Annan Water (13 page)

He jumped up bareback. At the edge of the river Bandit stopped, dropped his head, examined the frothing swell. Relief and frustration met halfway in Michael’s heart. The cob had finally said no.

But he hadn’t. Bandit lifted his head and walked into the river. The water was up to his knees, then his chest, then Michael felt the sudden weightlessness as the cob’s feet lost contact with the river bed. He was swimming.

The water lifted Michael from his back and tried to sweep him downstream. He clung to Bandit’s mane, already aware that they weren’t going to make it; that Bandit, despite his powerful efforts, was being dragged downstream as well. He made a grab for the bridle, trying to turn the cob back, but Bandit was obeying a different set of imperatives. His eyes were fixed on the far bank, and he was swimming for his life.

The river snatched at Michael’s clothes, pulling him down, trying to break his desperate grip on Bandit’s mane. He was chilled to the bone, gasping for breath, and still the song invaded him.

But the river was wide and strength did fail,

And never more he’ll see his Annie.

Bandit battled on against the current. They were approaching the bank, but way downstream of the landing stage. The sides were sheer. There was nowhere for a horse or a boy to climb out. The swell slammed them against the muddy wall. Michael could feel Bandit scrabbling with his forelegs for a foothold that wasn’t there. In the darkness he could see the horse’s honest eye, wide with the first fear he had ever known. But, strangely, his own fear seemed to have left him, along with all hope. Some sort of an end would come soon. They would both go down together.

The torrent dragged them away from the bank and they drifted for a few metres downstream before Bandits frantic efforts brought them back in again. Above Michael’s head, a network of thin, black roots broke out of the mud. How could there be roots when there were no trees?

Then he knew where he was. Up there on the bank was the old willow stump where Annie had sat that day. Those roots would be as dead and as brittle as the twigs that she had knocked out of his chimney. There was no way they would bear his weight.

But his instinct was stronger than his reason. He reached out.

O
H ANNAN WATER’S WONDROUS
deep,

And my love Annie is wondrous bonny,

I loathe that she should wet her feet

Because I love her more than any.

Go saddle for me the bonny grey mare,

Go saddle her soon and make her ready,

For I must cross that stream tonight,

Or never more I’ll see my Annie.

And woe betide you, Annan Water,

By night you are a gloomy river,

And over you I’ll build a bridge,

That never more true love may sever.

And he has ridden o’er field and fen,

O’er moor and moss and many’s the mire,

His spurs of steel were sore to bite,

Sparks from the mare’s hooves flew like fire.

The mare flew on o’er moor and moss,

And when she reached the Annan Water,

She couldn’t have ridden a furlong more,

Had a thousand whips been laid upon her.

And woe betide you, Annan Water,

By night you are a gloomy river,

And over you I’ll build a bridge,

That never more true love may sever.

Oh, boatman, come, put off your boat,

Put off your boat for gold and money,

For I must cross that stream tonight

Or never more I’ll see my lady.

The sides are steep, the water’s deep,

From bank to brae the water’s pouring,

And the bonny grey mare she sweats for fear,

She stands to hear the water roaring.

And woe betide you, Annan Water,

By night you are a gloomy river,

And over you I’ll build a bridge,

That never more true love may sever.

And he has tried to swim that stream,

And he swam on both strong and steady,

But the river was wide and strength did fail,

And never more he’ll see his Annie.

And woe betide the willow wan,

And woe betide the bush and briar,

For they broke beneath her true love’s hand,

When strength did fail and limbs did tire.

And woe betide you, Annan Water,

By night you are a gloomy river,

And over you I’ll build a bridge,

That never more true love may sever.

J
IMMY WAS STILL ASLEEP
at the kitchen table when Ruth phoned him the next morning to tell him that Annie had disappeared. On his way to the jetty he found the saddle in the road, and the New Zealand rug tangled up in a barbed wire fence.

His head wouldn’t function properly. He gathered up the saddle and rug and carried them back to his yard. Behind the hay shed, shivering in the wind, stood the grey mare. He phoned Jean and Frank.

