potted winter vegetables Clive had said were going spare. Afterwards she headed down to the cricket ground, nodding briefly at Clive on the way. Clive acknowledged, and went back to his watering. He hadn’t wanted to meddle. But the girl had looked as though she’d listen. In the long margins around the cricket field a golden skipper worked her way down a stem of dead grass until she found an opening in which to lay her eggs. The young blackbirds had put on their adult feathers. Most days after school now Tom Jackson spent a couple of hours with his grandparents. Occasionally Maisie could persuade him to sit at the kitchen table and do some schoolwork, but most times he would chase after whatever she was doing, offering to help but just getting in the way, talking about school or television or the long games he’d been playing with his friends. He always included Jackson in these conversations, running in and out of the front room if Jackson was back in his bed. There’d been a time Jackson would have affected impatience with visits like these, but she was sure they were the highlight of his day. Hers too, if she was honest. Tom was one of the few people who could understand Jackson’s halting, slurred speech, and just about the only person who could talk to him without making allowances. The speech had improved a lot over the last few years but he was reluctant to say much. His frustration at the way he sounded was obvious. But with Tom he seemed prepared to rabbit on, and she’d even heard him say things that sounded awfully close to bugger, or bollocks, which had Tom in fits of giggles. It even made Maisie smile, when she knew Tom wasn’t looking. The thought of Jackson’s reaction if he’d heard the boys say anything similar when they were young. So much discipline in the house, in those days. There’d had to be. Five of them in ten years, and the house not all that big. Five of them to be fed and cleaned and dressed and herded around. Five sets of clothes to be mended and patched and handed down. Ten muddy boots to be kept out of the house. Always so much noise. Jackson not thinking that what went on in the house was his business, unless one of the boys overstepped some mark or other. And her keeping them out of his line of fire and holding them together when they fell foul. Her back ached with the memory of it. She hoped Claire would have the sense to think one more was enough. She wondered whether it might be a girl. She wondered when they might tell anyone.

The last days of August were heavy with heat and the hedgerows turned brittle beneath it. The reservoir levels fell quickly and there was talk the flooded villages might be seen again. The cricket pitch was hard and cracked and made for some sharp bowling spells when Cardwell came over for the annual match. There were children from the campsite playing Pooh sticks on the footbridge by the tea rooms, and there was a fright when their parents couldn’t be found. In the final innings of the cricket James Broad was p

laced out at long off. He was talking to Lynsey Smith, who was sitting just past the boundary rope with the last of a lunchtime’s bottle of wine. Cardwell were settled in for a defensive spell and James had little to do beyond look like he was paying attention. I didn’t think you were all that interested in cricket, he told Lynsey at one point, talking over his shoulder with his eyes on the bowling. I don’t think I am, she said, and though he kept still a rush of alertness came through him as if he were diving for a catch. The game was lost, and in the evening the pair of them were seen leaving the pavilion early and walking through the square. Cooper ran a piece in the Valley Echo about the protest camp at the Stone Sisters. It had been there for a year now, and seemed well established. Word was they had their own compost toilet. It wasn’t clear what they did up there all day, although drumming was sometimes heard. There were rumours of tunnels. The heather was thick with butterflies – skippers and fritillaries and coppers – and Sally Fletcher spent most of the afternoon making a count for the National Park. In the beech wood the foxes ran through the night. The cubs were now as big as the adults and were striking out on their own. They would soon be seen as competition. There was play but it took on a fierce edge and there were fights that ended in blood. The edges of the territory were understood. In the evenings now the noise of people talking outside the Gladstone was louder on account of the smoking ban, and no matter how many notices Tony put up he still had complaints from the parish council. Some people had no idea how their voices carried. There was a new woman working at the bar and Gordon had been talking to her. Her name was Philippa and she was only around for the summer. She was volunteering at the visitor centre to get some conservation experience. She was staying with a friend in the city and driving out each day. There was a tattoo of a kingfisher on her shoulder, the size of Gordon’s thumb. On her lower back there was a finely drawn bluebell, placed in such a way that the bulb and root system could only be seen once her pants were down. He liked to look at it and she liked him to look at it and for a time this was enough. Each night when she drove back to the city Philippa assumed she would tell her friend about this man she’d met, and each time something stopped her. She wondered why she kept these things from people. Her friend didn’t even know about the bluebell tattoo, nor about the man she’d been with when she had it done.

