Page 6 of Reservoir 13

In August the weather kept up. For a week there were mists rolling down from the hills, burning off as the sun rose sufficiently high. In the heat people broke down the fence around the flooded quarry and swam, despite everything that was known. Notices were put up but people were still seen swinging from the rope and leaping into the shockingly cold, deep water, screaming as they fell, cheered on by others spread out on the baking rocks around the water’s edge. The river crept beneath the packhorse bridge and seeped into the gravelled shore. In the woods and along the shaded riverbank the ragged robin was still in flower. The cricket team went over to Cardwell, and the match was lost again. There was talk the second man in Fletcher’s orchard was an associate of Woods. The talk was unfounded but he looked the type. He had a rough strength that was nothing to do with the gym, and a ropy tension in his arms. His eyes were always moving and he spoke in a type of low mutter. There was something of the prison yard about him. Man’s name was Ray, according to Martin, who’d stopped by on his way down to the river one morning and ended up making some suggestions about the pruning. The other one went by Flint. Martin said they weren’t friendly as such but they made for passing company. Ray had a good supply of cheap tobacco, and Flint knew a thing or two about knives. When he found out Martin had once run the butcher’s he asked if those were Martin’s knives up behind the counter. Martin said they’d been his father’s. Flint said they looked like they were worth a bob or two. Sheffield, Martin said. Back when they knew what they were doing in Sheffield. You’d have to go to Japan to find work like that now. Japs know about blades, Ray muttered. Truth. He spat into the fire and went off to the caravan. He never took much part in the conversations. Martin wondered if he might be a bit remedial, although he knew it wasn’t called that any more. He noticed that Flint sometimes kept an eye on him while they were talking, the way you’d keep an eye on a dog that was liable to upset the furniture. When he went into the caravan he always put the radio on and a distraction came over Flint while he talked. There was something between them that Martin couldn’t rightly describe. Not a gay thing but some hold they had over each other. At least he didn’t think it was a gay thing but who really knew these days. Martin felt like he was intruding, some evenings. Took his leave without sitting down and carried on along the lane to the packhorse bridge.

The widower was known as a man with secrets, so there was no real surprise when he turned out not to be a widower at all. His children came and spent the end of the summer with him, dropped off by a woman who was understood to be his ex-wife. It wasn’t clear how the misunderstanding had started but some people felt cheated. The children were three teenagers or almost-teenagers, who seemed to spend most of their time at the playground or along by the river. In the first week they were seen setting off from the visitor centre with their father leading the way, returning an hour later in the sort of glowering silence that follows a difference of views. They weren’t known to go walking again. The missing girl’s father had been causing more concern. Since his charity walk he’d returned to the area repeatedly, always on foot, and been found on private land and in farm buildings and in restricted areas around the reservoirs. Eventually he was arrested and questioned at length, and although there were rumours he was being reconsidered as a suspect he was again released without charge. The first fieldfares were seen, gathered on a single hawthorn and chattering into the wind. It was a good year for hazelnuts. There were few in the village now who went to the trouble, but for those who did there was good gathering. There were thick stands of hazel growing along the high ground between the flooded quarry and the beech wood, and it was possible to pick bagloads at a time. Winnie took her share, of course, and lately Ruth had been coming along to take a few baskets for selling in the shop. Very popular they were, she told Winnie. People will pay a good price. It was Mr Wilson’s turn to put together the Harvest Festival display at the church. He told Reverend Hughes that he was planning to raise awareness of unexploded ordnance for a charity he supported by making an arrangement of model landmines and mortars and calling it ‘Bitter Harvest’. She told him she understood how strongly he felt about the issue, and she shared his concerns, but perhaps a poster next to the bookstall at the back of the church would be more appropriate? There was a break-in at the old butcher’s shop and the knives were taken from the wall. Later they came into Martin’s possession and he asked no questions. The smallest one was missing and he thought that was reasonable. Boards were put up over the shop doorway. The rosehips were out, and Su Cooper took the twins along the river path to collect a bagful. Winnie had told her how to make the syrup, and promised it would keep the boys free from colds through the winter. It was only once they were heading home that all three of them noticed how badly they’d scratched their arms. You look like you’ve been fighting with a sack of cats, Austin said to her later, holding Su’s arm up to the light in bed. He kissed each scratch, and she winced and drew him closer. In the night she went downstairs and checked on the faint red syrup slipping through the muslin she’d hung over the preserving pan. It didn’t smell as pretty as it looked. She wondered if the boys would even take it.

Martin Fowler was working at the meat counter in the new supermarket when those two from the caravan showed up. They met him round at the loading bay on his cigarette break, and a few nights later they all went hunting together. It didn’t go well. There was some disagreement about which way they should head, and what they were after, and in general there was too much talking for Martin’s comfort. He wouldn’t have come if it hadn’t been for the knives. He owed them something. The evening was clear and still. They set off around midnight, down over the packhorse bridge and across the hill towards the high moorland beyond the Stone Sisters. There had been drinking. Martin had been careful to pace himself but he wasn’t sure about the others. They were carrying a backpack each, and a lamp, and Ray had a gun in a long black bag. They’d asked him along to do the dressing. This one made a right bloody mess of it last time, Flint said, and Ray had nodded cheerfully. Fair cop, he said. Not my thing. I’m a shooter. There’d been