They came straight down in the car, but it wasn’t until they saw the state of the river that they understood how serious the situation was. They went back to Jimmy’s house and phoned Ruth. She hadn’t seen Michael. Frank began to shake. Jimmy, his head all too clear by now, called the police.

The officer he spoke to didn’t appear to take the situation very seriously. Teenagers ran off all the time, he told Jimmy. The best plan was to wait for a while and see if they turned up. But a short time later he phoned Jimmy back. A report had come in, from a man whose grounds backed onto the river further downstream. A dead horse had been washed up against his boathouse.

F
OR THREE DAYS THE
emergency services dragged the river and searched the banks. No sign of Michael was found. Photographs were circulated among the police throughout the country, but no reports of either of the teenagers came in.

Hopes began to fade.

Fiona came home, drawn back into the family by another tragedy. Friends came up from Yorkshire to help with the horses. They moved around quietly, appalled by the bad luck that Jean and Frank seemed unable to leave behind them. All kinds of people emerged from Jean’s distant past, and brought food, and sat through the long, sleepless nights, administering what small comfort they could. Most of them knew the old song. None of them mentioned it. Jean spoke to Ruth from time to time. They both found it helpful. Her husband, Andrew, was taking good care of her, she said. Jimmy still went across to the land he rented on the other side, but he didn’t call on her. The boundary that existed between them now was a lot harder to cross than the river.

Jean and Frank spent hours beside it, trudging its muddy banks with Jimmy, peering into its swollen tide. It taunted them with glimpses of colour: rubbish towed along in its undercurrents; an old jacket snarled up on a beached branch. But it revealed nothing of its secrets. Their hopes and prayers had no influence upon it. Day after day it raced on with the same blind hunger for the sea.

There was talk, this time initiated by Fiona: of giving up the horses, or of sizing down, or of turning the yard over to liveries. But nothing happened. Nothing changed. The horses had to be fed and exercised. Everyone mucked in. The grey mare looked on, growing fat in her stall.

A
FORTNIGHT LATER, FRANK
and Fiona returned from road-work to find Jean waiting for them at the side of the road.

‘They’re alive!’ she shouted. She was waving a book and a pink envelope.

Frank jumped down. ‘What?’

‘Look!’

She showed him the card. ‘
Happy birthday, Mum. Love from Michael. And from Annie too
.’

Frank’s horses wandered off towards the water-barrel under the tap, trailing their reins. Fiona was still mounted; craning over her father’s shoulder. His hand trembled as he examined the card.

‘When was it posted?’

The padded envelope was stuffed into Jean’s sling. It was postmarked Dumfries, the previous day.

They phoned the police, who said they’d pass on the news to Annie’s parents and make some enquiries in Dumfries. Then they drove down to the river to tell Jimmy. He was thrilled, and gave Jean a big hug.

‘I knew, though,’ he said. ‘I knew that boy of yours wasn’t dead.’

‘How?’

He pointed vaguely to the river bank, then shook his head. ‘I’ll have to take you across,’ he said. ‘You won’t be able to see properly from here.’

The water level had fallen, but even so Jean’s nerves were ragged by the time they reached the other side. Andrew’s car was parked in Ruth’s drive, but the house was silent and dark. They passed it at a distance and walked along the little bare path which ran along the bank.

‘I’ve been noticing, you see.’ Jimmy pointed to the grass at the water’s edge. ‘See?’

The others saw nothing.

‘Those new shoots,’ he said. ‘Those are brambles, there. And that’s going to be a briar rose.’

Jean and Frank looked at each other in bewilderment, then at Jimmy.

‘The sure proof is over there,’ he said, indicating along the path ahead of them. ‘That old tree there was dead before I was even born. And look at it now.’ He walked over to the blackened stump. Jean and Frank followed. The three of them stood looking down at it.

‘Or maybe it was never dead,’ said Jimmy. ‘Maybe it was just waiting.’

From the edges of the willow stump, a dozen new shoots had sprung. Coursing with discovered life, the strong young limbs stretched up towards the sun.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2004 by Kate Thompson

Cover design by Michel Vrana

978-1-4804-2425-8

This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media

345 Hudson Street

New York, NY 10014

www.openroadmedia.com