Cathy knocked on Mr Wilson’s door and it took him a long time to answer. This had been happening more often. She could hear Nelson barking, thumping against the door, and she had a sudden glimpse of it one day happening like this, of her having to fetch someone to break down the door and of Nelson being in the way. Mr Wilson’s hip was causing him real problems now, and his breathing was louder, and sometimes in the evenings she could hear him coughing up a storm through the wall. She’d had a suspicion, when he’d first asked her to walk Nelson, that he was overstating his own difficulties; that he thought it would be good for her to get out of the house and be forced into a routine. After Patrick’s death. And she had in fact been touched by his thoughtfulness and the way he tried to hide it. The dog-walking hadn’t made the least bit of difference to her sense of abandonment, of course. But it had got her out of the house. People stopped asking her how she was doing in herself. And sometimes she’d looked out of the window and seen Mr Wilson stride past with Nelson as though he’d never claimed to be having trouble with his hip. But recently the problem had been all too apparent, and was getting worse. He was on a waiting list for a hip replacement. And now there were days when it took him as long as this to answer the door, and there would be a day when he didn’t answer at all, and she wasn’t ready for that. Nelson’s barking shifted up a pitch, and the door shook as he clattered against it, and then Mr Wilson opened up with a smile. By the packhorse bridge a heron paced through the mud at the river’s edge, head bobbing, feet lifted awkwardly high. It stopped, and settled, and watched the water. The fieldfares wouldn’t be back for another month or two, once autumn began to collapse. The weather on the hills was fine for September, and the scoured stacks of gritstone that made up Black Bull Rocks were warm to the touch. In a hollow deep between the stones, James and Lynsey had found a comfortable spot and were making up for lost time. They had been kissing for a while and then Lynsey had pulled James’s trousers to his ankles and crouched between his thighs. They had tried this a couple of times but now James thought it might be going to work. He wanted to say something encouraging but found he couldn’t speak. He fell back on to his elbows and looked to one side and saw a butterfly folding and opening its wings on a flat rock beside him. He wanted to tell Lynsey and then he felt himself give way, hugely, the breath drawn out of him. It was like slipping into the reservoir in the middle of summer, the ice-cold water against his hot skin and all the sudden silence. He went way below the surface, into the dark, down to the silt and the stone foundations of the flooded villages, down to the unrelenting pull of the sluice. He couldn’t breathe. The sun was everywhere. He opened his eyes and Lynsey was looking down at him with a smile that was half-puzzled. But he was astonished. She asked why he was shivering. Afterwards she wanted to talk but he couldn’t. She wanted him to kiss her but he felt embarrassed. When he’d got his breath back they walked down the hill together. She wondered if she’d done something wrong. He wanted to tell her how good he felt but he could only punch her gently on the arm and say nice one, mate. They had to walk separately from there to the village, in case anyone saw them. Rohan didn’t yet know. They didn’t think it worth telling him until they knew what it was themselves.

It was a good year for sweet chestnuts, and in the woods on the estate the spiny husks spread open underfoot. The beaters opened the release pens at the edge of the woods and drove the pheasants towards the guns. At Reservoir no. 5, the maintenance team put on wetsuits and went down the slipway to take a drowned sheep out. There was a weight to it with the sodden wool and the smell was something hard to take. At the school there were UCAS sessions and James and Rohan and Lynsey and Sophie started talking about moving away. They all said how much they’d miss each other but there was no more talk of applying to the same university. Lynsey had trouble at home when she talked about applying at all. Her father asked who would do his laundry if she left home, and then acted as though that was a joke. Her brothers asked why she would go all the way to Edinburgh to study English when they didn’t hardly speak it up there. Her mother asked, gently, whether she couldn’t at least think about a science. You’re enjoying the biology, aren’t you? she asked. There’s prospects there. Your father would understand that. He’s not going to put money into you going up there to read books. Lynsey knew that. And she knew that when she left home her mother would be faced with all the housework she’d been doing. And she knew she couldn’t talk to the others about this, because they would have no idea. In the woods and by the river at night the bats were mating, feeding heavily to build up fat as the year began to slow. The clocks went back and the nights overtook the short days. Les Thompson was in church on a Sunday for once, and was heard after the service asking Jane whether she might stop off by the farm one day. She knew not to prolong the conversation, and told him that Tuesday late afternoon would suit. Just before milking? He nodded, and left, and on Tuesday her car was seen bumping slowly along the track on the far side of the river which led round to Thompson’s place. He’d lived there his whole life as far as she knew, and this was the first time she’d made a call. His sister had lived there until fifteen years ago, and since then he’d worked the farm by himself. When he opened the door she could tell he’d made an effort. There was a clean shirt, and a shaving nick, and his fingernails had been scrubbed. Vicar, he said, nodding. His voice was deep, and always sounded as though it came from a great distance. He gave off the air of a man shouting, but without any of the volume. She waited. Shall I come in? she asked. He went through to the kitchen, and she followed. She was in there for almost an hour, while Les tried to say that his sister was dying and he didn’t know what he’d do without her. They talked on the phone most evenings and he was over to see her most Sundays, and it was going to be different. It took him a while to be out with it, and the cows were making a racket in the shed by the time he was done. She chatted to him a bit longer while he worked, and he turned down her offer of help. She collected these confidences from people, and carried them around. It was like piling rocks into the boot of a car, she told her dean once, and sooner or later there are too many rocks and the suspension bottoms out each time you hit a bump in the road. He smiled and told her he knew it was difficult. He prayed with her, and she kept carrying the rocks around.