a moment, in the caravan, when Martin had realised there was no licence for the gun. This could have been a moment to leave, but he’d stayed. It took an hour to get beyond the Stone Sisters, and another hour to reach the first clough at the edge of the moor, which Flint had insisted would be the best place to start. They were after a deer, apparently, although Ray had said that if that didn’t work out they could just go for rabbits or hares or grouse. Basically, he’d said, if it moves, we kill it. Martin was fairly sure they weren’t going to see anything with the noise they were making. This was partly his justification for coming along; that no harm was likely to arise. His evenings were long sometimes. It was good to have something to do. The three of them sat in surprising silence for half an hour, the ramshackle incoherence of the evening transformed into concentration and poise, and when Flint finally turned on the lamp Martin wasn’t completely surprised to see a small group of deer standing a hundred yards away. They had a look of interruption. They’d been grazing on the heather and were now staring into the light, blankly curious. Martin held his breath. He heard a rustle as Ray brought the gun to his shoulder. Five of the six deer scattered. The sixth turned its head and tensed to run and was knocked from its feet by the first of Ray’s shots. Martin had been too close to Ray when the gun went off, so he didn’t hear what was said as Flint started running towards the deer, which was even now lunging to its feet, a piece of its foreshoulder torn away. The light swung wildly as Flint raced across the heather and then the gun went off again, closer yet to Martin’s head, and the light went dark as Flint threw himself to the ground. In the whistling silence Martin could just make out the deer, careering lopsidedly towards the lower end of the clough, and Ray bending over Flint to shout something before hurtling in a high-stepped gallop across the heather, his gun held over his head. Martin sat and watched while Flint got to his feet and brushed himself off, uplit by the grounded lamp. There was a ringing sound as his hearing came back. Flint appeared to be checking himself for blood. Somewhere over the hill they heard another shot. Martin headed home. At the weir a heron speared suddenly into the water, its body wriggling on long straight legs, and came up empty-beaked. It shook its head, twice, and resumed waiting. There were springtails in the compost heap in Mr Wilson’s garden, and in the morning Nelson sat watching while they leapt and popped from the surface. A steady rain began to fall and fell unchanging through the day. At the quarry great pieces of limestone slab were being craned into trucks and driven out to the main road, dozens of loads a day, the truck engines grinding under the strain. Somewhere a lot of building was being done.

In November it rained for so long that the cricket field turned into a bog and the bonfire display was called off. The fieldfares retreated from the fields beside the church and fed beneath the hawthorn hedges. At midday Jones left the school and fetched two pies from the shop. At home his sister was waiting for him behind the front door and she told him the police had been round. They took the computer, she said. She was doing that thing with her hands, as though rubbing some dirt away. I was halfway through doing an online survey and they wouldn’t let me finish, she said. He asked if she’d made the tea and she said of course. She asked why they’d taken the computer and he told her they would just check it was all working okay. He told her it would be returned soon. Nothing to worry about, he said. But will they read my Facebook? I don’t want them reading my Facebook. Stephanie was so cross with those comments I made on her hiking pictures. Do you think she reported me? Do you think I’m in trouble? He told her he didn’t think she was in trouble. He told her not to worry. He said he might have to go away for a few days. He took the newspaper through to the toilet and when he came back she’d warmed the pies and laid out their lunches on trays. They carried them through to the lounge and sat in front of the television. There were pictures of bush fires in Australia. What will they do with the computer? she asked. They’ll just check it, love. He ate his lunch and carried his tray through to the kitchen, and when he was done he said he was heading back to the school. He asked if she’d be all right. She nodded. He asked if she had anyone coming round and she looked up at him suddenly, and asked why would she have. She was frightened. No reason, he said, I just wondered. What do you think happened to that missing girl? Christ, Susan, who knows? What? Anything could have happened. It was years ago. Poor kid. They’re not going to find her now. Why are you asking about her? This has got nothing to do with the missing girl. What’s got nothing to do with the girl? she asked. What is this? Susan, it’s nothing. There was nothing. He put his boots back on and as he opened the door she called his name. She had that voice again. He asked what she wanted. She said she was scared. He told her it was okay. He told her he’d be home in time for tea. He heard her crying as he closed the door. There were days he could pull the place down with his bare hands. But what would she do. He was to play the cards he’d been dealt. Promises had been made. He walked quickly along the main street to the school, and when he got there two detectives in plain clothes asked if they could search the boilerhouse. He nodded, and rolled a cigarette. They took his laptop computer away. Late the next day Cathy Harris went to the Clarks’ with an early Christmas card for Richard, before he went away for work again. She wanted him to know what affection remained. He was pleased to see her and he couldn’t bear to see her, and as she hovered on the doorstep his mother called her in. The three of them stood in the kitchen and his mother said what a delight it was to see Cathy again. It had been too long, she said; Cathy should come over for dinner. Richard filled the kettle and fetched down the tea mugs. He didn’t know what he could do to make things the way he wanted them to be. He didn’t know why he was even thinking about this when he was seeing someone else. Cathy was going to spend Christmas in Manchester, with Anthony. He didn’t understand why she wanted him to know. His mother had a small television on the kitchen counter, and on the local news there was a report of a man in court on child-pornography charges. The reporter mentioned the missing girl, and from the corner of his eye Richard saw Cathy put a hand on his mother’s arm. A police officer was shown saying the case was unconnected to the missing girl. There was a shot of a man being led into the court building, and the sweater pulled over his head wasn’t enough to keep them from seeing that the man was Jones.

The Jackson boys helped out at the school while Jones was away. This was the term people were using: away. There was a discomfort in discussing the matter. Arrangements were made to look in on Jones’s sister, and she was soon found another place to stay. She had questions that no one wanted to answer. At the school some of the children asked if they could make cards to send Mr Jones, wishing him well and hoping he would come back soon. In the staffroom this was discussed at length and it was hard to know what to do. By lunchtime the word paedo was heard in the playground and any idea of making cards was dropped. In the afternoon there were difficult conversations. It’s a word that means someone who hurts children, or thinks about hurting children, or touches children in a way they don’t like. We don’t know if Mr Jones has hurt anyone. The police are trying to find out. If any of you are worried about anything that’s happened you can come and talk to me by yourself. It’s okay to ask questions. Sometimes we just don’t have the answers. On the television in the evening there were pictures of starving children, and men with guns and knives, and women hiding their faces, and later the same shots of Jones going into court were shown. The woodpigeons got under the netting on Clive’s allotment and stripped out his Brussels sprouts and kale. The bats were folded snugly into hibernation, their breathing slow, hanging together in leathery clusters from the eaves of the church. Cathy knocked on Mr Wilson’s door and asked whether Nelson wanted a walk. They had tea and cake and then she took Nelson quickly up the lane to the church, down past the orchard to the packhorse bridge and along the river. Always the same route, and Nelson didn’t need to be told the way. At Hunter’s wood she squeezed through the gapstone stile and followed the river up through the narrowing gorge, the path climbing away from the water, even Nelson beginning to slow as he lumbered up the steps to the visitor centre. She stopped to catch her breath for a moment, then turned down the road towards the beech wood and the allotments and the village. The Millennium Millstones had been pushed off their plinths again, and when Sean Hooper came up to repair them he said the structure was basically unsound. The strength it must have been taking, it was hard to know why anyone would go to the trouble. There was carol singing in the square, but the weather was wet and not many people showed up.

