Rapids (3 page)

She stopped. Hear, hear! Keith said. You English? Caroline asked. The fat girl was squatting on her haunches, elbows on her thick knees, chin on hands, chewing. Michela hesitated: I’m Italian, she said, and turning quickly to Clive she asked him what he wanted to add.

As the others also turn, they find themselves looking at a powerful man with a thick beard and broad forehead. I was one of Keith’s first pupils years back, he says. His thinning blonde hair is shoulder-length. And I survived to tell the tale. Somebody titters. Clive sits cross-legged, hands forward as if warming himself at a trekker’s fire. I’ve always thought kayaking was more than a sport. I mean, more than playing squash or tennis or something. It teaches you to respect nature, to read it carefully and understand it. One day your life may depend on how well you read the river. Then, when you spend time by the river and on the river, you can’t help but understand how dull and squalid a lot of so-called civilised life is. That’s why Michela and I have been trying to make it our job to get people involved. He paused.

Anything else? Keith asked. Want to give us some kind of idea about what we’ll be doing?

Clive still hesitated. It was the first time Michela had seen him address a group. She couldn’t imagine he was nervous. The river Aurino, Clive said, or Ahrn as the Germans call it, rises in the glacier above Sand in Taufers. He gestured with a thumb up the dark valley. On the Austrian border, more or less, about twenty miles away. It’s what the Italians call a
torrente,
rather than a river. Until Taufers it’s fast and wild. There’s a stretch there we might try on the last day, with those of you who are up to it, that is. But I’m warning you, you’ll have to convince me and Keith that you really are up to it. The water is powerful and there’s no space to breathe. Either you make the eddies and break out perfectly or you’ll be carried straight down the river and trashed on the rocks. Anyway, we’ll start by working the stretches downstream of Taufers. Plenty of interesting rapids, but usually a good space to roll up and generally relax afterwards if you’ve got the worst of it. Further down, between Bruneck and Brixen, there are stretches where you’ll have to deal with a lot of volume. One day we’ll have a go on a slalom course on the river Eisack, north of Brixen. That’ll be a bit of a drive.

Any waves? Maximilian asked. He has a public—school voice. Stoppers? Phil wanted to know. Holes? So far they had only heard tell of holes.

Plenty of everything, Clive promised. But actually, what I really wanted to say was …You see, last week, Michela and I were at the anti—globalisation demonstration in Milan, you probably heard about it, where two people were killed. I don’t know, maybe we’re still a bit upset. Anyway, I’d like you to know that we feel the work we’re trying to do here is part of the same campaign. You know— to help people respect the world before it’s too late.

Yes, that’s an interesting thought, Keith said. There was a pause. Adam said: Actually I’m not sure I can go along with that. My own impression is …

Okay, okay, Keith intervened. No politics, not on the first night. We’re here to help each other and learn about the water. Now, let’s have the Wally of the Day nomination before we break up.

It seemed every evening— Michela could never have imagined this side to Englishness— that a small furry toy of vaguely teddy—bear shape called Wally was to be hung around the neck of whoever had done something particularly stupid during the day. The culprit would then have to perform some demeaning act, after which he or she must keep Wally about him until the following evening and be constantly ready to show it on request. Failure to show Wally at any time, even in the kayak, would lead to further humiliations.

Who gets today’s Wally award?

Mandy nominated Keith himself for the incredible cock—up he had made reading the map outside Mainz, as a result of which they had gone west instead of east and arrived two hours late. Maximilian proposed Adam for having tied the kit on the roof so badly. A suitcase had slipped onto the windscreen just before Munich. It wasn’t me, Adam quickly explained. It was too, Dad! protested the boy beside him. Yes it was! said Caroline. From a strictly legal point of view, Maximilian said, your name was on the duty sheet, Adam, so it was your responsibility. Oh shut up. The instructor was irritated. But the majority voted Keith. Punishment: a performance— Mandy proposed— of Ken Charles, Outdoor Activity Director for Kent County Council, giving his famous awards speech. Keith jumped to his feet. His glassy eyes shone. He is overweight, his cheeks round and red as a child’s. He fixed Wally sideways under his chin like a bow—tie and ruffled up his hair. Ladies and gentlemen, he began, in a pompous bass, strutting back and forth. Everybody cheered. If you had but the teeniest inkling of what your dear offspring have achieved at Waterworld this week, you would be agog with wonder. Drinks! Max jumped up to shout. Everybody to the bar for drinks before it closes. Alrighty, sir! Phil was on his feet. No alcoholic beverages for the under—sixteens, Mandy ordered. Is that clear. I promised your parents.