Irene walked down to the church from the bus stop and let herself in to do the flowers. The vases had been emptied and washed, and the new flowers were keeping fresh in the sink. Plenty of ferny greens, lots of yellow and white. She spread the stems out across the table and began working up arrangements. Tried not to worry about Andrew. There’d been something off about him this morning. Something agitating him. They’d get to the bottom of it at the school, whatever it was. No good worrying all day. She’d learnt not to worry once he was elsewhere. Took enough energy worrying when she was with him. People didn’t know. They thought they could imagine but they had no idea. Didn’t even know what it was with him, really. When he’d been born there was no sign of anything wrong. Not wrong. Wrong was a word they were discouraged from using. The parents. At the day centre, at the school. Different was the word preferred. But either way there’d been no sign. He’d been bright-eyed and howling the same as any newborn. Beautiful. Even Ted had been soft with the sight of him. It had only been later she’d started to wonder. When he wasn’t playing the way other babies were. When he didn’t reach out and hold things. When it became impossible to hold his gaze. When he started to bite. The boy’s not right, Ted had taken to saying, and she’d told him to hush. Hadn’t questioned him like that before and he didn’t like it. The boy needs discipline, Ted had said; you’re spoiling him. There were times she’d had to stand in his way and catch what was coming. But when he was four years old and not yet speaking there were trips to the doctor, to the hospital. There were tests and observations and support groups. She didn’t take much benefit from the support groups. The other mothers were younger than her and she felt out of place. But she began to learn a new language. Lear

nt a different way of being a mother, to a child who had a different way of being in the world. Tried not to think what was lost. Did a lot of praying but learnt not to pray for him to be normal. Not to say things like normal. Ted took no part. He thought there was something wilful or malicious about the boy. Was impatient with the mollycoddling. Resented the money being spent. Resented not having a son who could kick a ball, or go snaring rabbits. She thought she’d caught him weeping over it once but she couldn’t be sure. He wasn’t one for doing his emotions that way. It was the drinking and the shouting and the slamming doors, usually. And the rest. Andrew was seven when Ted died. Coughed his lungs to bits and no one could say whether it was the smoking or the quarry dust that had done it. He always said he smoked so much to keep the dust down. Halfway through his fifties and people kept telling her it was a tragedy. The one thing she couldn’t admit was feeling something like relief. It made her feel wicked. But things did change once he was in the ground. Things were quieter. She packed out the last vase and left them all on the table for Winnie to place around the church. She took a half-dozen stems that hadn’t fitted in the arrangements and carried them out to Ted’s grave.

Richard Clark came home for Christmas. As he drove through the village he saw Cathy outside the post office, and stopped to ask if she wouldn’t come round for a cup of tea. She was surprised but said yes, and climbed into the hire car for the short drive. His mother’s front door was unlocked and they walked in together. His mother was lying on the kitchen floor. She smiled up at them both, and asked if he’d had a good journey. It took the two of them to pick her up and get her into a chair. You needn’t look so worried, she said. I would have got myself up in a moment, only I heard you coming in through the door. Thought I’d save myself the effort. Richard asked if this had happened before and she told him to put the kettle on. You’ll stay for a tea, Cathy? Cathy had backed away a little, towards the door, as though not wanting to intrude. Her hand was hovering over the zip of her coat. I will, Mrs Clark. That would be nice. It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Richard’s mother said. It has, Cathy agreed, and Richard heard the rustle of her coat being slipped from her shoulders. It was daft but something stirred in him. A fog came in and lay heavy for a week and even at noon the only colour in the street was the buttery light spilling from house windows, held behind curtains that people kept closed. These weren’t days for working outdoors if it could be helped. The sloe gin from the year before was sampled. The allotments were bare but for the odd row of kale or leek. There was carol singing in the church with candles and the familiar smells of cut yew and polish and damp coats. The numbers were down but the sound still rang out against the cold stone.

Jane Hughes held a service at the church to mark five years since the girl had gone missing, and this time the mother managed to attend. Care was taken not to call it a memorial service, although there were few in the village who thought she could still be alive. It was announced as a Service of Prayer for Rebecca Shaw and her family, and that seemed to be open enough. There were reports in the newspapers that both parents had gone back to work, and her mother certainly had more colour than the last time she’d been seen. But she didn’t speak during the service, and when people came up to her afterwards she only shook their hands briefly, and said thank you for their concern. The girl’s father was seen walking up the hill behind the visitor centre, heading towards Black Bull Rocks. Cathy Harris asked Richard to call round in the morning before he left for the airport. He’d only been back for a few days, and had barely left his mother’s house. Come round for a coffee or something, she’d said, standing on his mother’s doorstep, zipping up her coat. We should talk. He wondered if she wanted to make him feel guilty about his mother, or if she might find some other reason to persuade him to stay. He loaded up the hire car and drove down her lane before the sun was up. He could see her in the kitchen as he parked the car, standing over the table while her sons ate breakfast. The room was a bright square against the dark silhouette of the house. He watched her lean across them to take a piece of toast. He watched the relentless way the boys were eating, talking and laughing while they crammed food into their mouths. He looked at their broad shoulders, their expansive gestures. They made the room look full. Complete. He saw Cathy shush the boys, and turn up the volume on the radio. They were probably listening to the news. He turned it on in the car. He watched Cathy, with her back to him, lift her hair in both hands and twist it into a knot. He remembered her doing the same thing years ago. He tried not to think about it. That was a long time ago. Her marriage had been a happy one, he assumed, and he’d had some good relationships himself. He wanted to tell her this: that there had been relationships, that he hadn’t been lonely. Perhaps she knew, or assumed. Perhaps it didn’t need saying. When she turned to the window there was a hairband pinched between her lips, as he’d known there would be. On the radio they were talking about the girl. The police were appealing for further information. There were no new leads. The investigation remained open, despite the passage of time.