Brian Fletcher had someone in to advise on the orchard restoration, and coloured strings were tied where the pruning was to be done. Sally’s brother and the second man, Ray, were busy for a week with stepladders and pruning saws, and the two of them were seen looking proud of their work. The cut branches were heaped up and burnt, and in the evenings their voices carried down the valley with the wet spitting smoke. People knew this was Sally’s brother now, but they didn’t know the other man. They didn’t know what the arrangements were. It seemed unorthodox, but that was par for the course with the Fletchers. Their marriage was little understood. There was some speculation but most felt it was no concern of theirs. The twenty-year age gap was one thing, but it was clear they knew how to get on. Brian’s family had lived in the area for years and there was some connection with the original Culshaws. But Sally was from somewhere else entirely, and his family didn’t approve. He went ahead and they cut him out altogether. The wedding had been a quiet affair. Neither of them enjoyed the fuss. It was known their introduction had been arranged online but this was never acknowledged. There was heavy snow and it settled. Irene and Winnie went to the sales in the city, as they’d done every year they’d known each other. It took a bus and a train to get there and the crowds never got easier to face. But it was worth it for the prices to be found. Martin happened by Cooper’s office while he was working on the new issue, and they fell into conversation about computers. Martin was thinking of selling his, he said, but he wanted to be sure the memory was properly wiped. Passwords, bank details, all that. You’ll get a more or less clean drive if you reformat it, Cooper told him. But the only way to be sure is to physically destroy it. A hammer works well. A hammer? Martin asked. Won’t that affect the resale value? It will tend to, Martin, yes. There is that.

9.

At midnight when the year turned Rohan found Lynsey on the dance floor at the village hall and kissed her while ‘Auld Lang Syne’ was sung. Rohan said later that they’d both been as surprised as each other, but in truth he’d been hoping that someth

ing would happen again for a while. Lynsey went home by herself soon afterwards, but in the morning she was seen leaving Rohan’s house. There’d been no snowfall since the previous week but neither had there been a real thaw. The streets were cobbled with frozen slush. Someone falling at the top of the lane by the church could have slid right down to the packhorse bridge. The Cooper twins spent an afternoon proving this, until Lee turned his ankle and had to be carried home. At the school when term started there was a sickness bug that went round. Jackson’s boys were kept busy with the sawdust and bleach. By the end of the week the staff had gone down with it too and the school had to be closed for a time. There was talk of the kitchen being at fault but nothing was ever proved. The pantomime was Snow White, and in the absence of seven small enough actors in the area the parts of the dwarfs had been taken by the tallest and broadest men the production committee could find. It was meant to be funny but not everyone got the joke. Irene in particular could be heard trying to whisper objections. She wasn’t good at whispering. Andrew took his role of Bashful very seriously, and delivered his lines clearly. When he knelt beside Ashleigh, who was playing Snow White, and promised to watch over her, the laughter quite abruptly subsided. There was a hesitation which was either a dramatic pause or Andrew forgetting his line and then Irene whispered that she still didn’t see why they couldn’t have just used children and the spell was broken. Late in the month Martin drove out to the disused quarry and took a sledgehammer to his desktop computer, kicking the pieces beneath the chassis of a burnt-out car.

Sally drove her brother to his hospital appointment. This was the first chance she’d had to talk to him since Ray had turned up. He told her he’d felt some of the old ways coming back. She told him she’d been worried, that Ray wasn’t good for him and couldn’t he understand that? We’ve seen some times together, sister, he said, with the enigmatic tone he’d been attempting for a few years now. She asked what he meant, and he told her they had an understanding. They were stuck behind a cement lorry and running late. She was tense on the pedals and she kept checking the mirror. She asked what kind of a hold Ray had over him. She called him Phil and he corrected her to Flint. She told him he was only ever in trouble when Ray was around. He doesn’t look out for you, she said. He doesn’t care about you. Undertakings have been made, he said. She pulled across the road to see if there was space to overtake. There wasn’t. She told him Ray was going to get them both in trouble again, that he was mixed up in all sorts. Flint looked at her steadily. When freedom is outlawed only the outlaws will be free, he said. She told him to grow up. She called him Phil and again he corrected her to Flint. She said that had never been his name before. The road straightened, but a delivery van swept past from behind her just as she started pulling out. She swerved back and swore, and Flint smiled patiently. She asked whether he’d got the name from Ray; whether Ray also told him what to eat, what to drink, when to go to bed and get up in the morning. Undertakings have been given, Flint said again. She told him to stop saying that. She told him their mother had never trusted Ray, that she’d had good reason not to let him into the house when they were younger. He stiffened, and told her not to talk about their mother. She was a good judge of people, Sally told him. Stop it, he said. The traffic slowed as they approached the town, and then stopped altogether. Brian’s not happy with the situation, she said. Are you kicking me out again? he muttered. He understands you need somewhere to be safe, she said, turning to him. But not in the house, he said. Don’t let the freak in the house. It’s not that, she said, almost managing to keep the impatience out of her voice; he’s just not happy with Ray. He doesn’t trust him. People have had words. There are suspicions. Flint wanted to know what sort of words, what sort of suspicions, and she said only that people had reason to worry. People don’t know anything, he said. Loose lips sink ships. She asked him to calm down and listen, and told him that Ray couldn’t stay any longer. I can’t make him leave, Flint said. He can’t stay, she told him. He won’t listen to me, he said. She told him they needed to do something. Brian had had enough. He asked what kind of hold Brian had over her, and she told him not to be clever. It doesn’t suit you, she said.

