This Isn’t the Sort of Thing That Happens to Someone Like You

The weather, when it changes, generally comes rolling in from the east. He can stand here and watch the clouds gathering, like an army forming up in the distance and preparing to march. Only when it comes in it’s more of a charge than a march, crashing into the river, with a noise like boxes of nails spilling on to a wooden floor. When it comes like that, furious and sudden, it usually passes by again soon enough, the air beaten clean in its wake.

But there will come a time when it doesn’t pass. When the clouds gather and don’t pass away, and rain pours endlessly upon the earth. And some will be prepared, and some will not.

He wonders what the man on the other side of the river does, when he’s not here. When he’s not fishing. Probably he’s retired and that’s why he can manage to be here so often. But he doesn’t look old enough to be retired, the way he walks, the weight he carries. Maybe he got grounds of ill health out of someone, out of whoever he was working for. The police, maybe, it’s quite possible to get grounds of ill health with the police, like mental distress for example, like if something were to happen, there are things that can happen if you work in the police, there are things that can give you stress or mental distress. For example things you might witness or be a part of.

Like being in front of a crowd, and saying: Stop pushing there’s enough room for everyone there’s no need to push. Like being the other side of a fence and saying: Get back stop pushing. And then later you see the rails, steel rails, bent and broken as easily as reeds.

It could be difficult for someone to do their job after something like that, to carry that with them and not be affected by the mental distress. Fishing might be an ideal respite: the order of it, the quietness, the solitude. No one shouting or pushing. No one asking for explanations. Just the river, easing on past. The sky, the changing light, the flash of silver from the emptying net when the fish pour safely back into the river.

It might not be that, of course. That would just be speculation. It might be nothing like that at all.

When it comes it will come suddenly, rushing across the earth like a vengeful crowd, an unturnable tide of seething fury. They will stand and watch, in bus shelters, in shop doorways, from the apparent safety of locked cars, and they will tut to themselves and say: Oh, isn’t the weather awful, and they will not know what they say.

And those two children on the bridge, throwing scraps of paper into the water, watching the water rise higher, perhaps they will have the sense to know what is happening, perhaps they will climb a tree and scan the horizon for a place of safety. Or perhaps in desperation they will take their umbrellas and turn them into boats, drop them into the river and ride them wherever the current goes. Or perhaps they’re too big for that now.

And whenever it looks as though the rain will stop, people will come out of their houses and peer up at the sky. They will lift their faces and let themselves be soaked while they stare at the thinning clouds, retreating to the safety of their houses, their upstairs bedrooms, their rooftops.

This will be in the first few weeks. Before they realise.

When it happens there will be people rushing by, the torrential current of the new river sweeping them quickly and terribly past. And he won’t be able to help them. But he’ll look, and if he sees two little ones hurtling along, two red-haired, wide-eyed little ones, he’ll reach out with a big net on the end of a long pole he’s got there ready, and he’ll pull them in, dry them off and wrap them up warm and cook them supper. And they can all stay together in the treehouse for as long as it takes, and if the children get bored there will be paper and crayons for them to draw with, write messages on, make little model boats from. And if they need to leave they’ll have the raft. They’ll be ready.

The sky is clear now, but the rain is coming. He can smell it.

Sometimes when he wakes it’s still only just getting light. It’s good, to stand there and watch the morning creep up on the world, the river a shadow in front of him, the cold air against his skin. It’s a privilege. Sometimes he can just stand there for a whole hour, watching the shapes and colours taking form out of the darkness. The streams and ditches all glinting like silver threads.

It is sometimes a very beautiful world. It’s a shame, what will happen.

It’s rare, though, to spend an hour watching the morning arrive like that. People don’t. It’s rare for people to even spend a moment enjoying their first piss of the day, the way he does. People are so busy. They’ll brush their teeth sitting on the toilet to save a few minutes. Eat breakfast standing up. They don’t have the time to watch the colour bleed into the world each day. They have meetings, schedules, documents. They don’t have time to listen to each other, to be patient with the difficulties of expression. They haven’t got the time to stand and watch a man say nothing except: I can’t explain, or: I don’t know how to say it. There are important things to be done, and a man who will spend a day standing at a window is not a man who can fit into such functional and fulfilling lives.

These are not people with ears to hear or eyes to see. These are not people who will understand, when it comes.

They will say they understand. They will say they know it might take a while to come to terms. But one day there will be shouting, there will be a cracked voice saying: I don’t have time to deal with all this. There will be the banging of objects against hard surfaces, a waving of arms, children standing and crying.

They don’t have time. They have busy and important things to do. They need somebody who can be there for them. They need somebody who can go back to work, even after that. Silence and stillness and contemplation aren’t going to pay the bills.

This is how his days begin, now. He asked me to tell you. He wakes up, he walks across the rough wooden floor, he holds on to the doorframe and he pisses on to the stony ground.

He looks at the height of the river and the colour of the sky. He looks up at the half-built treehouse, and the raft, and he plans his work for the day.