6.

At midnight when the year turned there were fireworks going up all across the village but from the hill they looked faint and the sound failed to carry. James and Lynsey had walked up earlier in the night with blankets and torches and a bottle of vodka and by now they’d run out of things to say. Each of them was already worried that it was getting more serious between them than they’d expected, but neither of them knew how to bring it up. It wasn’t that she wanted it to stop, Lynsey had said to Sophie, it was only that she hadn’t wanted anything so serious this time. James hadn’t talked to anyone, but was carrying some kind of confusion around. He felt bad about Rohan. But he liked the things they were doing together and he thought that should be enough. When the fireworks were done they turned to each other and kissed without indecision, and James tried not to think about Becky Shaw. She could have walked high over the moor and stumbled into a flooded clough. She could have fallen anywhere and be lying there still. In the beech wood the foxes were ready to mate. There had been scent-marking and fighting and now the pairs were established. The dogs followed their vixens around for days. When the coupling came it was joyous and loud. Les Thompson’s sister died and there was a funeral. It was the first funeral Jane Hughes had taken where the burial was in the churchyard outside. Mostly these days it was crematoria. Thompson’s sister hadn’t lived in the area for years so there weren’t many people at the service; a dozen at most pressed around the grave afterwards while the undertaker’s men lowered the coffin into the ground. Les Thompson was a man of few words at the best of times but today he was completely silent. He’d been into town for a new suit, and had found one that fitted beautifully, given his proportions. He carried himself slowly. He nodded when people spoke to him, and his handshakes were heavy and warm. The snowdrops were up and the crows flew overhead and the wind moved through the trees. Jane had to keep herself from smiling.

The winds changed and came from the north, pulling a bog-sweet smell of damp down from the hills. After dark two of the older badgers snuck out of the sett at the top end of the beech wood, sniffing at the air before foraging across the wet soil around the edge of the abandoned lead pits, looking for the earthworms that had always been there. Will and Claire came back from hospital with a baby daughter, and went straight to the Jackson house to introduce her to Tom. They were calling her Molly, and when they laid her on Tom’s lap he looked terrified. Will’s brothers laughed, and Jackson was able to smile. On the television there were pictures of an earthquake’s aftermath; people walking down a road covered in dust, collapsed bridges, rescuers kneeling in the rubble to reach down into dark spaces. In the evening on Valentine’s Day Ruth drove over from Harefield to find Martin and return the card he’d sent. He looked at her holding it out but he didn’t take it back. I didn’t send that, he said. Martin, she said. This has to stop now. I’m not here to be won back. He was shaking his head. I’m telling you, he said, I didn’t send that

. There was a softening in his expression. He felt as though he had the upper hand for once. She looked at him and she didn’t know what to believe. They were standing outside the Gladstone, and again she held out the card. The streetlights were on already. They both looked at it. The handwriting inside was obviously disguised. She looked around, feeling suddenly watched. I didn’t send it, he said again, and he seemed proud of the fact. He turned and went back into the pub, and there was a sway of warm chatter as the door swung closed behind him. She got back into the car. She felt the world expand around her. In the distance by the motorway the lights on the television masts blinked red.

The clocks went forward and the evenings opened up and the days stood a little straighter on their feet. The catkins came out on the willows by the river and swung wildly in the wind. The allotment sycamores dropped a branch on the old Tucker place and took off a dozen slates. The rain got in and soon afterwards a For Sale sign went up. In her back garden Su Cooper drank a coffee while the boys kicked a ball. They kept asking if they could go through the gate and into the woods, and she was telling them to just please wait until she’d finished her drink. She let the coffee sit cold in her mug. We won’t go far, Lee said. We’ll stay where you can see us. Just wait, she asked them again. Always asking them to wait, it felt like. Just a few minutes more. Let me finish my coffee. She was holding a trowel in one hand; she’d come out planning to deal with the plants that had been sitting around since she’d brought them back from the garden centre a fortnight ago. But really she needed to get on her laptop and answer a string of emails about the series proposal that was due in the next day. The early feedback hadn’t been great and the project felt sketchy. The idea of tracing the origins of urban dialect words was a good one, but they were lacking a narrative drive. She needed time to talk to her colleagues and develop the proposal further, but Austin would be out until after the boys were in bed. They’d been restless all morning, and had got into a fight when she’d tried to take ten minutes at the laptop. She’d have to work on it after they were asleep, and hope her colleagues would still be available to talk to by then. She needed a fresh coffee. The boys were opening the gate to the woods, and shouting something about wolves, looking back at her. She put the trowel down and ran towards them, howling and raising her hands like claws. They shrieked, and scattered into the trees, and she had to choose quickly which one to chase down and devour. There were fresh elections to the parish council, and Brian Fletcher was re-elected chair. Janice Green continued as secretary. Miriam Pearson stood down, and as usual was replaced by her husband, William. The lambing was coming to an end and the Jackson boys were worn out. There had been talk of bringing in help but there was no way of making it pay. These later ewes were all lambing outdoors and when the weather was fine there was some pleasure in watching them take care of themselves. The way one would circle and paw and take herself off to a corner of the field, the way the new lambs stood and looked about in surprise. But there were others who needed all manner of helping. They kept their sleeves rolled and the lubricant to hand.