By March the wild pheasants were fat from their winter feeding and ready for spring. At the top of the beech wood a male pheasant walked amongst a group of females and lifted his plumage expectantly. In the late-afternoon light the burning heather flickered against the hill. The protesters got in to the new quarry site and stopped operations for the day. They were arrested, and charged with aggravated trespass. Some of the older people in the village were more sympathetic towards them after that. We’ve a history of trespass around here, Mr Wilson told one of them at the post office. You just let us know if there’s anything you need. Su Cooper had a group of friends over from Manchester for dinner. This was happening more often now she was full-time at the BBC again. They were work friends mostly, but also people in Manchester she’d known growing up. Sometimes she stayed after work to have a drink or a meal with them, and sometimes they came down to the village. They were friendly enough but Austin didn’t have much to say. One of them was talking about a mutual friend who had lost funding for a documentary project she’d been working on for ten years. He cleared the plates and said he was just popping upstairs to finish something off for the Echo. From the way the laughter carried on he didn’t think they seemed to mind. Later when they left Su was bursting with talk, bouncing on her toes as they loaded the dishwasher together and retelling some of the stories he’d missed. He liked seeing her like this but he didn’t feel a part of it. Under the ash trees the first new ferns unfurled from the cold black soil. Rohan was home to see his mother for the weekend and he wouldn’t tell her what was wrong. Whenever he texted Lynsey she always took longer than he hoped to reply. He tried a couple of times to arrange a visit but in the end he realised he had to stop. He was surprised by how much more it hurt the second time around. From their caravan in the orchard Ray and Flint took a walk past the Stone Sisters and on through the far valley to Cardwell. It was a long walk but it was worth it. They came to a bungalow Ray had clocked previously and knocked on the door, and when the old lady answered Flint told her they’d been walking all day and were a little lost and could they possibly trouble her for a glass of water. She took them into the kitchen. She moved slowly and Flint told her to take her time. She poured them each a drink and then her eyes went to a biscuit tin on a shelf. It was like she was telling them it was okay. There were no biscuits in the tin but there was money. When it was done they saw themselves out.

Cathy knocked on Mr Wilson’s door and asked whether Nelson needed a walk, and he said he hoped she wouldn’t mind him coming along. You’ve no need to be asking permission, Mr Wilson, she said. He stepped out with his shoes on already and his coat folded over his arm. Is it warm? he asked. Not as warm as it looks, she said. He put on his coat, turning as his arm got caught in the sleeve so she could help him without anyone acknowledging. They were slow up the lane and they crossed over to get out of the shade. She walked with her arm part-offered and once or twice he took it. Nelson got stuck nosing around in the long grass where the lane joined the road, and Cathy asked what had brought him out of the house. He didn’t answer immediately, and Cathy realised just how out of breath he was. He told her it was the anniversary of Jean’s death and he was taking flowers. He asked whether she minded them stopping off at the churchyard. She asked if he realised he wasn’t carrying any flowers. He made a show of looking at his exasperated hands and then smiled. One of the consolations of a death in springtime, he told her, lifting a pair of kitchen scissors partway from his pocket for her to see. Nelson pulled hard on the lead and she had to walk on ahead, and by the time she was able to turn and wait he was carrying a thick bunch of fresh daffodils. She couldn’t see where he’d got them from, and thought it best not to ask. He led the way through the churchyard to Jean’s grave. He was walking quicker now, and the catch of his hip was more pronounce

d. And then he was talking to her, to Jean, which was something she’d never been able to do at Patrick’s grave. He stooped to lay the flowers down. He had to push against the headstone to lever himself upright, and this time when she offered her arm he took it. She looked away from him, up at the clouds blowing over the hills behind Jackson’s farm, and the tears came. They didn’t come often. Mr Wilson gave her a neatly folded handkerchief, and they sat on the bench by the churchyard gate. When she was finished, she said she’d wash the handkerchief before she gave it back. He didn’t argue. They sat for a moment while her breathing steadied, and then she asked if it ever got easier. He didn’t answer straight away. He told her that not long after they’d married, Jean had insisted he stop smoking. Cathy wasn’t sure this was an answer. This was in the 1960s, he said. Nobody was giving up smoking in those days. I enjoyed my cigarettes, as it happened. But she was very insistent. She could be an insistent lady, you’ll probably remember. And she told me it was making me stink, making the house stink, all that. And she said she’d read about it making you sick; cancer and whatnot. I don’t think she ever said it was her or the cigs, but I wasn’t about to take any chances. Anyroad, I did it. Knocked it on the head. No nicotine patches or none of that. Sometimes I’d just go down the pub and breathe in deep to make up for it. But that was that. She was grateful, but I don’t think she understood what it meant. And then she asked me, near the end, when she was very ill, if I’d ever missed my cigarettes. She got to thinking about all sorts, near the end. Not often, Jean, I told her. Only after meals. Cathy turned and Mr Wilson was laughing, silently. Only after meals, he said, again, the laugh turning into a hacking cough. She looked at him. It’s a bloody metaphor, Cathy, he said. She nodded. I got that, Mr Wilson. She patted his knee. Very good. Nelson stretched at the lead, and Cathy asked if they should walk on. You go ahead, Mr Wilson said. I’ll stop here. Take you all day to get around with this hip holding you back. She asked if he’d be all right getting home and he said he’d be fine. I’ll just rest up here a bit longer, he said. He watched as she strode down the lane past the orchard, and he waited until she was out of sight before taking out a pouch of tobacco and rolling himself a cigarette.

By May the reservoirs were as low as they’d been in forty years, the ruins of the old village buildings dry above the waterline and people walking down to picnic where the churchyard had once been. There were hosepipe bans over four counties; the hills were drying out. Will and Claire Jackson separated again, and Claire went to live with her mother while she looked for a flat. Tom stayed in the village with Will. Martin stood for election as chair of the parish council, on a vague platform of being what he referred to as a new broom. It was the first time anyone could remember the chairship being contested. It was noted that there was a difference between being a new broom and never having attended a meeting of the council, and Brian Fletcher was voted back in. In the village hall the well dressers were into their third day of pressing in the petals and mosses, and tempers were running short. Some of the newer dressers were lacking for technique, and Irene had to be clear when sections weren’t up to scratch. She even had to explain that the petals were meant to overlap in the manner of roof slates, so that any rainwater could run off. It boggled the mind how someone could live in a well-dressing village and not know that. At the badger sett in the beech wood after dark the first cubs of the year came out. They stayed close to the adults, watching their mothers find food. There was a cacophony of smells. They marked a path back and forth between the adults and the sett entrance, scratching and shuffling and keeping the way clear. The Jacksons moved their sheep up on to the moors. The lower fields needed time to recover. The sheep made a ruckus as they bunched together up the lane but they soon settled down. A police officer was seen going down to Fletcher’s orchard, and as he stepped through the gate he saw a man urinating against the drystone wall. This was Flint, who turned and nodded, wiping his hands on his trousers. The police officer said he was making enquiries about a theft. Flint shrugged, and the police officer asked about his place of residence, his line of work, his recent whereabouts. He explained that these were routine questions. Flint gave him routine answers. There were noises from inside the caravan. The door opened, and Ray came out. He nodded at the police officer, and at Flint, and went to urinate against the drystone wall. The police officer asked were there any objections to his having a look around. Flint shrugged again, and the police officer poked around in the nettles under the caravan, and into the gap between the caravan and the wall. Ray and Flint looked at each other. The police officer stepped into the caravan and started opening the cupboards and drawers. Ray adjusted his trousers, and Flint held out a hand to steady him back. The police officer stepped down from the caravan and thanked them for their time. Flint said he thought they were entitled to see a search warrant for that type of thing, and the police officer said he just wanted to exhaust all the avenues of possibility. Ray said he could exhaust some more avenues of possibility for him if he liked, but he waited while the police officer was halfway up the lane before he said it.