The group moved quickly off through tents and caravans to where there was still music coming from the top of the campsite. Karaoke perhaps. Michela and Clive went with them. Then, towards midnight, in one of the site’s chalets where they had lived for some three months now, Clive watched his girlfriend climb into their bed. He was seventeen years older than her. Aren’t you coming? she asked. He kept pottering with bits of equipment. There was a spraydeck to mend, a repair kit to sort out. She waited. He was smoking more than he usually did. The room was rough wood with only the barest necessities. They had to share the outdoor bathrooms with the rest of the site. What’s wrong? she asked. You just sleep, he told her. Then he said: What a prick that guy Adam is! Can you believe we’re going to have to spend the week with a chinless wonder like that. What’s wrong? she repeated softly. You can just see he’s a prick, Clive insisted. A tight—arsed prick. Bet he’s an estate agent or something.

Michela waited. Clive continued to potter about the room. Now he was sorting out clothes. This isn’t the right world, Micky, he eventually told her. Not for us. He had found his sleeping bag in the big cupboard. Be strong, he said. Squatting, he unrolled it on the floor. She sat on the bed and stared. They had been lovers for two years. What are you doing? she demanded. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, he said. His voice was low and tired. We can’t sleep together anymore.

She sat still. He was fiddling with the zip on the bag. Bastard thing! It had snagged. He wouldn’t look up. What did I do? she asked. Her voice quavered. What’s happening? Clive wouldn’t speak. He had coaxed the zip past its snag. Slowly, as if he were squeezing into a new kayak, he sat down on the floor and put one leg after another into the sleeping bag. You hit the light, he said. The switch was just above the bedside table. Michela threw back the bedclothes and stood to grab a dressing gown hanging from the door. She pulled the waistband tight. What ‘ave I done? There was an edge of disbelief in her voice. She felt sick. What in the name of God ‘ave I done? She was standing over him. He lay face up, but his eyes were fixed on the ceiling. Nothing, he said. It’s me. You haven’t done anything. Look, don’t worry, Micky. Everything will be just the same, the kayaking and the camp and the money and so on. But this isn’t the world for us.

Don’t slam the door! Vince stopped the car. It would wake people, he said. The need to respect others seemed to have snapped the driver out of his unhappy reverie. He let the car roll along the dirt track, passenger door still open. Louise trotted beside, making little forays among the pitches to check the vans for the Waterworld logo. It was almost two a. m. The autostrada had been jammed for hours. The sleeping campsite was illuminated only by the neon glow from the bathroom block. Everything was tied down and zipped up. Where are they? Louise rushed off between two tents again. Sweeping slowly round the corner at the bottom of the site, the car’s headlights picked out a slim figure in silhouette sitting beneath a pine, back bent, face in hands. Vince touched the brake and the passenger door swung forward.

If he leaned back a little, he saw a head of dark hair framed against bushes.
Mi scusi,
he began. Dad! Louise came running, then tripped and fell heavily. Vince climbed out. Don’t yell! They’re over there! The girl was dusting herself off.

Are you looking for the English kayak group? The seated figure had got to her feet now. A young woman offered a wan smile of welcome. I’ll show you to your pitch.

Vince parked beside a screen of trees that sloped steeply down to darkness. The night was quiet, but you had a distinct impression of the proximity of moving water, of a strong pull beneath the stillness of the branches. They haven’t left you much room, Michela apologised. Heaving out their camping stuff, Louise tripped again. A torch shone out through orange nylon beside them: If this tent collapses, a posh voice announced, you’ll hear from my lawyer!

Vince was surprised that the young woman appeared to be staying to help. You weren’t waiting up for us, I hope? he said in a whisper. But Louise had the giggles now, trying to sort out tangled guy—ropes. Maximilian, or perhaps it was Brian, was making an obscene shadow play with torch and fingers on the tent wall.

Kids! Don’t wake everyone up, Vince hissed.

