Jacquot and the Waterman (2 page)
1
They had called there four summers now, at the end of
their holiday, on the northern shore of Lac Calade, in
the wooded hills above Salon-le-Vitry. It was always the
family's last stop, their final lunch before the airport at
Marignane and the evening flight home. And in all the time
they'd been there, on this narrow strip of sand, they'd
never had to share it. Maybe a scatter of sails far off from
the slipway at Salon-le-Vitry, but nothing closer. The track
they followed, more than a mile of clumpy weed and rutted
stone that seemed to go nowhere and promise nothing
more than a broken exhaust, put most people off.
There were five of them. The grown-ups and three
children.
As
usual they'd arrived mid-morning, driving
down from their holiday home near Courthezon. And just
as they always did on this last day of their holidays, they'd
taken their lunch early so the children could play. On a
grassy bank above the shoreline, in a pool of shade beneath
the single olive tree that grew there, they set about the
bread, pate, sausage and cheese they'd bought at the
charcuterie
in Salon-le-Vitry, the rug from their car soon
littered with breadcrumbs, smeared waxed-paper wrappings, discarded bottles of Or angina and an empty plastic
vrac
of local rose wine.
Now the man dozed in his low picnic deckchair, ankles
crossed, feet in sandals and socks, shirt unbuttoned, hands
clasped across his stomach. Behind him, in the olive's
shade, his wife read her book, smoking idly as she turned
the last few pages, the three children ranged along the
shore and in the woods. Around them, crickets beat out a
static summer hum, lizards skittered from stone to stone
and the midday sun laid a shimmering column across the
water.
'Daddy! Daddy!' The voice came from the point of land
that separated their cove from its tinier, stonier neighbour.
His twelve-year-old daughter, Mandy.
'Dad, I can't see Julie.' The words were distant and
scared.
The man's eyes sprang open and he struggled to his feet.
He felt suddenly hot and unsteady, staggering a little to
gain his balance and his senses as he came awake.
Under the olive tree, the woman put down her book and
tipped off her sunglasses. What is it? What's wrong?'
'It's Julie . . . Something
The man shaded his eyes and looked to the spit of land
where Mandy stood.
She was pointing to an air-bed drifting thirty metres off
shore.
Their nine-year-old son, Ned, came out of the trees and
joined her.
'Jesus!' said the man under his breath, and his blood ran
cold.
His wife spun round, looking back to the woods.
'Julie,'she shouted, short and sharp. And then, throwing
away the cigarette, putting down the book, standing:
'Juuuuu-leeeee.' Long and hopeful, but somehow not convinced.
'She was playing with the air-bed,' said the man. 'Last
time I looked. Right there. On the beach. I told her not
to. .:
He spotted the child's armbands, like little red apples,
on the sandy skirt of beach. A suffocating chill spread
through him.
He knew where she was.
Heart hammering, he ran to the shore, pulling off
sandals and socks, hopping from one foot to the other,
damning the delay. A moment later, tearing off his shirt, he
was splashing through the shallows, a bed of hard, slippery
pebbles shifting underfoot, bruising the balls of his feet,
propelling him forward. In an instant he was out of his
depth, arms flailing, head coming up to take a breath and a
bead on the air-bed.
'Daddy! Daddy!' he could hear the kids shrieking. But
all he could think was - how long? How long had she been
off the air-bed? How long had she been under?
Thrashing through the water, heart pounding, he
reached the air-bed, grabbed it, chest heaving, and looked
down, holding the air-bed up to provide shade from the
sun, a better view into the depths.
Nothing. He could see nothing.
He took a breath and flipped down, pulling himself into
chill, coppery depths. He opened his eyes but could see
only a dusty brown glow cut with slanting shafts of
sunlight and, further down, the tops of some swaying
grass.
But nothing else. No Julie.
He burst to the surface, filled his lungs again and dived
a second time, hauling himself deeper into the gloom,
feeling the water sluice through his fingers with every
stroke, slide past his arms and shoulders. What had she
been wearing? What colour?
But still nothing. Nothing
.
.
.
A second time he broke surface, gasping for breath,
head hammering, the air-bed floating away in the commotion. Legs bicycling, he spun himself in the water,
frantically, full circle, catching his breath, wishing he was
fitter, getting his bearings, the lake shore wheeling past.
Filling his lungs he pushed down again, legs flailing in
the air till they found purchase in the water and propelled him deeper.
And then
. . .
Oh God, no . .
.
As he kicked out, a dozen feet down, somewhere in the
murk to his right, he felt his foot push against something,
something weighty, something suspended in the water, and
he turned to see a dim white shape roll away, out of sight,
out of reach.
But his breath was gone, chest cramping. He had to go
up. As he burst into the sunlight he took only the time to
blow out the air from his lungs, drag in another breath and
plunge back down, so fast that the water raced up his
nostrils and into his mouth. He blew it out and felt the
remains of his lunch rise up and follow, filling the water
with a reddish cloud of crumbs and his throat with a
burning acid tang. But there was still enough air; just.
Oh God
...
oh please God, don't let it
be
.. .
he prayed,
lunging his way down.
But there she was. Suddenly. From nowhere. Right
there beside him. A lolling head, drifting coils of
hair. . .