At dawn on Midsummer’s Day the sun fell into line with the two pairs of fallen stones at either end of the Stone Sisters. The drumming could be heard from down in the village. The bracken was up but was browning already. Ashleigh Wright was found to have been missing days at school. There was a phone call to Susanna and a meeting with the head of year, Ms Bowman. Ashleigh was at the meeting but she couldn’t be brought into the conversation. She slumped low in the chair and her hair hung over her face and she wouldn’t be drawn. Was there bullying. Was she finding the lessons too difficult, or too easy. Where was she going when she wasn’t in school. Was she meeting anyone. If there was a problem they wanted to work with her to resolve it. But she couldn’t go on like this. She kept shrinking into her chair, and when Susanna put a hand to her shoulder she jerked away. It was difficult to ask questions into that sullen vacuum without becoming frustrated. Susanna and Ms Bowman fell silent. It was a small room and warm and there was condensation on the window. Outside there were shouts as the younger year groups took their morning break. There was a stack of books on Ms Bowman’s desk that needed marking by the end of the day and she tried to keep her eyes from it. Susanna’s hand was still smarting from the way Ashleigh had pulled back. This was new. Or not new, in fact. It was the same way she’d retreated when they were with the children’s father. Susanna hadn’t seen it for a long time. There had been a kind of strength in it then, she knew, the kind of strength a child shouldn’t need. But she wondered what was happening now to make her retreat in that same way. Ms Bowman was watching the two of them. She knew there was a history. There’d been little concern with the brother but this one seemed more troubled. Probably they would need to talk separately. There might be a referral, if the mother would accept that. But now time was short and the poor girl just wanted leaving alone. She smiled at Susanna and gestured that she would call her later. Susanna stood to leave and Ashleigh was already heading through the door. In the corridor Ashleigh walked away without saying anything and Susanna watched her go. Her spine was all twisted and her shoulders hunched and her feet were dragging as she walked. Her posture was doing her no favours but she wouldn’t want to hear that. Susanna was feeling pretty tense around the clavicles herself. She’d go for a run when she got home. All those things that had happened. When she thought they were passed they kept coming back. She lifted her head and dropped her shoulders and tried to feel herself connected to the earth through the balls of her feet. Rohan had finished university and come home with no idea what to do next. He was helping her in the shop but she couldn’t pay him. She’d been running a loss for months and could barely afford to restock. The landlord was losing patience. James Broad came back from university and worked in Hunter’s timber yard for a time. He refused to go to his graduation. A certificate arrived by registered post, and he showed his mother, the two of them standing in the kitchen in their dressing gowns, James with his mouth full of toast and his mother having to whip the certificate away so it didn’t get covered in jam. Later he met the others for a drink in town, and although it was meant as a celebration they weren’t really in the mood. They sat out in the beer garden by the river where they’d sat three years before, and soon ran out of things to say. Sophie was the only one who had a job lined up, and she’d failed her course altogether. When Rohan suggested they take the shortcut across the river to the car park Sophie gave him a withering look. In the morning Les Thompson and his men were out early with the mowers. They went straight from the milking to the machinery shed and got things started. The morning had been clear and still, the mist lifting from the fields in waves and burning off before the cows were even turned out. Jones’s trial came to court and he was sentenced to eighteen months. There was a report in the paper that no one wanted to read. His sister was still staying elsewhere and his house stood empty. At night the bats flew low over the water and down the lane past the orchard, feeding on insects no one knew had existed before they were carried away. In the evening a police van was seen at Fletcher’s orchard. Ray and Flint were arrested.

The long days of July were hot. The heather seethed with insect life. On Sunday in the evening Sally and Brian Fletcher ate a meal together. Ordinarily there would be conversation but tonight they were silent. Through the window the caravan was pale against the dusk and the orchard was closing in. The dinner was mostly eaten before Brian spoke. You can’t say I haven’t been patient, he started. Sally looked at him, pushing the last of the mashed potato on to her fork. There was nothing she could say. Even after that last time, Brian went on, I welcomed him back. The boy’s got troubles. We know that. We thought this would help; a bit of stability. But if we could persuade Ray to keep away, Sally said. Ray’s always been the problem. There’s a hold he has over Phil. I don’t think you could persuade that man to go anywhere he didn’t want to go, Brian said. Not without a pair of handcuffs. But if we see what happens, with the charges? Ray will have been the instigator. Maybe Phil will just get a caution? Oh, come on, Sally. They were both in the house. They both went into her house and stole from her. It’s joint enterprise. It’s bloody h

ome invasion. This won’t be a caution. She nodded. She knew he was right. She loved Brian dearly and she knew he was right. She knew how much he’d sacrificed to go ahead and marry her, but there were still times when he sounded as though he was the lord of the manor. They did the dishes and settled down to watch whatever was on television. It was something about a murder. The second clutches of goldcrest eggs were hatching in the conifer plantation up at the Hunter place. When the school holidays started the widower’s ex-wife brought one of his children to stay: the youngest, a girl of around thirteen. No one had managed to drop the habit of calling him the widower. The girl spent more time in the garden than when she’d been there with her siblings the year before. She was especially good with the hens, it was noticed, and took longer than needed putting them away at night. Some evenings she sat with her father on a new bench in the garden, sipping at a mug of hot chocolate, and later he sat alone while the light in an upstairs bedroom shone into the gathering dusk and went out. At the end of the month, after his wife had taken the girl back, the same light was sometimes seen on in the evenings, the curtains drawn, the hens taking longer than usual to settle. At the river the keeper waded into the water and cut away at the weeds.

