The Last Summer of the Water Strider (21 page)

‘The spirit of the times, Adam. The spirit of the times.’

It was only at that moment that I understood why Henry and Strawberry worried about one another so much.

T
he next morning, I showered, sunbathed for an hour, then dressed and went downstairs. Henry, as usual, was hammering away at his typewriter. I
looked in on him as I headed out to meet Ash in the village.

‘Thanks for yesterday, Henry. It will stay with me a long time.’

Henry looked up and gave me his big, brown-toothed smile. His front incisors reminded me of minature Chiclets.

‘I’m glad. I get the impression you haven’t enjoyed yourself very much recently. Just don’t tell Raymond I got you undone on Leb. I doubt he would approve.’

‘Ray’s an idiot.’

‘You’re an idiot. Raymond loves you.’

‘You don’t know him.’

‘Apparently, neither do you.’

‘I just wish he wasn’t so pissed off all the time.’

‘He’s lost his wife. What’s he got left? You’re his world.’

‘He couldn’t wait to get rid of me.’

‘He wasn’t coping. Give him some leeway.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do.’

‘He’s jealous of you, you know.’

‘I’m jealous of him.’

‘Of Ray? Why?’

‘Because he has a son.’

I noticed some official-looking papers spread on his desk, alongside the letter he had shown us yesterday. He followed my gaze.

‘Are you worried?’ I said. ‘Do you think they might win?’

‘These people keep going. Grinders. Eye on one point in the future. Stuck in joyless channels of purposefulness. Holy wars of greed and acquisition. But they’re not shifting me.
Christ, this is all . . .’ He looked around him, at the river, at the boat. ‘This is all I’ve got. This and my book.’

‘And Strawberry.’ I checked my watch.

‘I should be going. I have to meet someone.’

Henry’s eyes took on a mildly cynical cast.

‘Ash the Pash has got her hooks into you, has she not?’

‘How do you know I’m meeting Ash?’

‘Who else would you be meeting?’

‘I don’t think she’s as bad as you seem to believe. She seems very nice to me. And she’s very . . .’

‘Pretty? All that glisters, et cetera. I’d give her a wide berth.’

I felt a sudden prickle of indignation.

‘You seem content to let Strawberry make her own mistakes. Perhaps you could extend the same courtesy to me. “A fool who persists in his folly will become wise.” That’s
what you said, isn’t it?’

Henry looked chastened.

‘You’re quite correct. I am hoist on my own petard. Go forth and prosper. Maybe you’re right. Maybe she’s not what I think she is. And she’s got that certain
something, hasn’t she? I can’t deny that. That mouth. Or is it in her eyes? The mockery. The intimation of corruption.’

Apparently I was now dismissed, because Henry returned to his typing. I paused, then, unable to contain my excitement any longer, I ran across the gangplank and out to the bike, which I had
carelessly left thrown on its side next to the barbecue.

I arrived in Lexham fifteen minutes late, red-faced and panting with effort. Ash was sitting on the bench by the clock, holding a half-drunk bottle of milk. She looked up from
a patch on the ground that she had been examining.

‘Sorry I’m late. Henry was giving me a lecture on how you were best avoided.’

‘Don’t you think ants are fascinating?’

Her gaze returned to the ground, and I followed it. Ants were marching in a line, carrying leaves, shreds of grass. Ash put her foot in front of the line, and the ants marched across her shoe.
She stared at them for a few seconds, then shook off the ants. Unable to dislodge all of them, she stamped her foot on the ground, crushing six or seven of the marching insects. She turned and
smiled innocently.

‘Henry dislikes me purely because of my father. And because I don’t take him as seriously as he takes himself.’

She finished the milk, in a long gulp. I watched the undulations of her throat. Her lips were stained with white.

I sat down next to her, about a foot away. I stared at the ground where she had been staring, and kicked at the earth, careful not to destroy any more ants.

‘Hot,’ I said.

‘So everyone says,’ said Ash.

‘I haven’t worked out my small-talk yet.’

I kicked a little more dirt up, but didn’t raise my head.

‘Shall we go and get a drink from the shop?’ said Ash. ‘I’m still thirsty, and you must be parched.’

She touched the edge of my mouth lightly with her index finger.

‘The skin is cracked.’

She left the finger there for a moment longer, then removed it and put it momentarily to her own mouth, disturbing the thin film of milk. Then she let her hand drop, stood up and, without
waiting for me, began walking towards the shops. She tossed the empty milk bottle into a bin. I rose, caught up and fell in step. I could still feel the imprint of her fingertip. We were walking
towards the sun. I blinked and shaded my eyes, despite the amber shade afforded by my Foster Grants. I could see the spire of the church behind the parade of shops. Words were jumbled inside me
somewhere that I couldn’t untangle enough to speak, or even form into thoughts.

‘You never answered that question. When we met before, with Henry. What it was like having a vicar for a father?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve never known anything else. What does your dad do?’

‘He works in a shoe shop.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘He’s all right.’

We reached the newsagent. We were the only customers. The same matronly-looking woman I had seen the last time I had come into town was behind the counter.

‘Hello, Ashley.’

‘Mrs Wintergreen.’

‘How’s your dad? Fighting the good fight?’

‘Doing his job.’

Mrs Wintergreen turned to me.

‘Who’s this? I’ve seen him before, I’m sure of it.’

‘This is Adam. Adam, this is Mrs Wintergreen.’

I nodded, and examined the tray of sweets on the counter. I picked out a bag of space dust and a handful of liquorice chews.

‘You’re not from around here, are you, young man?’

‘No.’

‘He’s staying with the notorious Henry Templeton,’ said Ashley.

‘On that boat?’

