Let’s learn something new, kids, their leader shouted. Tail dips, Keith proposed. His eyes had their glassy brightness. We’re late for lunch, Adam objected. People are getting tired.
Okay, so what we’re going to do is to use this rock to push the tail under the oncoming current where it pours over.
The rock was about two feet across with the current pressing hard all round. Keith allowed his boat to be drawn up the eddy, then turned it and paddled backwards so that the tail of the boat was pushed under the water pouring over. The effect was immediate. First the stern was sucked down, into the oncoming rush, then quite suddenly the whole boat was forced vigorously upward and forward as if launched from a catapult.
Wey hey! Keith shouted. It was a pantomime of adolescence. With the exception of Mark and Caroline, the kids were enthusiastic. Cool! But Clive was shaking his head, arms folded in resignation on his paddle. Vince was torn between his interest in the manoeuvre itself, and his awareness that both of yesterday’s antagonists disapproved. They don’t want their sport to be a game.
Should be able to go vertical, Keith announced, if you get the entry right. He repeated the performance. His face glowed with a sort of second youth. This time, as the tail was sucked under, Keith let his heavy, paunchy body go right back with it. The boat rose, higher and higher until it seemed to stand still a second, vertical on its tail, then toppled backwards into the rush. Oh yeah! The kids clapped. Ace!
With enviable ease, Keith rolled up at once. He had hardly been under water a second. But he let out a loud cry. Across his wrist was a long deep gash. Swinging the paddle, he had caught a rock edge, or something very sharp. More than two inches of skin had opened up wide, ragged, deep and red. Keith stared. Oh! He was bleeding profusely. Already Adam was beaching his boat in the shallows. He had a first — aid kit under his seat. Blood was pumping out of Keith’s arm. There were squirts of it. Eventually a bandage was found. They tied it tight. But the man must go to hospital. Suddenly the day has a purpose.
The main group was left to eat their lunch while four boats raced down five miles of busy river to the get — off point where the minibus had been parked: Keith, Mandy, Michela, Vince. The two men with coaching qualifications must stay with the kids. Keith had been adamant about that. Those were the BCU rules. He looked the two of them in the eyes. Clive is in charge, he said.
Hurrying down the river, with no plan for playing or learning, just one goal, to get the man stitched up, Vince finally found himself at home on the water. The sudden purposeful — ness made it easier, and the trust they had put in him. The bow swept into the current. He paddled. He reached determinedly for his strokes. The river was swollen, but straightforward. Perhaps I am a canoeist, he decided. They smacked into a wave train. He laughed. His face ran with sweat and spray. But Keith was evidently in pain. The bandage was soaked in blood. The man was gritting his teeth. Mandy was scolding him for always taking risks, showing off to the kids. How could he have known? Michela objected. She was panting. It was one in a million to catch a sharp edge like that.
At last they were paddling across a low lake at the bottom of the run. A storm of ducks rose from the water. Keith and Mandy were already approaching the beach, the get — out point. The air was humming with flies. Vince had waited to let Michela catch up. He was elated by the speed of the descent. Okay? She looked at him, flushed with effort, eyes shaded beneath black helmet. Exhausted, she said.
Course, if I go to hospital, Keith complained, they’ll tell me I can’t paddle for the rest of the week. He was up front in the minibus. You’re bloody well going, Mandy told him. She had a proprietorial manner. You’ll need stitches, I’m afraid, Vince said. Keith blew out his cheeks and sighed. Photo of my war wound, please, he asked.
With Michela to interpret, the injured man was left at the hospital in Bruneck, while Mandy and Vince drove back to the campsite to get a car. It was ten miles up the valley. What Keith was really worried about, the woman explained, was the last day, the stretch of river above Sand in Taufers, the grand finale of the trip; he wouldn’t be able to be there, which meant Clive and Adam running the show together, who hated each other. Keith played the fool, but in the end he only did it for the group. He was totally dedicated.
Vince was driving. Well, the combatants seem to have agreed a truce today, he said. It was the first time he had driven a minibus. Actually, I can’t help thinking Clive is right really. At least in general. I mean, when one of us gets hurt, like now, we immediately rush to help. But we don’t do anything for people we don’t know.
Nor do they for us, the woman said sensibly. She was still wearing wetsuit shorts, and a soaking T — shirt on a stout body. The thing is there’s helping, she said, and there’s shouting about helping.
It was mad to hit him, Vince agreed.
No, but apart from that, don’t you think, it’s all very well him having this cause and so on, we all agree with it, but in the end it’s easy rushing about and chanting at demonstrations. Clive’s never had to deal with things like a divorce, or you losing Gloria like that. He’s always worried about people on the other side of the planet.
Can’t blame him for not having suffered a catastrophe, Vince thought.
All I’m saying is, I judge a bloke by his personal life, what he makes around him, not his ideals.
He looks like he’s got something pretty nice going with Michela, Vince said. He glanced in the mirror.
I’ve seen him the same way with half a dozen others.
Really? Well, good for him, I suppose.
Turning towards her a second as he spoke, he found the woman looking at him quite intently. Her chubby right knee jerked up and down under her hand. I think blokes like yourself, she said quietly, I mean who’ve been husbands all your lives, don’t understand men like Clive. And vice versa. You’re chalk and cheese. But women understand. They have to. Look at Keith, for example, married too young, then has affairs, everybody knows, but won’t leave home, like. He has his responsibilities.
Doesn’t sound like my idea of being a good husband.
He’s stuck at it, Mandy said. While Clive is always talking about universal justice.
And Adam? Vince was aware of a social circle drawing him in. Perhaps, having lost his wife, he should become part of the Waterworld community. He would go to all the club’s events. He could gossip and be gossiped about. Except, of course, that there was nothing to say about him. What have I ever done?
Adam’s wife’s handicapped, Mandy said. MS. No, handi — capped’s the wrong word. She shot Vince an enquiring glance. Actually, I think your Gloria looked after her in hospital.
I’m really sorry, Vince said. I had no idea.
Campsite! Mandy shouted. Don’t miss the turn.
They crossed the bridge, passed the church, trundled down the track between the tents in the bright sunshine. Mandy took over the driving seat of the minibus to head back to the river and pick up the group. Vince went to get his own car to return to the hospital. This was what he’d been brought along for. Fifteen minutes later, on impulse, trapped behind a tourist coach on the narrow, bendy road to Bruneck, he opened the glove compartment of the car, found his mobile and turned it on. There were no messages. Then, driving, he called the office. It was strange. In a matter of seconds he was in touch with London, with reality. His secretary was a small Chinese woman in her fifties. Of course you’re needed, she told him, but everybody’s agreed to wait till you’re back. That would be Monday. So nothing urgent? he asked. It’ll be urgent on Monday, Mr Marshall, but not before. She asked him if he were having a good break. It was blistering in London, she said. She couldn’t remember a year like it. He told her he felt immensely refreshed.