The August nights were cold and in the mornings the first dewy hints of autumn rose from the ground. The swallows were starting to gather along the wires, the first to feel the cold, turning their heads south and waiting for whatever would pass as a sign. In the woods and along the shaded riverbank the ragged robin was in flower. The air was dry and the sounds of the cricket match carried right through the village, the knock and the chatter and the cheers seeming to grow louder each time. By the end of the afternoon word went round that the match was not being lost. More people turned up to watch. The exact score was a matter of confusion, but when Cardwell’s last wicket was taken, bowled clean by James Broad with a shout that volleyed right across the river and sent the pigeons scattering from the end of the field, there was a general understanding that the game had been won for the first time in memory. In the shelter of one of the cloughs coming down off the moor a well-made den was discovered, birch and larch branches propped up against each other and the whole thing roofed with bracken until the light barely shone through. It wasn’t known who had built the den or what it had been used for, but the ranger took it down all the same. He found magazines. At the office when he mentioned this they wanted to know what sort of magazines. Let’s say specialist-type ones, he said. You mean like gun magazines, fishing? No. I think you know what I’m talking about. Adult magazines. Not comics then; we’re not talking about Beano and Dandy? No. Special-interest adult magazines. Oh, like tit-mags you mean? Well. Like I say. These were particularly specialist. In what way, Graham? His colleagues could be very obtuse, sometimes. He was aware that they did it on purpose. The best response seemed to be a patience in excess of that which they may have expected. But he had no wish to take this conversation any further. Did you bring any back with you, Graham? For evidence? Can we see them, Graham? Are they in your desk? No, he said. They’ll be in the filing cabinet. Have a look in the filing cabinet. Under S for specialist? A for adult? B for bondage? I’m going to conclude this conversation now, folks. Graham pretended to tip his hat, and left the office. He had better things to do. He could hear his colleagues laughing as he closed the office door. Let them waste their time looking through the filing cabinet. On the allotments in the evenings there were queues for the tap and those with water butts looked on and said nothing. The water skidded across the hard ground and didn’t always soak down to the roots. There was a sense of the season beginning to turn; nothing wilting yet but a softening in much of the growth, the greens less green and the seed-heads starting to fall. The watering went on after the long shadows had stretched down to the road and been overtaken by the greater shadow of the hill. On a fence-post by the road a buzzard tensed and sprang into flight, settling claws-first on a young rabbit and carrying it away. At the school the boilerhouse was demolished.

Cathy Harris helped Sally clean out the caravan once the police had finished. Most of what they hadn’t taken was only fit for throwing away. Cathy asked what Sally thought would happen next. I really don’t know, Sally said. I’m starting to think he’s just that bit too damaged, you know? He gets himself into these situations. The only time I ever see him looking peaceful is when he’s in the hospital, but the only way in is when he gets arrested first. I don’t know what more I’m meant to do. The orchard looked hacked and awkward, but Brian Fletcher said he thought the two men had done a good job on the whole. The protest camp had mostly closed down, now that the new quarry was fully up and running. The first excavation had started three miles away from the Stone Sisters, and it was clear that it wouldn’t get much closer. Most days there was just the one protester up there, keeping the fire going and repainting the banners. The estate lost more pheasants than usual to poachers, and there was talk of an organised gang. The odd one or two was tolerated, but this was dozens in a single night. In the parlour at Thompson’s farm the men hooked the milking clusters up to the next group of cows, the rich smell of cream and shit rising in the late-afternoon air. In his studio Geoff Simmons fixed handles to a new batch of jugs, scoring a cross-hatch at the attachment and sticking each one on with a smear of slip. There were orders to pack and take down to the post office. There was a woman he’d been seeing, a potter from Devon who’d become very friendly at a craft fair and had been up to stay a couple of times. She said she preferred him to travel down to her place. She’d encouraged him into the mail order. He’d hated the idea of a website, and of people buying his pots without holding them first, but she was persuasive. This was starting to worry him. On his lunch break Martin took his sandwiches to the park by the river, and when he’d finished eating he stopped off at the toilets and heard something going on in the cubicle. There was just muttering at first, while he stood at the urinal, and then some other rustling or rattling around. It sounded as though two people were in there, and the thought crossed his mind that it could be two men having sex. He understood that this was something people did. He’d wondered, when they’d first learnt about Bruce, whether this was something Bruce had done. He’d found the thought upsetting, far more than the basic fact of his being gay or whatever they wanted to call it. He’d settled with that. He’d told Bruce, eventually, soon after meeting Hugh, that he’d settled with that. There was silence in the cubicle, and he thought he must have imagined the noises. Which was a concern in itself. And then as he was washing his hands there was the sound of a sudden movement, a bang against the cubicle door, and a kind of wincing grunt of pleasure. He realised, as he walked quickly away without drying his hands, that the idea of the pleasure had surprised him. Because why would it be a surprise. Because whatever else people thought about that type of thing it could only be assumed that they enjoyed it. Else why would they go to all that trouble. Why would they put up with people talking about them. He found himself thinking about whether or not he’d heard what he thought he’d heard for days afterwards. He wanted to tell someone about it but there was no one. He wondered how they went about agreeing to go into the cubicle together in the first place. The wheat fields by the main road were harvested and the woodpigeons gathered for the spilt grain. In the clough in the evenings there was a thin mist following the line of the river, rising like smoke from the water. The weather was closing in.

In their front room the Cooper family watched Harry Potter, after a day of walking up on the hill. The twins fell asleep after twenty minutes, one hand each resting in the bowl of popcorn wedged between them. Austin had just been commenting quietly on this to Su when he realised she was asleep as well. He turned the sound down on the film and listened to the three of them. He had a memory of listening to them like this when the boys were babies. They had become so much more in the meantime. He watched the boys’ chests rise and fall, their lungs still small and their bodies busy growing. He looked at them. The neatness of their proportions. Their skin. The utter stillness on their faces. The light in the room kept changing with the movement of the trees outside. The people in the film kept shouting at each other, mutely. And Su, turned in towards him, her slight frame slow and tidal in its sleeping breath. He felt as though he were holding the three of them, holding this room, this house. They made him feel at once immensely capable and immensely not up to the task. He remembered all the times he’d lain awake at night, thinking over the locks on the doors and windows, working through what he would do when someone came crashing into the house. And here they all were, safe. The light from the television screen shone across the boys’ faces. Austin was holding his breath, as if letting it go would let the moment spill. He felt the contentment in his chest like an aching muscle. He noticed Sam’s hand twitch in the popcorn bowl, and wondered what he was dreaming of. He felt Su shift beside him, her cheek turning into his shoulder, and then Lee asked him to turn the volume up because he couldn’t hear the film.