‘He’s my uncle.’

Ash selected a bottle of fizzy orange and a bag of crisps.

‘He’s a bit peculiar, your uncle, if you want to know what people around here think,’ said Mrs. Wintergreen.

Ash turned to me. ‘Henry’s controversial.’

‘I’m gathering that.’

‘I don’t mind it personally, but there are those that think his boat’s something of an eyesore. Some say it’s not legal,’ added Mrs Wintergreen.

Ash took a note out of her pocket and laid it on the counter. Mrs Wintergreen put it in the till and handed her some change.

‘You get all sorts turning up there, I hear. Not that your uncle isn’t very pleasant in person. I’ve always found him to be charming. He’s very well spoken, isn’t
he? Hasn’t he been to Oxford or something?’

Ash picked up the fizzy orange and I gathered my sweets. I tried to give her some money but she waved it away. We turned towards the door. Mrs Wintergreen called after us.

‘It’s just that we’re very normal kind of people around here. Some of them that go there . . . you know. You hear things about drugs and what-have-you.’

‘Goodbye, Mrs Wintergreen.’

‘Say hello to your dad from me, Ashley.’

Outside, Ash dropped a few coins into the plaster model of a blind girl with a slot cut in her head for donations. The sky was absolutely clear, not even the vapour trail of a jet. Ash unscrewed
the top of the fizzy orange and offered it to me. I took it and drank. It was warm and very sweet. The bubbles went up my nose and I sneezed. She pulled open the crisps and began delicately guiding
them to her mouth, where she somehow chewed on them without making any noise. I could see spots of white salt on her lower lip.

‘Why do you keep looking at my mouth?’

‘I was just thinking how strange mouths are. Teeth-lined holes in the face. I was trying to imagine what an alien might think the first time it saw a mouth.’

‘Has Henry been getting you high?’

‘No. Well, yes. He did, actually. But that wasn’t what made me think of it.’

I passed the bottle back to her.

‘Do people hate Henry?’ I asked as Ash took another swig.

‘It’s more that they can’t make sense of him. They think he’s got money – you know, because of his accent – so they can’t make out why he would want to
live on a boat rather than in a nice house. He’s middle-aged and behaves like a young person. He’s not married, he has no children. People are bound to question.’

‘What do you think of him’? I asked as we continued to wander aimlessly down the main street.

‘I don’t know,’ said Ash. ‘I don’t really know him. I wonder about him. Like what he’s doing with that beautiful, skinny girl that’s always at the
boat.’

‘Strawberry.’

She laughed. ‘Yes. Her. Have you got to know her at all?’

‘A little.’

Her eyebrows lifted. ‘Really?’

‘Not like that. She’s just sort of . . . weird. In a nice way.’

‘What’s she got to do with Henry?’

I hesitated. Ash caught the hesitation.

‘Don’t worry, I’m not fishing for incriminating evidence. I’m just curious.’

‘I’m not quite sure. They know each other from America.’

‘OK. Well. That tells me a lot.’

‘That’s all I know.’

Ash looked at me sceptically. But she had clearly decided to let it go.

‘What do
you
make of your Uncle Henry?’

‘He’s interesting. Not many people I meet are interesting.’

We had reached the borders of the little town, where the houses gave way to fields and trees.

‘I read somewhere that tree roots go out as far as the trees go up,’ I said, touching the bark of an elm.

‘My father has a theory about that,’ said Ash.

‘He has a theory about trees?’

‘Everything that brings life is below the surface. He says. Shall we go for a walk?’

‘Isn’t that what we’re doing?’

‘Somewhere nice, though.’

There was a small footpath that led to the river. Ash guided me down some ancient stone steps, beaten into a dull shine by footfall. The river was torpid. Leaves were held by the surface
tension, the water, it seemed, too lazy to move them.

A comfortable silence had grown between us. I chewed thoughtfully on the liquorice tang of a Black Jack; I had not outgrown my taste for penny sweets. Perhaps when I did I would be finally grown
up. The sounds of the town had receded to the occasional, faint rev of a car engine in the distance. The areas on the border of the river grew more thickly wooded. Ash stopped at a gap in the
bushes and trees, and turned into it. I followed her.

There were nettles and thorny bushes tearing at my calves. I winced. A wild-rose tendril grabbed at my T-shirt. Ash reached over to unpick it, bringing herself close.

A thought without words came into my head, pure, like a sheet of light. I kissed her. She returned my kiss. She tasted of orange Corona and salt from the crisps. She leaned closer so that our
bodies were touching. She brought her arms round behind me and pressed her hands against the small of my back. They felt so faint, like they were made of light, or shadow. She moved them under my
T-shirt, cool against my bare skin. We kissed for minutes on end. All thought stopped. We became only physical. The sun came in sharply defined points through the trees. I could feel the outline of
her breasts against my torso. The blunt stubs of her nipples. I could hear, somewhere in the distance, the lapping of water.

Then, as if on a predetermined signal, we separated. I looked away, not quite knowing what to do. She took my hand and held it. It felt tiny but somehow frighteningly strong.

T
he next morning, Henry handed me a letter that the postman had delivered. The postmark was Yiewsley.

I had never known Ray to write a letter to anyone. The letter was folded neatly into a buff business envelope. The paper was thin and coarse. Ray had written in a ballpoint pen, and his
handwriting was childish, hard to decipher. There were smudges and blots.

For the rest of that day, I could not shake the image of Ray attending my empty room, a feather duster in one hand, the pointless rearranging of this book or that pillow. In my mind his face
shifted, one moment clenched like a fist and focused on the task in hand, the other entirely empty of expression. In this last vision, which scared me, light poured into his eyes but found nothing
there to illuminate.