In April the first swallows were seen and the walkers were back on the hills. Richard Clark’s mother had another fall while he was staying with her. He’d only been back for a few hours, and was upstairs writing an email. The woman he was seeing had wanted to come with him and meet his mother. This wasn’t how he saw things between them. There’d been some discontent and she’d sent another email. He was trying to straighten it out when he heard a thump from the kitchen. His mother was already picking herself up by the time he got downstairs, levering herself to her knees and pausing for breath, a toppled chair beside her. Oh, would you look at me, she said. Too much haste, rushing about. No harm done. Richard righted the chair and helped her into it, and asked if she’d been to the doctor about this. There’s no medicine for tripping over, she laughed, lightly. But do you feel dizzy? he asked. Faint? It’s nothing a cup of tea won’t fix, she insisted. Richard got her settled in the front room and took her some tea and cake. He texted his sister to tell her what had happened, and she texted back to say she couldn’t talk just then. He stood in the doorway, texting a reply, and looked at his mother. He wondered why none of them had yet moved back to live with her, to give her the care she needed. This wasn’t how she’d brought them up. Later he saw Cathy and they went walking through the woods with Mr Wilson’s dog. He apologised to her again for not going to Patrick’s funeral, and she stopped. There was an expression on her face that was halfway between laughter and irritation. Richard, she said. Why are you talking about this again? What are you trying to fix? I don’t know, he said. It’s just that I feel bad about it. I know I should have done something. But Richard, this is water under the bridge, you know that, don’t you? It was just impossible, he said, with work. They walked on through a clearing, and it took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the light. She didn’t understand where he was going with this. Patrick was a good man, he said; I never held a grudge. You could have written, she told him, and he nodded. We coped though, she said, if that’s what you’re worried about? I actually managed, can you believe it? I kept busy. There was plenty to deal with. Paperwork. Finances. People who came around wanting to make things better. I was Stuart Hunter’s new best friend for a while there. He was after the timber yard. I wanted to hang on to it. I thought the boys might be interested in taking it on once they were done at university, but they really weren’t. And it needed someone to keep it working straight off. Stuart offered us a good price. I’ve never liked the man, to be honest. But it was a good price. Nelson had got left behind somewhere, and when they called him he didn’t come back. Cathy went back to look for him, and found him fussing over an old walking jacket or body-warmer, navy blue, with the lining ripped and the stuffing spilling out. She pulled him away, and went to catch up with Richard.

At dusk the men from Culshaw Hall were out shooting pigeons. They’d been taking feed from the pheasant pens and were well up in number. Each time the shots cracked through the evening the pigeons in Mr Wilson’s garden spilled into the air. The areas of moorland that had been burnt back in February were already flush with new growth, green squares in the patchwork of heather. A full moon rose over the reservoirs and flooded them with pale light. The nights were warm and slow and the bats fed for hours on the flushed crops of insects which came up from the water. The female bats moved away from their winter roosts and gathered together to breed. The days started brightly and the village was humming with life. In the churchyard yew a male goldcrest sang with the urgency demanded by spring. Rohan Wright found out about Lynsey and James. He told them he understood but he didn’t. Neither of them saw him around for a while. He put a band together with some friends from town, and was using the village hall for rehearsals. There were complaints about the noise, but the committee felt strongly that the young people were entitled to make use of the facilities. They were asked to refrain from rehearsing any songs with language. Jackson hadn’t got much better, but nor was he getting any worse. A care nurse came in three times a week to help him do his exercises, and either his speech had improved or his family had got better at understanding what he wanted to say. He was able to take himself to the downstairs bathroom, and only needed a little help getting dressed. But he had to use the wheelchair if he wanted to go further than the yard, and that wasn’t often. Maisie had Molly at home two days a week to give Claire a break, and Jackson’s eyes always shone when she was in the room. At the village hall the puddled clay was pressed into the dressing boards, resting on trestles in the centre of the room, while everyone stood by with the mosses and petals and bark they’d been gathering all week. There was an expectant atmosphere, of people looking forward to a job they knew would be hard and long. There was a morning mist, milky and thick, burning off as the sun poured into the valley. From the river by the weir a heron hoisted itself upwards, its feet dragging limply behind. It climbed quickly over the trees towards the quarry. Along the roads and in the uncut edges of fields the first wildflowers were thriving.