When the first siren sounded over at the quarry the workers cleared the area. When the second siren sounded the birds fell silent. In the village, windows and doors were pulled shut. The third siren sounded, and the birds rose into the air, and the explosion came from deep behind the working face, spreading through the body of the earth, a low crumping shudder that shrugged huge slabs of limestone to the quarry floor. The dust rose and continued rising and drifted out through the air for five minutes or more. The first all-clear sounded, and the birds returned noisily to the treetops. The second all-clear sounded, and the workers returned to their places. In the village the windows and doors were kept closed as the dust spread. On the bus back from town Winnie saw Irene and asked whether she’d had her hair done. Irene’s hand went up to her head, although she hadn’t meant it to. She told Winnie it was only the usual. Keeping it tidy, she said. Well, it suits you, Winnie told her. Irene only nodded, and turned to face the front of the bus. Winnie wondered how she’d caused offence. It wasn’t always easy to tell, with Irene. At the bus stop Irene saw Sally Fletcher, who wanted to know about the plans for the next Women’s Institute sale and also felt it necessary to pass remark on her hair. What a lovely job they’ve done there, she said, and for a moment she had her hand on Irene’s shoulder, as though she wanted to turn her back and forth like some kind of dressmaker’s dummy. Well, Irene said. I do prefer it short, you know. Practical. Later, when Su Cooper said something similar, Irene began to wonder if some elaborate joke was being played on her. She didn’t welcome the attention. She wasn’t vain about her appearance. She would have to ask Jackie to do a simpler cut, next time. Tidy was all she’d asked for. In the evening she met Winnie for a drink at the Gladstone, as they’d arranged. It was her sixtieth birthday but she didn’t want a fuss. At the council meeting there was a dispute about burning the Guy Fawkes at the bonfire party. Susanna Wright said it was anti-Catholic which was more or less the same as racist when you thought about it and she didn’t think the parish council should be condoning anything like that. The majority saw it as a harmless tradition which there was no need to drop. After the meeting Susanna was taken to one side and told that as a newer member of the parish council she should wait a year or two before tabling any more motions. There were springtails in the crumbling wood of the fallen ash by the river, moulting and feeding and getting ready to lay more eggs. There was a storm and the felt on the village-hall roof came away. There was so much water damage that the wall panelling down one side had to be taken out. That end of the hall was cordoned off, and a meeting held about urgent fundraising for repairs. There was flooding the length of the valley and some newly cut trees from the Hunters’ land came crashing down the river and took out the footbridge by the millpond weir.

Jones came back to the village and kept himself to himself. When the lights were first seen on at his house there were those who felt he should be acknowledged. I’ll fucking acknowledge him, Tony said. There was no question of him working at the school again. Once his time on remand had been taken into account he’d only served six months. There were conditions attached to his release but he was allowed to live at home. Those who saw him said he looked gaunt. His offences were said to be at the milder end of the spectrum but in the village they wouldn’t be brushed off. Spectrum my arse, Tony said, more than once. Martin said that it wasn’t kiddy stuff but teenage girls, and even with some thirteen-year-olds it was hard to tell. There was a silence when he spoke and no one agreed. Tony told him a thirteen-year-old was still a child, and Martin immediately backed off. I didn’t mean it like that, he said. The bloody hell is wrong with you? Tony asked. There were sale posters in Susanna’s shop window all through December. It was understood to be a closing-down sale, although nobody called it that. She hung fairy lights and paper chains and held a Christmas event. There was mulled wine and mince pies and people sang carols together. The place was packed, although it was noticed that Ashleigh wasn’t there. She was having a difficult patch. In the morning there was a new padlock on the door. At the river the keeper repaired a section of path where the flooding had taken out a foot of bank and left the gravel to slide into the water. He’d been shovelling gravel all morning and was glad of the breeze. Richard Clark didn’t make it home for Christmas and neither did his sisters. They took it in turns to call their mother’s mobile on Christmas morning, and if she stood just outside the back door she could more or less hear what they said. The girls sounded hassled, coming up for air from their hectic preparations. Richard was subdued, speaking from a room that sounded full of carpets and drapes. There was someone in the bed with him, she could tell. She’d always been able to tell, and it tickled her that he was innocent enough not to realise. A rustle of sheets, an impatience in his voice. When the phone calls were done the house and the garden were awfully quiet. Later two of Jackson’s boys came and drove her to Winnie’s for lunch. They took an arm each as they helped her to the car, and she wasn’t sure her feet touched the ground at all.

There was talk of putting the pantomime on in the church, while the village hall was being refurbished, but given the tone of recent productions the church council felt it would be inappropriate. Oh no it wouldn’t, Jane Hughes said. Well, yes, I’m afraid it would, Clive replied. Her naivety disappointed him sometimes. The pantomime was postponed for the year. That Sunday Jane’s family was seen at the church, the son and the daughter home from university and looking uncomfortable in pews they hadn’t sat in since they were half as high. The son was taller and broader than both his parents now, and when he did the reading he had to stoop over the lectern, his big hands gripping the edges as though he were about to lift it over his head. They had gone a long way towards home, he read, when they realised Jesus was missing. He was swallowing his words a little. They hurried back to the temple and found the boy there, talking to the high priests. Didn’t you know you would find me in my father’s house? he said. Jane was standing to one side, waiting to announce the next hymn, watching her son and smiling at the story being told. This is the word of the Lord, he mumbled. Thanks be to God, the congregation replied. They sang another hymn, and during the sermon Jane talked about change and renewal and told them she would soon be moving to a new job in Manchester. The river thickened with silt from the hills and plumed across the weirs. A pale light moved slowly across the moor. The missing girl’s name was Becky, or Rebecca, or Bex. If she was still alive she could

be close to six feet tall by now. The computer-generated image of her at seventeen was five years out of date, but a police spokesperson said there were no plans to commission a new one. The case remained open, she said. The jeans and the body-warmer and the white hooded top would be too small. The shoes would have fallen apart.

10.