I’m Michela, the woman said. I’m responsible for arranging things this end. But please call me Micky.

Oh come on Dad! Louise was laughing helplessly. We’re on holiday! The girl’s solid body had turned to jelly. We’re supposed to be having fun. She laughed madly.

Michela took the guy—ropes from the younger girl’s hand and untangled them. She seemed to know exactly how their tent was to be put up. The ground’s too hard to push the pegs in with your foot, she warned. Go to the kitchen tent, there’s a mallet just inside on the left.

The kitchen tent was a big, hut—shaped canvas structure open at both ends. Inside, between a dozen cardboard boxes with provisions, Vince’s torch flashed over two figures asleep on the floor, in separate bags but face to face. Vaguely, he took in the sharp fine features of the one girl, the dull heavy jowl of the other. When he returned, Michela already had the tent up. Louise was complaining she had put the door at the wrong end. Don’t look, Dad, she said some time later when they were undressing. It was cramped inside. They were lying on their backs, barely a foot apart. What? Don’t look! Of course, sorry. That Max is so stupid, Louise complained. She huffed and puffed, turning this way and that for a comfortable position. Vince lay still.

Half an hour later he had to get up to pee. This was what he always hated about camping. Two zips to undo, shoes to find, struggling to your feet in damp grass to pick through the guy—ropes. Gloria loved it, he remembered. I always refused. In Florence, he had taken Louise to an air—conditioned, four—star hotel. The weather had been torrid. Here instead the night was chill and smelt strongly of pine resin; the sky was solemn with stars. But he didn’t raise his head. As he arrived at the bathrooms, the urinals all flushed of their own accord under ghostly neon. I hate campsites, he thought. Why had he come?

Then walking back— it must be three a. m. at least— he saw that the young woman was still sitting where they had found her earlier. He hesitated. He had forgotten her name. She was hunched among the pine roots, face in hands. Somewhere nearby a clock chimed. Perhaps she was expecting another late arrival. There was a church tower just outside the entrance to the site. What if I’m not up to it, Vince worried, crawling back into his sleeping bag. He was a weak kayaker. Before the most ordinary outing he felt a shiver of fear. Maybe that was why he had come.

Then four hours later everybody was woken by a wild clanging of bells. For this is how the day always begins in Sand in Taufers. Christ Almighty, Louise yelled.

T
he first thing is padding up. Michela stands beside Clive while he gives his little lesson. The course that they have been advertising in canoe clubs all over England is called An Introduction to White Water: Five Days in the South Tyrol. A year ago, Vince Marshall would never have dreamed of coming.

You have to be tight in the cockpit. Okay? This isn’t the Thames Estuary. Tight tight tight. The perfect fit.

Like sex? ventures a voice. Brian has a fuzz of red hair, a small snubbed nose, droll expression.

Actually no, not like sex at all, says Clive patiently. He is wearing a khaki cap. The girls are giggling. As somebody might know, if he had a minimum of experience.

Cru—el!

With sex, Clive continues in his measured sensible voice, two entities move constantly in relation to each other,
n’est—ce pas?

Two what? Phil demands.

Michela’s hand is just touching Clive’s as he speaks. Vince, who hadn’t been paying attention, is suddenly caught by this. He stares.

There is a certain amount of lubricant, Clive insists, with only a faint smile beneath his beard. Of give.

I do beg your pardon, Mr Riley, but what time of day is it? Mandy asks.

Two what! Phil whispers to Amal now.

Whereas if you’re properly padded up in your kayak, kids, there should be
absolutely no movement at all.
Got that. None. You and the boat move welded together in the water.

May I venture to say, then— Max’s facetious voice pipes up— that this is more like the male member’s relationship with a condom.

Oh do shut up! Adam complains.

Only hazarding an ay—nalogy, smirks Max.

Anal? Phil demands.

I said, shut up! Adam insists. Let’s remember some basic rules of decency.

Well, the condom would certainly be a more accurate description, Clive acknowledges wryly.

Let’s just get on with it, can we? Adam is a scout leader. His son is watching him.

My sentiments entirely, says Amelia. For a second she keeps a straight face. She has pretty freckles round a prim nose, long straight black hair. Then all the adolescents burst out laughing. Even the fat Caroline. Even the older Tom.