In June there was a party at the Hunter place for the end of Sophie’s A-level exams. There was a marquee and a band and candles in glass jars lining the driveway. There were cars parked along both verges on the road and they did some damage. The noise of the party carried down to the village. Sophie’s parents were there but they mostly kept their distance, and made sure Olivia stayed away from the punch. In the morning Jess made Sophie a hot drink and brought her out into the fresh air. They sat up in the folly, Sophie wrapped in a duvet, looking down over the wildflower meadow and the orchard and the courtyard. There wer

e a lot of empty bottles about the place. There were young men sleeping on the grass beside the ornamental lake. I don’t want anyone driving home until they’ve had a proper breakfast, Jess said. They’ll be pickled in alcohol. Sophie nodded. Her eyes were red. Jess put an arm around her. Harry didn’t work out then? I should have known better, Sophie said. It’s my own stupid fault. Jess turned Sophie’s face towards her and looked her in the eyes. Really? she said. Because you were the one putting yourself around? Sophie looked down. No, but still. I should have done more to keep his interest. Sophie Hunter, Jess said; that is not how I brought you up. I’ll let you off this time because you seem a little fragile, but remember this: where a boy puts his John Thomas is not your responsibility. It’s his. Okay? Jess asked who the girl was. Someone called Jasmine, Sophie said, from Cardwell. Jess couldn’t help spluttering at the mention of the place, and Sophie laughed faintly. Exactly, she said. And what kind of a name is Jasmine anyway? Jizzmin is more like what I heard. Jess put up a hand and told Sophie to hold back. Come on, Mum, I’m allowed to be childish about it. I’m not worried about childish, Jess said. But don’t go blaming your sisters for men’s behaviour. Mum! She’s not my sister. We’re all sisters, sweetheart. Oh, Mum, please; this isn’t the 80s. There was a splash and a shout and two boys emerged from the lake fully clothed, draped in weeds and shouting with either hysteria or fury. Sophie said she thought she was going to be sick, and her mother helped her over towards the bushes, gathering her hair away from her face and stroking her back.

In July the first fledgling swallows were seen tumbling from their high nests and breaking into flight, and were soon sweeping across the meadow grasses in search of food. In the morning the sun angled over the hillside as Les Thompson led the last of his cows from the parlour towards the day’s grazing. Les closed the gate behind them and headed back to the parlour for washdown. There was paperwork to sort and he didn’t fully understand it. Since his sister had passed the numbers weren’t adding up. In the old quarry by the main road the larvae of small coppers were feeding on the sorrel plants where they’d hatched, carving deep grooves in the leaves where they could hide while the sunlight shone through. A Facebook account was discovered in the name of the missing girl, claiming that she was travelling in Thailand and Goa. There were photos of a young woman matching the computer-generated images of Rebecca Shaw the police had put out a year or so before: on the beach, in a bar, sharing a hammock with a friend. It was quickly shown to be a hoax, and the student behind it had issued an apology through her family’s solicitor before she even got back to the UK, but afterwards there were people who thought there might have been something to it. Mrs Simpson held an open afternoon at the school for the children who’d be starting in September. There were only the Cooper boys and a girl from the new housing-association flats, so there was plenty of time to talk. She showed them around the school, and later while the children played in the corner of Miss Dale’s room she made hot drinks for the parents and answered their questions. She was surprised by how many questions Su Cooper had; she’d always thought of Su as being rather quiet. Austin Cooper didn’t look surprised at all. Su asked about the curriculum, and opportunities for creative play, and about the use of outdoor space. She also asked what diversity training the staff had received, and Mrs Simpson was confused for a moment. There was no need to worry about that, she told Su; everyone at the school was always treated equally. We like to think we’re more or less colour-blind, she said, smiling. I mean, until you mentioned it I wasn’t even really thinking of you or the boys as being, you know, ethnic or anything. You’re just Su to all of us, aren’t you? There was a look on Su’s face that Austin recognised but which Mrs Simpson appeared not to notice at all. The other mother asked about school uniform.

August was hot and slow. The seed-heads of cow parsley and thistle blackened in the field margins, collapsing in the early dew. The river was clear and slow and the sun struck it hard. There were brown trout teeming thickly through the water. In the evening Ian Dowsett set up in the shade of a beech tree and tried dropping a few different mayflies but nothing was right for the rise. He could hear voices from someone’s back garden at the top of the steep bank and the air was still. In Cardwell the cricket was drawn for the second time in three years and some of the younger players started to talk confidently about a turn in the tide. In Fletcher’s orchard the blackbirds were fattening on the early windfalls, lazy about territory and forgetting to sing. Sally watched them from the kitchen window while she made an omelette for dinner. She folded half of it on to a plate for Brian to have later. He’d left a note on the table to say he’d be late back from the parish council. When she’d eaten she left a note saying she’d be up early for a walk so please not to wake her. She drew a smile and a kiss at the bottom of the sheet of paper. She wondered if they’d counted would there have been more kisses in writing than in real life. She didn’t suppose it mattered too much. Later when he came in she heard the front door close so gently it barely clicked. She reached over and turned out the light, so that he wouldn’t see it on the way to his room and think he’d kept her waiting up. There were springtails in the old hay at the back of the lambing shed, feeding and laying eggs and hatching out, and at the end of a long stem a single male sat poised with his tail hooked to his belly, ready to spring into the air for the first time in his life. There was a moment’s hesitation. Overnight the heat broke into heavy rain but by late morning the ground was dry. In his studio Geoff Simmons turned the new pots on the wheel, using a narrow knife to cut a bevelled edge at the base and a leather to work the rough patches smooth. There was a customer looking at the pots on display and he was trying to judge whether to speak. When she’d come in he’d acknowledged but he knew people preferred to browse. He knew they liked seeing him work. But she was the first customer all week and he couldn’t afford for her to just leave. She was on her own which might mean she had intent. She was holding a pot well and letting it sit in her hand. She had a good eye. It was back on the shelf and she had glanced at the door. This was where she would decide. He took his foot from the pedal and let the wheel slow. He glanced up and let himself look surprised that she was there. The missing girl’s mother was seen at the tea rooms. The girl who served her had no idea who she was, and wasn’t much interested when she was told. That was a long way back now though weren’t it, she asked, and the woman working alongside her conceded that maybe it was.