At midnight when the year turned there was a fire in the caravan in Fletcher’s orchard. It took a time for anyone to notice, and an hour more for the fire brigade to arrive, and by then the caravan was burnt out and a dozen trees gone with it. In the morning it was still smoking and a smell of molten plastic hung over the village. There was little doubt it had been deliberately set, and not much hope of finding who’d done it. For days afterwards Fletcher was seen pacing through the orchard, inspecting the burnt trees as though they might be salvageable. The softening fields on the south side of the church were thick with feeding fieldfares. Most evenings a fog came thickly down and stayed. Andrew had another incident with his mother. She was cleaning again and she kept on at him to pick his clothes off the floor. He was in the middle of a coding run. He didn’t want to lose his thread. She knew she wasn’t supposed to come into his room but she kept asking. He was trying to keep his thread but she kept appearing at the door. He would have done it later if she’d given him a chance. He told her he was busy but she said she had a wash waiting to go on. He stood to close the door but she crossed over the metal strip between the hallway carpet and his bedroom carpet. Let me just get them myself, she said. They need washing. She came past him and stooped for the clothes, and he brought his elbow down on the back of her neck. She made a noise he didn’t understand. She knelt down and picked up the clothes. Afterwards he said he was sorry but only because he knew that’s what people said.

Brian Fletcher was still brooding on the fire and Sally knew to leave him alone. The Fletchers’ house was a big one and they each had enough space to themselves. He’d been cut off from the family’s wealth but he’d been allowed to hold on to the house. They couldn’t afford to keep it up but they did their best. It was a square Georgian townhouse which was out of all proportion with the rest of the street. It had been the vicarage at one time. There were four bedrooms and three reception rooms and a huge kitchen, and it was about three times as big as where Sally had grown up. She had a study for her wildlife books and watercolours, and Brian had a workshop crammed with bits and pieces of cars. It was known they had separate bedrooms. He was taking the fire personally. She kept out of his way while he worked it through. The fire had made him feel targeted. He found a garage in town where he could store the cars. He wondered for a time if his family might be involved, but settled in the end on some associate of Ray or Flint. That type of character is always after someone to blame, he said. After some days of agitation he came to her and asked if she would stay with him that night. It was always done in this way. There was a chance to decline, which made it easier to accept. They each had reasons to protect their own solitude but also nights when they needed to feel safe. They had sex rarely and it never made them feel they’d been missing out. Sally talked all this through with Cathy Harris one time, and afterwards wished that she hadn’t. It wasn’t something that people understood. In the rains at the end of the month a cast-iron gutter cracked and took down a soffit board when it fell. There was always something to mend and it was hard to keep up. On the moor the sheep were nicotine-yellow against the fresh snow. The falls were heavy and they drifted. Will Jackson kept Tom out of school and took him up to look for lost ewes. They’d brought most of them down the night before but there were a half-dozen they hadn’t been able to find. It was likely some would be dead by now, and Will thought Tom was old enough to see. Claire wouldn’t like it, and that was fine by him. He got the quad as far up the track as it would manage, and pointed it downhill before they got off. They had brought poles, shovels, sacks, a bag of feed and bottles of milk. They split the load between them before setting off across the hill. Tom was up to Will’s shoulders now and just as broad, and Will found himself working to keep up. He told his son to pace himself. Nothing wrong with this pace, Grandad, Tom shouted back against the wind. Will told him to fuck off, and Tom laughed. They waded on, their boots sinking deep into the settled snow, heading for the narrow clough where Will thought the sheep might have gathered. At the parish council there was disagreement about who was responsible for replacing the footbridge.

The estate was granted a court order against the last quarry protester and she was evicted. Two police officers gave her a lift to the train station with a rucksack full of what she could carry. She asked for everything else to be put into storage and was told this wasn’t possible. There was some distress. The police officers didn’t think she had much sense of where she would go. Men from the estate took a trailer up to the site and carted everything off for the tip. The reservoirs were quickly filled when the rains returned, the hills soon saturated and the spillways gushing into the river again. Along the footpath and in the corners of fields the first flushes of nettles came up. Winnie was amongst the few left who still cut the tops for soups and sauces. She gathered them with a creeping embarrassment now in case anyone saw. The National Park people put on a fire-safety exhibition at the village hall, most of which was about arson. Following recent events, they said. Refreshing people’s minds about securing premises and keeping flammable materials under lock and key. Brian Fletcher took it personally and asked what more he was supposed to have done. There were cutbacks at the BBC, and Su Cooper was offered voluntary redundancy. She spent three long evenings talking it over with Austin. If she stayed there might be redundancies anyway, with far less than they were offering now. If she left now she would always regret it; all the work she’d put in to get this far, all the time she’d missed when she’d been home with the boys. If she stayed some of her best colleagues would be gone anyway, and the workload would be heavier, the whole atmosphere changed. If she left what would she do? They could see it as a sabbatical, take the boys travelling. The boys were too young for that, they couldn’t be taken out of school. She could get more involved in village life, do some volunteering, find a hobby. Hobby? she said. A fucking hobby? There were no easy ways of talking around this. There was no obvious solution. Fucking hobbies, she said, again, and decided to keep the job. The clocks went forward and the evenings opened out. The buds on the branches brightened. Gordon Jackson took a delivery over to Ruth’s shop in Harefield and made sure to arrive after closing. Once he’d unloaded and she’d signed the invoice they both washed their hands and went upstairs. There was a sofa and they undressed and she pulled him down to her. There was never much talking. This didn’t happen every time. He only knew when she told him to wash his hands. Months now this had been happening but not often and he was always surprised. She was older than him but she was strong. There were sometimes bruises. Afterwards when he tried to talk she didn’t want to. He wouldn’t mind but there were things he wanted to know. He wanted to know what this was. Perhaps it was nothing. That would be hard to accept. She lay back against the end of the sofa and rested her feet in his lap. He thought she was falling asleep but she toed at his stomach in a way that made him get started all over again. It was dark by the time he left and he wondered if he’d be too late for tea. From the top of the moor the lights of the cars on the motorway could be seen, soundless and urgent while the village slept.

In April Su Cooper’s parents came to stay, and when they walked through the door the boys were all over them. Had they brought sweets, had they brought cookies? Su’s father laughed at their directness and bent down to lift up first Han Lee and then Lu Sam. Austin was already outside, collecting bags from the car. Su watched her father, and saw how he struggled with the weight of each boy. Her mother waited, then leant forward to embrace the two boys as they stood. Soon I won’t need to bend down at all! she said, as she had done for the last few years. Su embraced them both, and ushered them through to the front room just as Austin appeared i

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