Soon it will rain. And people won’t understand. They’ll just put on their hats and coats, open their umbrellas, and rush out into the middle of whatever it is they need to do. Their busy days. Their successful and important lives.

He thought you should know.

Fleeing Complexity

Irby in the Marsh

The fire spread quicker than the little bastard was expecting.

Vessel

Halton Holegate

She took the tulips from his hands. Let me find something to put those in, she said. His hands were cold. She was surprised that he’d come and she wanted to cover her surprise. She laid the tulips on the kitchen counter and looked around for a pair of scissors. The flower-heads were still tightly closed. The petals were red, with a rim of yellow at the lips. The stems arched, the way that tulip stems always did. She would need a vase tall enough to bear their weight. She picked them up and put them down. She didn’t know where the scissors were. She opened a drawer. She stopped; she’d forgotten to invite him in. He must still be standing on the doorstep, in the snow. She felt the cold air blowing through from the hallway. By the time she got back to him he’d stepped forward as far as the runner and was standing with the door half-closed behind him. Oh come in, of course, come in, she said. You weren’t waiting to be asked were you? He smiled, and shrugged, and snow fell from his shoulders as he crooked up a leg to wrestle off a shoe. She watched. She wanted to brush the snow from him and take his coat, put a hand against his cold cheek. She waited.

She lit the burner and put the kettle on. She wondered what he was doing here. They had a conversation, of sorts, standing there in the kitchen.

‘You didn’t walk, in this weather?’

‘I got the bus. I walked from the end of the village. Where the bus turns.’

‘I’m surprised the bus was running.’

‘I wasn’t sure it would.’

‘And you didn’t think of calling first, to check I’d be here?’

‘I felt like taking a chance. I had the afternoon free.’

‘Well. It is nice to see you. It’s a nice surprise. Tea?’

‘Please. Milk, if you have any.’

She poured the boiling water into a pot and the milk into a jug. She put them on a tray with cups and saucers and the sugar bowl. She carried the tray through to the front room and they sat across from each other while the snow fell past the bright window and the tea steeped and swirled inside the pot.

‘These are nice cups.’

‘Aren’t they? We’ve had them a long time. They were a wedding present.’

‘Really? I don’t remember seeing them before.’

‘Well, no. James never really liked them.’

‘Ah.’

‘So they were put away.’

‘Yes.’

‘But now, I thought, I mean. You know.’

‘Are they French?’

‘Flemish, I think.’

‘They’re very nice.’

‘Yes.’

‘They sit well in your hand, don’t they? They have a nice weight.’

‘Yes. I suppose they do.’

‘I’m sorry. About James.’

‘Yes.’

‘You got my card?’

‘Oh. I don’t think so. No.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. The post hasn’t been what it was, has it?’

‘No, it really hasn’t. Excuse me.’

She’d forgotten to put the tulips in something. She hadn’t even got as far as cutting the stems. She wondered why he’d come today; what was different about today. She opened a drawer. She found the scissors on the side, by the draining board. She cut the twine and the tulips rolled out across the worktop. She looked for the little sachet of plant-food, but of course there wasn’t one. It was just like him, not to have said he was coming. James would never have done such a thing. But neither would James have thought to bring flowers. She cut the ends off the tulip stems, scooping them up and dropping them in the compost-bin. She remembered where the vases were, and that she couldn’t reach them. She didn’t want to clamber up on a stool to fetch one down. She asked him if he minded and he said not at all. Of course, he could reach the top cupboard without even stretching up on his toes. James would have needed to stretch, at least. It was a nice vase he chose. It was the right one: tall enough to support the arching stems, narrow enough to hold them closely, subtle enough not to detract from their colour.

‘Wherever did you find flowers, anyway?’

‘Oh, you know. You can still find these things, if you look.’

‘It’s a long time since I’ve seen cut flowers.’

‘You just have to know the right people, that’s all.’

‘And you do.’

‘I manage. You’re still getting milk?’

‘Straight from the farm.’

‘There hasn’t been any in town for a time.’

‘You don’t know the right people for milk, then?’

‘I didn’t. But I’ve got you now, haven’t I?’

She didn’t know about that. She didn’t know about that at all. It seemed somehow presumptuous. He must know there was a limited supply. She didn’t say anything, and he seemed to realise that he’d overstepped the mark because he moved towards the window and started talking about the garden, about how difficult it was to start things off with the snows getting later and later like this. She looked at the back of him while he spoke. How very upright he was, even at his age. He’d always been one of the standing-up-straight sort. Proper. It was certainly nice to see him again. But she didn’t know what he thought he was doing here. She carried the vase of tulips into the front room and set them on the coffee table, where they would best hold the light. He followed her through, slightly unexpectedly, and, standing a little too close, asked whether she’d ever considered taking in paying guests. She told him she didn’t really know about that.

‘You have the space though.’

‘Well, perhaps.’

‘I just rather wondered whether you couldn’t use the extra hands about the place. You know. I realise money’s not quite the thing at the moment, but there could be other forms of payment. Help, you know. Connections.’

‘I’m not sure, really.’

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