The missing girl was seen camping with the protesters at the Stone Sisters site, her hair in thick plaits and her face smudged with woodsmoke, and the police had to go and verify the girl’s real identity. The numbers at the camp had dwindled since it became clear that no excavation was imminent. There was an altercation between one of Jackson’s boys and the handful of protesters who were left. Traditionally the Jacksons had used the area for grazing, and they were of the opinion that it was time the camp cleared out. But they had no legal right to the grazing, and the Culshaw Estate didn’t want the expense of an eviction. So the Jackson sheep went elsewhere, and the protesters stayed. The Tucker place had been sold for a while but there was no sign of anyone moving in. The roof had been repaired but nothing else. The abandonment seemed to offend people more than an empty holiday cottage would. The Tucker descendants weren’t known and so couldn’t be pressed. The night before leaving for university, James and the others went for a drink together in town. There was talk of how much they’d miss each other, but there was no real regret that they were heading different ways. There were complications, after all. Lynsey and James had had a confusing conversation in which they’d agreed that they weren’t breaking up exactly but that they shouldn’t be tied, they should be free to see other people, they should see where things stood at Christmas, or next summer. They’d all keep in touch; of course they would. They’d visit. This had all been said already, and so by the time they were sitting in the beer garden by the river they had nothing in particular left to say. They talked about the packing

they hadn’t finished, and the routes they’d be taking the next day. They drank quickly, to fill the gaps in the conversation. Lynsey was driving, and was first to say she wanted to get back. She was parked in the car park on the other side of the river, and the bridge was a quarter of a mile down the road. James was already taking off his socks and shoes. One last time, he said. Sophie finished her drink and slipped off her sandals. Lynsey rolled her eyes. Really? Rohan was still smoking a cigarette. He held it in his mouth while he took off his shoes and socks, and the smoke curled up through his fringe. Lynsey looked impatient but she leant down and slipped off her shoes as well. I definitely won’t be doing this when we’re back at Christmas, she said. Why, will you be mature by then? asked James. She gave him a look which was less playful than he’d been expecting. They all held their shoes out on the table. It was dark now and the light from the pub spilled out across the grass. They banged their shoes on the table and counted to three before running to the end of the garden and hopping into the water. The river ran shallow across a bed of shale and they were only wading up to their shins. This had been a tradition for as long as they’d been coming to the pub, but when they got into the cold water Rohan still bellowed with surprise, and Lynsey shrieked until she laughed. There were gasps and the slamming of car doors. Rohan’s cigarette smouldered in the ashtray, the smoke turning in the air and their empty glasses catching the light from Lynsey’s headlights as she swung round the car park and drove away.

Sophie Hunter was at the university for a day and a half before she phoned her parents. They’d been trying not to watch their phones, because there was nothing to worry about; all the way down the motorway, with the back of the car empty and quiet, they had told each other there was nothing to worry about, that Sophie would be absolutely fine. But when the phone rang they both jumped, and Stuart stood by while Jess talked to her. The conversation started lightly but Jess thought something was wrong. Are you meeting people? she asked. Are you making friends? Sophie said she was meeting lots of people, yes, and some of them seemed nice. But the trouble was that as soon as she mentioned where she was from they all wanted to talk about the missing girl. I don’t want to talk about it any more, Mum. How come they even remember? Jess reminded her how big a news story it had been, at the time. People remember that sort of thing, she said. Later, via Facebook, Rohan and Lynsey and James reported the same experiences. Rohan called it The Curse of the Missing Girl, and Lynsey told him not to be cheap about it. In the village Mischief Night had become more or less the same as Hallowe’en, and for the first year doors were actually knocked on and the phrase trick or treat was used. Toilet paper also featured for the first time, draped across trees and bushes in people’s front gardens, and it was a hell of a job cleaning up the next day. Ashleigh Wright and Olivia Hunter were found to have been mostly responsible. They were coming into themselves now their older siblings had left home, was the feeling. Pumpkins were stolen from people’s front steps, and dumped in the walled orchard at the end of the Fletchers’ garden, which was overgrown and failing. The fruit hadn’t been harvested for years and the trees were thickly gnarled. He’d been told there were grants to restore it but he seemed in no hurry. Inefficiency was a point of pride with Brian Fletcher, a man known for being late to his own wedding despite living opposite the church. The reservoirs were high and the river thickened with silt from the hills and plumed across the weirs. A decision was taken to lay a second line of flagstones across the top of the moor, to limit the erosion caused by walkers, and a helicopter was brought in to drop them at intervals along the route. The flagstones came mostly from derelict mills in Manchester, cut a few centuries earlier and deeply rutted by the clogs of the workers going in and out for their shifts. At the school Jones had another argument with Mrs Simpson. The boiler had broken down again and an inspection had recommended replacing the system altogether. The boilerhouse would be demolished. He wasn’t having that. The boiler was fine. It just needed some work.

When they’d left for university, James and Lynsey had said that of course they would keep in touch. They all had. Lynsey had texted the others a few times, but keeping in touch turned out to mean reading the updates on Facebook. Halfway through the term she took a coach to Newcastle, where James was studying, and only texted him for directions when she got there. She thought it would be cool to surprise him, she told Sophie. But then he introduced her to Holly, his girlfriend, and offered her Holly’s room to sleep in since she wasn’t using it at the moment. It wasn’t quite what Lynsey had planned. They’d left things open between them but she’d thought they could pick up again. There were things she wanted to talk about. There were possibilities she’d had in mind, such as sharing his bed. Instead of which she drank most of a bottle of vodka and was sick into Holly’s bedroom sink. When she woke in the early morning the sink was still full of it, and she left without saying goodbye. She caught the first coach back to Edinburgh. The coach drove through flat arable land and she felt a long way from home. She wanted to message Sophie but she had no signal. When she slept the bumps in the road became hills and she dreamt she was driving into the village, where the stems of coppiced willow stools on the Hunters’ land gleamed red and gold in the narrow winter light. The foxes were lying low. Martin Fowler was working at the meat counter in the supermarket when Bruce came through with his new partner. Dad; this is Hugh. Martin nodded, concentrating on the back bacon he was cutting. The slices fell thinly away as the blade whined and rolled to a halt. He fanned them out on a layer of waxed paper in the display chiller, and then looked up at Hugh, who seemed more embarrassed than he did. He nodded. Hugh; how do. He didn’t know what else to say so he turned back to Bruce and asked whether they’d been to see his mother. We’re heading there now, Bruce said. Martin nodded. She expecting both of you? Yes, Dad. She’s expecting us both. She’s met Hugh before, you know? Martin nodded, and from the corner of his eye he saw his supervisor step towards him. I should get on. Good seeing you. Pop over some time? Bruce nodded. Yes, Dad. I’ll do that. Some time. As they were leaving, Bruce told Hugh that he’d never heard his father say how do like that before, it wasn’t something he said, he must have come over all flustered. Hugh just wanted to get back to the car. Martin’s supervisor said he could have an extra break if he wanted, go for coffee in the store restaurant or something, and Martin said, thanks, no, but he was fine for coffee.

Jackson stopped using the sun room, and it gradually filled up with boxes and rolls of sheeting and sacks of feed. Tom had started making a Guy Fawkes, and left it unfinished in the reclining chair. Mike was in there looking for some waterproofs and from the kitchen the others heard him yelp and drop something heavy, and then shout something that sounded like shit up my arse. Nobody looked him in the eye when he came back in the room, and they were quiet as he filled the kettle. That was a lot of work we put in to build a fucking storeroom, he said. What was the bloody point of that? Is he never going to use it? Maisie told him they should be patient, that their father was feeling more tired than usual at the moment and wasn’t able to get out of bed. The doctor said there’d be ups and downs, she said. Mike made himself a tea and headed outside. Shit up my arse? Simon asked. Fuck off, Mike said, and slammed the door. At Reservoir no. 9, the maintenance team were unblocking the spillway screens, clearing out the weeds and rubbish in anticipation of heavy rains to come. At the allotments the Brussels sprouts stood tall, their leaves wilted and holed and the sprouts knuckled tight against the frost. The allotment committee asked Susanna Wright to give up her plot for lack of cultivation. She knew they had a point but it stung. She hadn’t realised what time would be involved. Folk never do, said Clive. Takes a retired or a nut-job to work an allotment properly. Well, I’m not yet either of those, Susanna said, giving him the key. On the estate the laying pheasants were taken in for winter feeding, and new stock delivered. In the woods the wild pheasants clustered together and fed on the spilt feed left in the pens. On a Friday after school Jones set to repairing a sash window in Miss Dale’s classroom. He had the casement down and was halfway through singing the second verse of ‘Fernando’ before he realised that Miss Dale was in the reading corner. When he saw her she caught his eye and kept an absolutely straight face. He nodded, and went back to scraping the paintwork and grease from the casement channels. After a few moments he thought he heard Miss Dale singing the next verse very quietly, but when he looked he couldn’t see her moving her lips. It took an hour to get the casement back up, and when he was done she was still working on her papers. He packed up his tools and said goodnight. Goodnight, Mr Jones, she said, smiling. There was rain through most of the month and more floods and the debris jammed up against the footbridge again but this time the footbridge didn’t fail. There was carol singing in the pub, and when the sheets were handed round there was a lack of enthusiasm. But by the time they got to the ‘Calypso Carol’ the singing could be heard from the square and people had started crowding in from the main bar. Oh now carry me to Bethlehem.

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